Susan was in the garden.
There had been a frost in the night, and the bushes crackled; the late
winter sun was thawing it in the branches. Behind the cloudy glass in
the greenhouses were primulas and hyacinths, and all manner of scented
things, a bright blur against the panes; but she walked rather the
slippery paths in the lifeless garden.
She tried to picture the blackened tufts tall spikes of blossom, and
the long line of rose trees, all muffled in dried fern, a bewildering
lane of sweetness. Imagination failed her. The blackbird that shot
out of the yew tree, screaming his sharp, sweet call; the little
wagtail running at a wise distance in the path behind;--they might
guess and remember what they would find in spring. She would be gone
then; she would have stepped off the stage.
Foolishly she counted up the memories she would carry with her, looked
back at the great old house, so warm inside. Strange to think of the
time, so impossibly near, when Barnaby would release her, would tell
her that he had made his arrangements for her to slip out of this
fantastic life without scandal.
Well, she had played up to him; she had never lifted a miserable face,
imploring him not to make her suffer so.
Something was choking in her throat. She had not realized how utterly
she must pass out of his life until it struck her that she would never
see one of these English flowers. The garden became unbearable,
taunting her with its unknown mysteries, its hidden promise; and she
hurried down the weather-stained wooden steps into the park.
There were rabbit tracks in the grass, and live things rustled in the
spinney. A mat of beech-leaves kept the primroses warm. She leant
wistfully over the rail, gazing down from the slatted bridge at the
water. It was rushing past, very deep.
And then she found a snowdrop....
She heard the dogs scampering and looked up.
"There you are," said Barnaby, putting his arm through hers in friendly
fashion. "--The servants, you know!" he reminded her in parenthesis,
jerking his head towards the distant windows. "Let's gratify 'em, poor
souls. They'll like to see us arm in arm."
He threw a stick to the dogs, and they scurried down the bank to
retrieve it, but, missing it, found distraction in rummaging for a
water rat. Then he turned again to Susan. She had plucked the
snowdrop. That at least was given to her....
"You looked like that flower," he said, unexpectedly, "when I saw you
first."
She answered him valiantly.
"Was I so pale with fright?"
"I wasn't thinking of that," he said; "but--the thing hasn't been so
difficult, has it, after all? I didn't ask too much of you? We have
been good comrades and all that, haven't we, Susan? You have never
wished----?"
Wished it undone? She could not speak. It was over. He was going to
tell her that it was over. She thought of that far-off night of
amazement, of her panic-stricken impulse, of his hand on her shoulder
that had stopped her flight.... Ah, it had been worth it all.
Passionately she was glad of it. She had had so much.
"No," she said, "I have never wished----" and, like him, she left the
words unfinished.
And then, with the past close upon her, she forgot everything but him.
How she used to think of him, dream of him, dead, who had come to her
rescue!
"Oh!" she cried softly, touching his rough tweed sleeve, "isn't it
wonderful that you are alive!"
They stood a minute or two in silence, neither speaking, and then
Barnaby broke the spell.
"Why did you wander down here in all that drenching grass?" he said.
"Your feet are wet."
She began to laugh, helplessly, and almost against her will.
"How like a man!" she said. "You all think it the direst calamity that
can happen. You remind me of Vernon Whitford, who, when the poor
heroine was despairing, was principally troubled because her boots were
damp."
"I know," said Barnaby. "That's my mother's beloved book. She got me
to read it too. Some of it stumped me, but I remember that much. How
did it go?" his voice dropped. "'He clasped the visionary little feet,
to warm them on his breast.'"
It hurt her to feel her cheek burning scarlet. There was no reason.
She hurried to defend herself from the wild fancies that might fill a
dangerous pause.
"If," she said, and it was anger at herself that made her voice
unsteady, "I had thrown myself over this bridge into the river, you
would have cried out indignantly--'She'll catch cold!'"
"I might," he said gravely. "We are material wretches. You must come
back with me and change your stockings."
He marched her towards the house. One startled, serious look he gave
her, but his voice maintained the determined lightness with which it
was necessary to face the realities of their bargain. The funny side
of it was the only side that would bear looking at.
"You're not impatient?" he said. "You like the hunting? and the life
over here? Can you stand it a little longer? We'll clear as soon as
we decently can, and think out the tragedy that shall part us."
"Yes," she said; she was a little breathless. The windows yonder were
winking flame; it looked as if the house was on fire, but it was only
the setting sun....
"There's that horse my mother presented to you," he went on. "You will
have to keep him as a souvenir. Hang him round your neck in a locket,
what?"
She could but laugh at his whimsical suggestion.
"I'll keep nothing," she said. "An actress doesn't claim the stage
properties; her paper crown, her gilt goblet, her royal dresses. Not a
poor strolling actress like me, at least. Please, please--" her voice
shook a little. He must be made to understand so much, jest and
earnest. "Let me go out as you snuff a candle."
"Will you?" he said.
They had nearly reached the house; the glancing windows that had shone
afire in their eyes were dark.
"I didn't come out to plan tragedies," said Barnaby. "I was sent to
fetch you. The Duchess is in there with my mother. There's the Hunt
Ball on in a day or two, and she wants us to dine and go with her
party. I think she has some notion of keeping her eye on you. She
thinks that I treat you badly."
Susan hung back.
"Must I go?" she said.
"Of course," he said cheerily. "I'd never hear the last of it if I
went without you. And my mother is awfully keen on you eclipsing the
rest. She's sending in to the bank for all the family trinkets."
"I wonder you are not afraid of my running away with them," she flung
at him recklessly.
Barnaby laughed at her as one might at a foolish child.
"Oh," he said. "I'll be there, mounting guard."
* * * * *
The Duchess was lodged in a ramshackle way over a shop. She was not
particular. After hiring all the stabling that was to be had in
Melton, she had packed herself into a few odd rooms, approached by a
dark entry and a narrow stair. It made her feel, she said, like an
eagle.
But sometimes her hospitality outdid her accommodation. On the night
of the ball she had asked as many people as could be squeezed into her
dining-room; all intimate enough not to mind rubbing elbows; and dinner
was a scramble.
"The youngest," she proposed, "shall sit with his back to the door, and
duck when the plates are handed in over his head.... Do be careful. I
put a little man there last year, but when the door opened he used to
chuck up his head like a horse, and smashed no end of china."
Having settled this, she threw up a window and rang a bell violently up
and down.
"That is for dinner," she said. "It has to be cooked outside, and my
people dawdle so. Would you believe it, I was ten minutes ringing for
my maid when I came in from hunting. She lodges a few doors higher up,
and I had quite a crowd in the street."
"I remember," said Kilgour, "last time I dined with you, one or two
bets were laid as to what was happening to the soup in the street
below."
"Accidents do happen," she acknowledged. "It isn't quite true,
however, that I stuck out my head once and caught them scooping up the
sauce."
Susan, wedged in a corner between Kilgour and another equally massive
person, was puzzled by the face of a woman opposite, who was smiling at
her.
"Don't you know me?" said she. "I recognized you by the dress you have
on. I am Melisande."
She noticed the girl's bewildered look at her yellow hair.
"I keep a black transformation for the shop," she said. "My own idea.
But didn't you know my nose? How dear of you to forget it. People
call it my trade mark, and say it's Jewish. The worst is, I haven't
really shut up shop. I have a young hedgehog to chaperon here
to-night. Oh, I am perfectly unashamed!--She is all prickles, but
worth a great deal of money. I really couldn't bring her down with me,
so she is coming by herself in a special train, or some such
extravagance. I thought she might do for Rackham."
"What?" said Barnaby. "Aren't you rather hard on my cousin?"
"It is because he is your cousin," said Melisande, "I am offering him
the hedgehog. Have you ever considered what your reappearance meant to
him? Don't we all know how hard up he is, and what a boon your
inheritance would have been? If I don't step in with my benefaction
he'll possibly murder you."
"Scarcely!" said Barnaby.
"Let me see," said Melisande. "Give me your hand."
But he would not.
"You will frighten my wife," he said.
"Give me the glass he was drinking out of," said Melisande. Barnaby's
neighbour pushed it over to her, and she peered into it with alarming
gravity. Silence waited on her prediction. She raised the glass,
swung it round thrice, and spilt a little water.
"I've thrown out a misfortune," she said. "A terrible misfortune," and
looked round for applause.
"I am eternally obliged to you," said Barnaby. "Thanks!" But she
would not give up his glass.
"There are strange things here," she said, clasping her hands, and
gazing into it with half-shut eyes. Barnaby reached over and captured
the glass.
"We don't want her to reveal all our secrets, do we, Susan?" he said,
and saved the situation by drinking the secrets down.
His presence of mind turned the laugh against Melisande, whose
expression was a study. Ignoring public ridicule, she affected to
meditate on his disturbing action.
"I wish I could remember what that portends," she said solemnly. "I
rather think it was fatal."
But Barnaby refused to be overawed. He was in a mood of tearing gaiety
that Susan did not quite understand. She herself, although she knew
that it was absurd, had had a superstitious fear of that glass of
water....
"Let's go on to the ball," said the Duchess.
In the general confusion the girl found herself on the stairs with
Melisande, still ruffled. Somehow their glances met.
"Barnaby would turn anything into a joke. He was always like that,"
said she. "He hasn't any sense of decorum."
"--And you witches," remarked Kilgour, who was close behind, "haven't a
sense of humour."
The sorceress pursed her lips.
"Was there anything--bad?" asked Susan.
She was ashamed of the foolish impulse that made her ask. Melisande
looked at her indulgently. But her disclaimer was too hasty to be
convincing. In a way, it was more disquieting than if she had
overwhelmed the sinner's wife with evil prognostications.
"There was nothing in it. Nothing!" she said, but her voice lacked
conviction.
"That's right. Don't frighten us," said Kilgour.
Susan was not frightened. But she could not shake off an unaccountable
nervousness;--could not forget Melisande's wild sayings.... Why was
she afraid of Rackham?
It was odd that as soon as they came into the ballroom her eyes should
light on him. Everybody was arriving at once, jammed in under the
gallery;--and Rackham was pushing through the crowd to her side, and
she could not fly.
"What is the matter?" said Barnaby. "Why, you're trembling?"
The truth came out before she could stop herself, though she could not
explain it.
"I am shy," she said. "--And I don't want to dance with your cousin."
He did not scoff at her. He took her programme and scribbled his name
across it.
"See," he said. "Whatever he asks you for, say you're dancing it with
me. How will that do? Fill it in with any of the others, of course,
just as you like; and let me know what I am booked for later."
He moved on in the swaying throng, distracted by somebody signalling to
him, hailed on all sides, nodding to his friends. Other men were
surrounding Susan. She could smile at them now, although Rackham was
at her side.
"They're just finishing number one," he said. "Will you give me number
two?"
"I am dancing it with my husband."
"Number three, then?"
"I am dancing it with my husband."
Another claimed her attention; she gave him a dance quickly. Kilgour,
who could not get near her, held up five fingers to her above the
bobbing heads in the crowd. She counted them gaily, putting down the
number.
Rackham was still at her side, insisting, but her answer was the same.
He looked at her queerly.
"You seem to be dancing everything, more or less, with your husband."
Kitty Drake, floating in like a smoke wreath, put in her word.
"A husband," she said sapiently, "is the only possible partner for a
frock like hers. _I_ always come to the Melton Ball in rags."
But when Rackham had departed, she looked curiously at Susan.
"You were rude to him," she whispered. "Was it the frock, or what? I
am safe."
"I don't know," said Susan. "It is very unreasonable of me, but--I am
always a little frightened when he is near me."
Kitty seemed to think that she understood.
"Reason?" she said. "My good girl, I've known more women wrecked
because they were ashamed to give in to their frightened instincts than
I dare remember. Don't begin to reason! It's simply a machine for
making mistakes; it never mends them. Go and be happy. Go and dance
with your husband!"
Barnaby had come to her, and there was pity as well as liking in
Kitty's little push.
"Shall we begin?" he said, and his arm went round her as she swung out
with him on to the shining floor. Dimly she was aware of music, of
lights and people; an atmosphere of enchantment.
"Tired?" he said, pausing.
"Tired? Oh, no," she panted, as if he had asked her the strangest
question.
"I didn't know you could ride," he said, "and I didn't know you danced.
I really know very little about you, Susan."
They had stopped a minute near a ring of idlers who had drifted on to
the floor, and somebody caught up his words.
"Have you never danced with her before, Barnaby?"
"No," he said, and bent to gather her train himself, that the weight of
it should not tire her arm.
"Do you hear that?" chuckled the man behind them. "Never rode with
her, never danced with her. What on earth did he find to do?"
"Made love to her, of course."
Susan felt his arm tighten round her as they whirled into the dizzy
spaces.
"I've never made love to you, have I, Susan?"
He was breathing quicker; her cheek almost touched his as he bent his
head; her pulses were beating in tune with his. In a sudden faintness
she shut her eyes.
And then the music crashed into silence and she was leaning against a
pillar, stupidly watching the brilliant scene. There was a great buzz
of talking under the gallery, and Barnaby was turning to his friends.
She heard his voice now and then amidst the babel, but it was Kilgour
and Gregory Drake who were trying to amuse her, picking out the
celebrities, good and wicked, in that assembly of glittering dresses
and scarlet coats.
"You'll notice," Kilgour was saying, "it's the older men who are
dancing, and the young 'uns are looking on. They've no stamina, the
lads! Do you see that woman like a tub, with hungry eyes?--She was a
beauty once, but when her admirers began to slink off she went in for
spirits--that awfully unpleasant kind that you can't absorb. She's
always calling 'em up and setting 'em on to tell tales about her
dearest friends."
"Yes," said Gregory, "it's really more unhealthy to offend her now than
when she was an anarchist and used to spring little clicking machines
on you and offered to explain how they worked. She got into hot water
once, while it lasted, making herself a side-show at a bazaar. Some
foreign personage was attending, and a rumour started that she meant to
wind up her clock in earnest. It emptied the hall like winking. The
Board of Charitables were no end annoyed."
"They say her fellow anarchists begged her to take her name off their
books. Said she brought 'em into contempt."
"That wasn't why," said Gregory. "It was because she would bring Toby,
her mastiff, to all their meetings. He and Biff, the thing she carried
in her muff, used to scare 'em out of their lives."
"Look at that shop window!" said Kilgour, as another woman, smothered
in diamonds, canted past.
"American, isn't she?--Cummerbatch married her for her money, and of
course they're wretched. It never pays----"
Susan was conscious that the speaker had checked himself, in his face a
ludicrous awkwardness. Had the world jumped to a similar conclusion
about her and Barnaby? Instinctively she turned her head. She wanted
to share the joke with him, to see his delighted appreciation;--but he
was not near.
And he did not dance with her any more. The night dragged on, and one
man after another bent his sleek head and offered her his arm. All
Barnaby's friends were rallying to her flag. Still, in its turn, would
come a star in her card, a dance that found her waiting for a partner
who did not come.
After one of these blanks she came face to face with him in the
Lancers. He was romping as violently as the rest, charging down the
room;--and as the chain of dancers burst it was his arm that kept her
from falling into a bank of pale tulips against the wall.
"Wasn't the last dance ours?" he said. "I'm awfully sorry:--but you
are getting on all right, aren't you? Plenty of substitutes? I've
been watching them buzzing round you."
She smiled at him bravely. How like life this dancing was ... meeting
and parting, and strange companions.... For the first and last time
she was linking arms with Julia.
Later on she saw Rackham on his way to her. It was almost the first
time that evening that she was unsurrounded. She had felt him watching
her; awaiting his time to swoop. Barnaby had not been visible during
the last two dances, and this, alas! was one that was glorified with a
star.
"Yes," said Rackham, before she could speak, "I know;--you are dancing
it with your husband."
There was no anger in his voice; only a kind of sardonic amusement, as
if he could afford to forgive her for that rebuff. She looked vainly
for Barnaby.
"As a matter of fact," said Rackham coolly, "he has delegated his
privilege to me."
"I am tired," she said. It was true; very tired and forsaken.
"Then we'll sit it out," said Rackham, no whit abashed. He carried his
point over her weariness; she wondered dully why she had been afraid of
him, and she was too sad to struggle. She let him take her up the
stairs into the far corner of the gallery, now deserted, and sat with
her arms on the rail, gazing absently on the flitting brightness that
mocked her wistful mood below.
All at once she started. Her wandering thoughts were fixed.
"What are you saying to me?" she cried.
Rackham was very near her, his head bent, his voice low and passionate
in her ears.
"What I have always wanted to say to you," he said. "You guessed it,
didn't you? You were a little afraid of me;--just a little. You've
been trying to put it off.... But don't you remember the first time we
met--and that afternoon down by the spinney, when I told you I was your
friend?"
She began to shiver. His hand, shutting the idle fan, was imprisoning
hers as it clenched itself on her knee.
"I was not listening to you!" she cried desperately. "I was not
thinking of you. How dare you?"
"What were you thinking of then?" said Rackham. "Not of Barnaby, who
has gone back to his first love and forgotten that you exist."
"He sent you to me," she said piteously.
"Oh, that was a lie," said Rackham. "He didn't even trouble as much as
that."
She had sprung to her feet and her face was as white as ashes. For how
long had this man been telling her that he loved her? She had been
deaf to him, had caught his words without understanding their import,
murmuring "Yes" to him, while her eyes and her heart were searching for
one figure to pass in the dizzy scene below.
"You are mad," she said.
"Mad if you like," said Rackham. "After all, I am Barnaby's cousin,
and it's probably in our blood. Look at him, still crazed over a woman
who jilted him years ago!"
She flung up her head, compelled by a piteous instinct to play her part.
"And I am Barnaby's wife," she said bravely.
He looked at her fixedly, making no motion to let her pass him.
"Are you?" he said.
The band seemed to burst into clamour and die away; but they were all
dancing; there must be music still, although she could not hear
anything but these two syllables. She kept her eyes steady. Perhaps
he did not grasp the significance of his words.
"You have insulted me enough," she said to him slowly.
A wild eagerness lighted his face.
"I'm not insulting you," he said. "I leave that to him.... I'm asking
you to be my wife, Susan. Let him go. Let him release himself. Leave
him to the woman from whom you can't keep him.--Come away with me,--and
marry me!"
"I--cannot," she said.
He had to fall back then and let her go. But he followed her down the
stairs. The light in his eyes flickered out, leaving a sullen
admiration.
"Well," he said, "I warn you. I've a bit of a score to settle with
Barnaby."
She turned on him. She had reached the bottom; her foot was on the
crimson carpet that lay under the gallery; a little way off a handful
of men were talking with their backs turned, hilarious at the climax of
a sporting tale. She looked at the dark face above her; her lips were
white now, her eyes were blazing. "Are you threatening--him?" she
cried, and the devil in Rackham smiled.
She took a few rash steps, hardly knowing in what direction.
"You needn't look for him here," said Rackham bitterly. "Don't let his
friends think you jealous."
From where she stood she could see in at the open doorway of one of the
sitting-out rooms, a dim, mysterious haunt of palms, the chairs drawn
back in the shadow. Was not that Barnaby and a woman in a glittering
green dress, listening with her face uplifted--?
Ah, what right had she to run to him?--One of the men standing about
under the gallery had looked round. She heard him mutter it was a
shame. What was a shame? Not anything that could be spoken or done to
her.... She threw up her head, walking straight on as if she were
walking in her sleep. The Duchess and Kitty Drake were together
half-way up the room; they moved down to meet her, exchanging looks.
"My dear," said the Duchess solemnly, "you look fatigued."
"I am tired," she said.
"I thought so. Fagged out. You have danced too much. Major Willes--"
She called a man to her side and sent him on an immediate errand. When
he was gone she returned to Susan.
"I've sent somebody to fetch your husband," she said. "He ought to
take more care of you. I shall scold him."
"Oh, don't!" she cried faintly, but her champions took no notice; and
soon Barnaby himself came swinging along the room.
"Barnaby," said the Duchess, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Take your wife up to supper."
The first rush was over upstairs in the supper-room, and Barnaby found
a corner. She sat with him at a little round table behind a tall plant
that shut off the world with its wide green fronds, some sheltering
exotic. And he was pouring out champagne, a drink she hated. She put
her hand over the top of the glass, and he caught it and lifted it off,
holding it in his while he poured on unchecked.
"It's not good stuff,--but it's good for you. Drink!" he said.
He seemed to be laughing at her from an immeasurable distance; his
prescription had made her dizzy.
"It will go off in a minute; you wanted it badly," he was saying, in a
voice that sounded far away and unlike his own.
"It has gone to my head," she said, appealing to him. "I'm afraid I
shall say something silly. Don't let me. Don't let me talk....'"
"Why not? There is nobody listening," he was saying, encouraging her;
amused.
And Susan heard her own voice. Her head was spinning; she was talking
against her will.
"Why did you never come back and dance with me?" she was asking. It
seemed to her that there was a long pause, and then his answer came,
low and close.
"I did not dare," he said.
"Oh," she said piteously;--no, not she, but the imprudent, tired girl
whose head was giddy, and who did not know what she said. "Oh,--how
funny!"
Perhaps he was throwing dust in people's eyes,--trying to blind them to
his fluttering, like a burnt moth, round Julia. If they saw him
sitting up here in a corner with her, and she was happy, they would
think there was nothing in it. He must be trying to make her laugh.
Well, she must help him. She could say something funny too.
"There's a man downstairs," she told him, "who asked me to marry him."
"What?" said Barnaby. He started as if he had been shot.
"He said he loved me," she repeated. "He wished me to go away and
release you and marry him."
"Who?"
"You were with the only woman you ever cared for. That was what he
said. I had nobody to keep him away from me...."
"Oh, I was with the woman I cared for, was I?" he said. "And who the
devil is it wants horsewhipping when I get at him?"
The deadly calm in his voice arrested her. What had she said to him,
babbling in her unhappiness? Alarm steadied her; the dizziness was
passing.
"I will not tell you," she said, forgetting how vainly she had looked
for him to shield her.
His eyes were blue as steel. She had never seen him angry until
to-night.
"I'll make you," he said.
They stared at each other a minute, her eyes as unflinching as his were
hard. Across the silly little supper table with its glass and silver,
its green, gold-tipped bottles, and its tumbled flowers, he leaned and
gripped her hands.
"Did you tell him you are not my wife?" he said.
There was a whiff of scent in their neighbourhood; the great green
fronds spreading behind him were rudely stirred. A passing couple must
have brushed against that screen on their way to the stairs. A burst
of merriment came from the upper end of the room. But these two were
as much alone as if it had been a desert.
So that was why he was angry. He believed that she had broken faith....
"I told him nothing," she said.
Barnaby took a long breath. She felt his grip relax.
"You are a good girl," he said. "You wouldn't break your promise. I
suppose I've no right to order you:--I'll find him out for myself.
Tell me one thing, and we'll let it go--"
She waited. There had been something very bitter to her in his relief.
All he asked of her was to keep the secret until he was tired of the
joke....
"Susan," he said. "Did you want to tell him?"
What did that matter to him? Supposing she had--wanted? Supposing she
would have given worlds to exchange her difficult post for one so
different, so secure?--Her cheek burned.
"I would sooner have died," she said.
* * * * *
Rackham stood under the gallery in a black mood, watching the Duchess
send her messenger to hunt out the missing husband. He saw Julia,
bereft of her cavalier, pausing uncertainly; and a satiric impulse
moved him to join her.
"Come and have supper with me," he said.
"I am engaged to Barnaby," she said, a little defiantly.
"They've sent him up with his wife," he retorted, and his mocking tone
seemed to please her. She submitted and pressed his arm.
"Poor Barnaby!" she said. "It's an awful muddle."
She was looking very lovely and pathetic. The man who had once been
entangled a little way in her toils himself and, having failed to
succumb, was naturally inclined to despise her, admired her pose. It
was hardly to be wondered at if Barnaby, who had been mad about her
once, should be incapable of resisting the allurement of these dark
eyes, so deep and so reproachful. He could not help speculating how
far she was in earnest, and how far a hurt vanity inspired her.
Curiosity piqued him.
"I understand," he said gravely, as they passed out and began to climb
to the supper-room. It amused him to feel that her confidential
attitude, her claim on his sympathy, was a subtle intimation that he
had been the unlucky cause of the fatal misunderstanding, and must
therefore be kind to her. All at once he had a perverse inclination to
cast himself in the scale again. Why not? It would be a bitter joke
on Barnaby, and it suited his savage humour.
"I like your dress," he said. His change of tone surprised her. She
glanced at him swiftly, half-turning as she mounted, her green garments
rippling as she lifted her train on one smooth arm, displaying a whirl
of skirts and one little green sequin slipper. "Ah," she said, "down
below they've been reviling me for a mermaid, and complaining bitterly
of my tail."
"And so," said Rackham, "the little slipper is betrayed, to dispel the
illusion?"
"Perhaps," said Julia. She used, at one time, to smile up in his face
like that.... A vindictive sense of his power possessed him,
flattering him on this night of defeat. In his heart he was still
fiercely worshipping the pale girl who had flouted him, clinging
obstinately--Oh, she was a fool, and so was Barnaby;--and the irony of
it was that he had only to lift his finger--!
"We'll find a place by ourselves," he said, confidentially, passing
into the room. Inside it he took a step or two, glancing about him.
There were vacant seats on the right, but the tables had a battered
air. Farther down, perhaps--; yes, farther down, near the wall. He
turned back to look for his partner, and the sight of her face amazed
him. With a promptitude that surprised himself he pulled her back, and
got her outside the room. Was it possible that he had been mistaken in
her, or could a woman push affectation as far as that?
She broke into a kind of gasping exclamation that was not intelligible
at first, and he stared at her in limitless amazement.
"Oh, poor Barnaby, oh, poor Barnaby!" she repeated. There was a ring
of triumph in her incoherent voice. She had gone mad, he fancied.
"Hush!" he said. "They'll hear you."
He was glad he had shut that door, and thankful there was not a soul on
the stairs.
"I was right!" she said, "I was right.... I knew it! You were there
when she came here first as his widow, and I told his mother to her
face it was a wicked plot!"
"Julia," said Rackham, "you don't know what you are saying."
She controlled herself a little. He held her wrist.
"Didn't you see them in there?" she asked. "Didn't you hear him?"
"If you mean Barnaby," he said, "I was looking out for our places. I
didn't notice whereabouts they were till you clutched at me. They
didn't see us at all."
"I heard him," she said, in the same wild key of triumph. "I heard his
own words.--He said she was not his wife."
"Hush!" said Rackham vehemently, and then, more slowly--"Julia, are you
sure of that?"
She tried to imitate him, to whisper, but she was too excited.
"Sure!" she said, laughing hysterically. "I know his voice so well.
There was a green plant between us----"
"Wait," said Rackham. "There's somebody coming. We'll go down. Damn!
there are people everywhere--! Get a shawl, and we'll go out into the
street."
Julia resisted him.
"Why are you dragging me away?" she rebelled. "You can't keep me
quiet. Think how I've been treated! I could scream it to all the
world!"
A woman could not have silenced her, but her emotional nature yielded
finally to the rough coaxing of a man. He almost swung her downstairs
into the draughty passage and, raiding the ladies' cloakroom, snatched
up the first wrap that lay to his hand.
A chill wind blew up the steps, but there was still a persistent crew
of gazers loitering in the street below. Rackham led her past, and
they strolled a little way into the darkness, lighted at intervals by a
twinkling lamp. There was no danger there of her making scenes.
"Now," he said. "Now, Julia--!"
"They shall all hear the truth!" she cried. She hung on his arm,
gesticulating.
"You wouldn't betray him?" said Rackham, sounding her.
"Him?" she said. "Poor Barnaby! He and I are the victims. Don't you
understand yet? When she thought he was dead his mother--just to crush
me, just to humble me in the dust!--hired this creature. Don't you
remember how she sprung her on us? Who had heard of a marriage? Oh,
it was a judgment on her when he came home!"
"She'd hardly look at the case in that light," he said. But Julia was
impervious to irony.
"He should have considered me first," she said. "Why do men always
sacrifice the one they love best? It's a kind of cruel unselfishness.
I was his dearest, a part of himself, and so--and so I'm to bear this
trial--! But he might have trusted _me_!"
She was either laughing or sobbing, he was not sure which; the cloak
that muffled her hid her face; but her voice raged on, half furious,
half triumphant.
"Of course, she's blackmailing him," she said. "That wretch has got
him in the hollow of her hand! If he disowned her it would all come
out, and it would disgrace his mother. He was always quixotic. And so
he is temporizing till he can bribe her to disappear. But Lady
Henrietta has no claim on my forbearance!"
She had to pause for breath, and he managed to get in his word.
"I am going to advise you," he said, "to keep quiet over this."
They had come to the end of the street, and were walking back. A
dazzle of lights in the distance marked the Corn Exchange. A motor
whirred past, its lamps sending a brief glare that was like a
searchlight. Already a few were leaving.
"Why?" she said, staring at him.
"You'll be a fool if you talk," he said. "If Barnaby is holding his
tongue for his mother's sake, is it likely he'll give way? And you
have no proofs. Whatever you say, he'll deny it. He mightn't forgive
you, either. Be sensible.... Wait a bit, and I'll make inquiries."
It struck her then as odd that he had accepted her words himself,
without argument, with no incredulous opposition, such as she was
beginning to realize must fall to her lot if she published her tale
abroad.
"Did you know from the first?" she cried.
"No," said Rackham, "I didn't know. But I guessed."
They had nearly reached the steps, and he slackened, regarding her
narrowly; but already she was subdued. It was characteristic of her
that she had never seen his admiration for the impostor. Vast as her
imagination was, it was blinded by centring on herself.
"And you'll help me? You are on my side?" she said.
He knew then that he had prevailed.
"As long as you are wise," he said. They went up the steps together.
"I had better find my party," she said hurriedly. "I want to go home.
Poor Barnaby!--I can't bear to meet him. I am too agitated."
Rackham took back the borrowed cloak and strolled along the passage, in
no hurry to return to the ballroom. People were passing in and out;
some of them were saying good-night, and one pair were wrangling on
their way to the door.
"Who was the man you were flirting with in the street?" said the lover
in an angry stutter. The lady scoffed.
"What a story!"
"My brother saw you go out. He came up and chaffed me."
"Your brother is a donkey. It must have been someone else."
"I tell you he recognized you by that chiffon fal-lal you wear!"
Rackham stood on one side. Let them fight it out.... Then his mouth
hardened. What was he going to do? He had managed to prevent Julia
from spoiling it all, and as long as he could keep her quiet the cards
were in his hands.