In that mood of rebellious mortification she fell asleep. And, curiously
enough, dreamed not of him whom she had in mind been so furiously
defending, but of Harbinger. She fancied herself in prison, lying in a
cell fashioned like the drawing-room at Sea house; and in the next cell,
into which she could somehow look, Harbinger was digging at the wall
with his nails. She could distinctly see the hair on the back of his
hands, and hear him breathing. The hole he was making grew larger and
larger. Her heart began to beat furiously; she awoke.
She rose with a new and malicious resolution to show no sign of
rebellion, to go through the day as if nothing had happened, to deceive
them all, and then—! Exactly what 'and then' meant, she did not explain
even to herself.
In accordance with this plan of action she presented an untroubled front
at breakfast, went out riding with little Ann, and shopping with her
mother afterwards. Owing to this news of Miltoun the journey to Scotland
had been postponed. She parried with cool ingenuity each attempt made
by Lady Valleys to draw her into conversation on the subject of that
meeting at Gustard's, nor would she talk of her brother; in every other
way she was her usual self. In the afternoon she even volunteered to
accompany her mother to old Lady Harbinger's in the neighbourhood of
Prince's Gate. She knew that Harbinger would be there, and with the
thought of meeting that other at 'five o'clock,' had a cynical pleasure
in thus encountering him. It was so complete a blind to them all! Then,
feeling that she was accomplishing a masterstroke; she even told him, in
her mother's hearing, that she would walk home, and he might come if he
cared. He did care.
But when once she had begun to swing along in the mellow afternoon,
under the mellow trees, where the air was sweetened by the South-West
wind, all that mutinous, reckless mood of hers vanished, she felt
suddenly happy and kind, glad to be walking with him. To-day too he was
cheerful, as if determined not to spoil her gaiety; and she was grateful
for this. Once or twice she even put her hand up and touched his sleeve,
calling his attention to birds or trees, friendly, and glad, after all
those hours of bitter feelings, to be giving happiness. When they parted
at the door of Valleys House, she looked back at him with a queer,
half-rueful smile. For, now the hour had come!
In a little unfrequented ante-room, all white panels and polish, she sat
down to wait. The entrance drive was visible from here; and she meant to
encounter Courtier casually in the hall. She was excited, and a little
scornful of her own excitement. She had expected him to be punctual,
but it was already past five; and soon she began to feel uneasy, almost
ridiculous, sitting in this room where no one ever came. Going to the
window, she looked out.
A sudden voice behind her, said:
“Auntie Babs!”.
Turning, she saw little Ann regarding her with those wide, frank, hazel
eyes. A shiver of nerves passed through Barbara.
“Is this your room? It's a nice room, isn't it?”
She answered:
“Quite a nice room, Ann.”
“Yes. I've never been in here before. There's somebody just come, so I
must go now.”
Barbara involuntarily put her hands up to her cheeks, and quickly passed
with her niece into the hall. At the very door the footman William
handed her a note. She looked at the superscription. It was from
Courtier. She went back into the room. Through its half-closed door the
figure of little Ann could be seen, with her legs rather wide apart,
and her hands clasped on her low-down belt, pointing up at William her
sudden little nose. Barbara shut the door abruptly, broke the seal, and
read:
“DEAR LADY BARBARA,
“I am sorry to say my interview with your brother was fruitless.
“I happened to be sitting in the Park just now, and I want to wish you
every happiness before I go. It has been the greatest pleasure to know
you. I shall never have a thought of you that will not be my pride; nor
a memory that will not help me to believe that life is good. If I am
tempted to feel that things are dark, I shall remember that you are
breathing this same mortal air. And to beauty and joy' I shall take off
my hat with the greater reverence, that once I was permitted to walk and
talk, with you. And so, good-bye, and God bless you.
“Your faithful servant,
“CHARLES COURTIER.”
Her cheeks burned, quick sighs escaped her lips; she read the letter
again, but before getting to the end could not see the words for mist.
If in that letter there had been a word of complaint or even of regret!
She could not let him go like this, without good-bye, without any
explanation at all. He should not think of her as a cold, stony flirt,
who had been merely stealing a few weeks' amusement out of him. She
would explain to him at all events that it had not been that. She would
make him understand that it was not what he thought—that something
in her wanted—wanted——! Her mind was all confused. “What was it?” she
thought: “What did I do?” And sore with anger at herself, she screwed
the letter up in her glove, and ran out. She walked swiftly down to
Piccadilly, and crossed into the Green Park. There she passed Lord
Malvezin and a friend strolling up towards Hyde Park Corner, and
gave them a very faint bow. The composure of those two precise and
well-groomed figures sickened her just then. She wanted to run, to fly
to this meeting that should remove from him the odious feelings he must
have, that she, Barbara Caradoc, was a vulgar enchantress, a common
traitress and coquette! And his letter—without a syllable of reproach!
Her cheeks burned so, that she could not help trying to hide them from
people who passed.
As she drew nearer to his rooms she walked slower, forcing herself to
think what she should do, what she should let him do! But she continued
resolutely forward. She would not shrink now—whatever came of it! Her
heart fluttered, seemed to stop beating, fluttered again. She set her
teeth; a sort of desperate hilarity rose in her. It was an adventure!
Then she was gripped by the feeling that had come to her on the roof.
The whole thing was bizarre, ridiculous! She stopped, and drew the
letter from her glove. It might be ridiculous, but it was due from
her; and closing her lips very tight, she walked on. In thought she was
already standing close to him, her eyes shut, waiting, with her heart
beating wildly, to know what she would feel when his lips had spoken,
perhaps touched her face or hand. And she had a sort of mirage vision
of herself, with eyelashes resting on her cheeks, lips a little parted,
arms helpless at her sides. Yet, incomprehensibly, his figure was
invisible. She discovered then that she was standing before his door.
She rang the bell calmly, but instead of dropping her hand, pressed the
little bare patch of palm left open by the glove to her face, to see
whether it was indeed her own cheek flaming so.
The door had been opened by some unseen agency, disclosing a passage and
flight of stairs covered by a red carpet, at the foot of which lay an
old, tangled, brown-white dog full of fleas and sorrow. Unreasoning
terror seized on Barbara; her body remained rigid, but her spirit began
flying back across the Green Park, to the very hall of Valleys House.
Then she saw coming towards her a youngish woman in a blue apron, with
mild, reddened eyes.
“Is this where Mr. Courtier lives?”
“Yes, miss.” The teeth of the young woman were few in number and rather
black; and Barbara could only stand there saying nothing, as if her body
had been deserted between the sunlight and this dim red passage, which
led to-what?
The woman spoke again:
“I'm sorry if you was wanting him, miss, he's just gone away.”
Barbara felt a movement in her heart, like the twang and quiver of an
elastic band, suddenly relaxed. She bent to stroke the head of the old
dog, who was smelling her shoes. The woman said:
“And, of course, I can't give you his address, because he's gone to
foreign parts.”
With a murmur, of whose sense she knew nothing, Barbara hurried out into
the sunshine. Was she glad? Was she sorry? At the corner of the street
she turned and looked back; the two heads, of the woman and the dog,
were there still, poked out through the doorway.
A horrible inclination to laugh seized her, followed by as horrible a
desire to cry.