The clock over the stables was chiming seven when Miltoun and Barbara
passed out of the tall iron gates, in their swift-moving small world,
that smelled faintly of petrol. Though the cab was closed, light spurts
of rain drifted in through the open windows, refreshing the girl's hot
face, relieving a little her dread of this drive. For, now that Fate had
been really cruel, now that it no longer lay in Miltoun's hands to save
himself from suffering, her heart bled for him; and she remembered to
forget herself. The immobility with which he had received her intrusion,
was ominous. And though silent in her corner, she was desperately
working all her woman's wits to discover a way of breaking into the
house of his secret mood. He appeared not even to have noticed that they
had turned their backs on London, and passed into Richmond Park.
Here the trees, made dark by rain, seemed to watch gloomily the progress
of this whirring-wheeled red box, unreconciled even yet to such harsh
intruders on their wind-scented tranquillity. And the deer, pursuing
happiness on the sweet grasses, raised disquieted noses, as who should
say: Poisoners of the fern, defilers of the trails of air!
Barbara vaguely felt the serenity out there in the clouds, and the
trees, and wind. If it would but creep into this dim, travelling prison,
and help her; if it would but come, like sleep, and steal away dark
sorrow, and in one moment make grief-joy. But it stayed outside on its
wistful wings; and that grand chasm which yawns between soul and soul
remained unbridged. For what could she say? How make him speak of what
he was going to do? What alternatives indeed were now before him? Would
he sullenly resign his seat, and wait till he could find Audrey Noel
again? But even if he did find her, they would only be where they were.
She had gone, in order not to be a drag on him—it would only be the same
thing all over again! Would he then, as Granny had urged him, put on his
armour, and go down into the fight? But that indeed would mean the end,
for if she had had the strength to go away now, she would surely never
come back and break in on his life a second time. And a grim thought
swooped down on Barbara. What if he resigned everything! Went out into
the dark! Men did sometimes—she knew—caught like this in the full flush
of passion. But surely not Miltoun, with his faith! 'If the lark's song
means nothing—if that sky is a morass of our invention—if we are pettily
creeping on, furthering nothing—persuade me of it, Babs, and I'll bless
you.' But had he still that anchorage, to prevent him slipping out to
sea? This sudden thought of death to one for whom life was joy, who had
never even seen the Great Stillness, was very terrifying. She fixed her
eyes on the back of the chauffeur, in his drab coat with the red collar,
finding some comfort in its solidity. They were in a taxi-cab, in
Richmond Park! Death—incongruous, incredible death! It was stupid to
be frightened! She forced herself to look at Miltoun. He seemed to be
asleep; his eyes were closed, his arms folded—only a quivering of his
eyelids betrayed him. Impossible to tell what was going on in that grim
waking sleep, which made her feel that she was not there at all, so
utterly did he seem withdrawn into himself!
He opened his eyes, and said suddenly:
“So you think I'm going to lay hands on myself, Babs?”
Horribly startled by this reading of her thoughts, Barbara could only
edge away and stammer:
“No; oh, no!”
“Where are we going in this thing?”
“Nettlefold. Would you like him stopped?”
“It will do as well as anywhere.”
Terrified lest he should relapse into that grim silence, she timidly
possessed herself of his hand.
It was fast growing dark; the cab, having left the villas of Surbiton
behind, was flying along at great speed among pine-trees and stretches
of heather gloomy with faded daylight.
Miltoun said presently, in a queer, slow voice “If I want, I have only
to open that door and jump. You who believe that 'to-morrow we die'—give
me the faith to feel that I can free myself by that jump, and out I go!”
Then, seeming to pity her terrified squeeze of his hand, he added:
“It's all right, Babs; we, shall sleep comfortably enough in our beds
tonight.”
But, so desolate to the girl was his voice, that she hoped now for
silence.
“Let us be skinned quietly,” muttered Miltoun, “if nothing else. Sorry
to have disturbed you.”
Pressing close up to him, Barbara murmured:
“If only——Talk to me!”.
But Miltoun, though he stroked her hand, was silent.
The cab, moving at unaccustomed speed along these deserted roads, moaned
dismally; and Barbara was possessed now by a desire which she dared not
put in practice, to pull his head down, and rock it against her. Her
heart felt empty, and timid; to have something warm resting on it would
have made all the difference. Everything real, substantial, comforting,
seemed to have slipped away. Among these flying dark ghosts of
pine-trees—as it were the unfrequented borderland between two worlds—the
feeling of a cheek against her breast alone could help muffle the deep
disquiet in her, lost like a child in a wood.
The cab slackened speed, the driver was lighting his lamps; and his red
face appeared at the window.
“We'll 'ave to stop here, miss; I'm out of petrol. Will you get some
dinner, or go through?”
“Through,” answered Barbara:
While they were passing the little time, buying then petrol, asking the
way, she felt less miserable, and even looked about her with a sort of
eagerness. Then when they had started again, she thought: If I could
get him to sleep—the sea will comfort him! But his eyes were staring,
wide-open. She feigned sleep herself; letting her head slip a little to
one side, causing small sounds of breathing to escape. The whirring of
the wheels, the moaning of the cab joints, the dark trees slipping by,
the scent of the wet fern drifting in, all these must surely help!
And presently she felt that he was indeed slipping into darkness—and
then-she felt nothing.
When she awoke from the sleep into which she had seen Miltoun fall, the
cab was slowly mounting a steep hill, above which the moon had risen.
The air smelled strong and sweet, as though it had passed over leagues
of grass.
“The Downs!” she thought; “I must have been asleep!”
In sudden terror, she looked round for Miltoun. But he was still there,
exactly as before, leaning back rigid in his corner of the cab, with
staring eyes, and no other signs of life. And still only half awake,
like a great warm sleepy child startled out of too deep slumber, she
clutched, and clung to him. The thought that he had been sitting like
that, with his spirit far away, all the time that she had been betraying
her watch in sleep, was dreadful. But to her embrace there was no
response, and awake indeed now, ashamed, sore, Barbara released him, and
turned her face to the air.
Out there, two thin, dense-black, long clouds, shaped like the wings
of a hawk, had joined themselves together, so that nothing of the moon
showed but a living brightness imprisoned, like the eyes and life of a
bird, between those swift sweeps of darkness. This great uncanny spirit,
brooding malevolent over the high leagues of moon-wan grass, seemed
waiting to swoop, and pluck up in its talons, and devour, all that
intruded on the wild loneness of these far-up plains of freedom. Barbara
almost expected to hear coming from it the lost whistle of the buzzard
hawks. And her dream came back to her. Where were her wings-the wings
that in sleep had borne her to the stars; the wings that would never
lift her—waking—from the ground? Where too were Miltoun's wings? She
crouched back into her corner; a tear stole up and trickled out between
her closed lids-another and another followed. Faster and faster they
came. Then she felt Miltoun's arm round her, and heard him say: “Don't
cry, Babs!” Instinct telling her what to do, she laid her head against
his chest, and sobbed bitterly. Struggling with those sobs, she grew
less and less unhappy—knowing that he could never again feel quite
so desolate, as before he tried to give her comfort. It was all a bad
dream, and they would soon wake from it! And they would be happy;
as happy as they had been before—before these last months! And she
whispered:
“Only a little while, Eusty!”