Noel got up. "I"m ready to go, monsieur."
He put her cloak on her shoulders, paid the bill, and they went out, threading again through the little tables, through the buzz of talk and laughter and the fumes of tobacco, while another hollow little tune jingled away behind them.
"Through there," said the painter, pointing to another door, "they dance. So it goes. London in war-time! Well, after all, it is never very different; no great town is. Did you enjoy your sight of "life,"
mademoiselle?"
"I think one must dance, to be happy. Is that where your friends go?"
"Oh, no! To a room much rougher, and play dominoes, and drink coffee and beer, and talk. They have no money to throw away."
"Why didn"t you show me?"
"Mademoiselle, in that room you might see someone perhaps whom one day you would meet again; in the place we visited you were safe enough at least I hope so."
Noel shrugged. "I suppose it doesn"t matter now, what I do."
And a rush of emotion caught at her throat--a wave from the past--the moonlit night, the dark old Abbey, the woods and the river. Two tears rolled down her cheeks.
"I was thinking of--something," she said in a m.u.f.fled voice. "It"s all right."
"Chere mademoiselle!" Lavendie murmured; and all the way home he was timid and distressed. Shaking his hand at the door, she murmured:
"I"m sorry I was such a fool; and thank you awfully, monsieur. Good night."
"Good night; and better dreams. There is a good time coming--Peace and Happiness once more in the world. It will not always be this Forcing-House. Good night, chere mademoiselle!"
Noel went up to the nursery, and stole in. A night-light was burning, Nurse and baby were fast asleep. She tiptoed through into her own room.
Once there, she felt suddenly so tired that she could hardly undress; and yet curiously rested, as if with that rush of emotion, Cyril and the past had slipped from her for ever.
III
Noel"s first encounter with Opinion took place the following day. The baby had just come in from its airing; she had seen it comfortably snoozing, and was on her way downstairs, when a voice from the hall said:
"How do you do?" and she saw the khaki-clad figure of Adrian Lauder, her father"s curate! Hesitating just a moment, she finished her descent, and put her fingers in his. He was a rather heavy, dough-coloured young man of nearly thirty, unsuited by khaki, with a round white collar b.u.t.toned behind; but his aspiring eyes redeemed him, proclaiming the best intentions in the world, and an inclination towards sentiment in the presence of beauty.
"I haven"t seen you for ages," he said rather fatuously, following her into her father"s study.
"No," said Noel. "How--do you like being at the Front?"
"Ah!" he said, "they"re wonderful!" And his eyes shone. "It"s so nice to see you again."
"Is it?"
He seemed puzzled by that answer; stammered, and said:
"I didn"t know your sister had a baby. A jolly baby."
"She hasn"t."
Lauder"s mouth opened. "A silly mouth," she thought.
"Oh!" he said. "Is it a protegee--Belgian or something?"
"No, it"s mine; my own." And, turning round, she slipped the little ring off her finger. When she turned back to him, his face had not recovered from her words. It had a hapless look, as of one to whom such a thing ought not to have happened.
"Don"t look like that," said Noel. "Didn"t you understand? It"s mine-mine." She put out her left hand. "Look! There"s no ring."
He stammered: "I say, you oughtn"t to--you oughtn"t to--!"
"What?"
"Joke about--about such things; ought you?"
"One doesn"t joke if one"s had a baby without being married, you know."
Lauder went suddenly slack. A sh.e.l.l might have burst a few paces from him. And then, just as one would in such a case, he made an effort, braced himself, and said in a curious voice, both stiff and heavy: "I can"t--one doesn"t--it"s not--"
"It is," said Noel. "If you don"t believe me, ask Daddy."
He put his hand up to his round collar; and with the wild thought that he was going to tear it off, she cried: "Don"t!"
"You!" he said. "You! But--"
Noel turned away from him to the window: She stood looking out, but saw nothing whatever.
"I don"t want it hidden," she said without turning round, "I want every one to know. It"s stupid as it is--stupid!" and she stamped her foot.
"Can"t you see how stupid it is--everybody"s mouth falling open!"
He uttered a little sound which had pain in it, and she felt a real pang of compunction. He had gripped the back of a chair; his face had lost its heaviness. A dull flush coloured his cheeks. Noel had a feeling, as if she had been convicted of treachery. It was his silence, the curious look of an impersonal pain beyond power of words; she felt in him something much deeper than mere disapproval--something which echoed within herself. She walked quickly past him and escaped. She ran upstairs and threw herself on her bed. He was nothing: it was not that!
It was in herself, the awful feeling, for the first time developed and poignant, that she had betrayed her caste, forfeited the right to be thought a lady, betrayed her secret reserve and refinement, repaid with black ingrat.i.tude the love lavished on her up bringing, by behaving like any uncared-for common girl. She had never felt this before--not even when Gratian first heard of it, and they had stood one at each end of the hearth, unable to speak. Then she still had her pa.s.sion, and her grief for the dead. That was gone now as if it had never been; and she had no defence, nothing between her and this crushing humiliation and chagrin. She had been mad! She must have been mad! The Belgian Barra was right: "All a little mad" in this "forcing-house" of a war! She buried her face deep in the pillow, till it almost stopped her power of breathing; her head and cheeks and ears seemed to be on fire. If only he had shown disgust, done something which roused her temper, her sense of justice, her feeling that Fate had been too cruel to her; but he had just stood there, bewilderment incarnate, like a creature with some very deep illusion shattered. It was horrible! Then, feeling that she could not stay still, must walk, run, get away somehow from this feeling of treachery and betrayal, she sprang up. All was quiet below, and she slipped downstairs and out, speeding along with no knowledge of direction, taking the way she had taken day after day to her hospital.
It was the last of April, trees and shrubs were luscious with blossom and leaf; the dogs ran gaily; people had almost happy faces in the sunshine. "If I could get away from myself, I wouldn"t care," she thought. Easy to get away from people, from London, even from England perhaps; but from oneself--impossible! She pa.s.sed her hospital; and looked at it dully, at the Red Cross flag against its stucco wall, and a soldier in his blue slops and red tie, coming out. She had spent many miserable hours there, but none quite so miserable as this. She pa.s.sed the church opposite to the flats where Leila lived, and running suddenly into a tall man coming round the corner, saw Fort. She bent her head, and tried to hurry past. But his hand was held out, she could not help putting hers into it; and looking up hardily, she said:
"You know about me, don"t you?"
His face, naturally so frank, seemed to clench up, as if he were riding at a fence. "He"ll tell a lie," she thought bitterly. But he did not.
"Yes, Leila told me."
And she thought: "I suppose he"ll try and pretend that I"ve not been a beast!"
"I admire your pluck," he said.
"I haven"t any."
"We never know ourselves, do we? I suppose you wouldn"t walk my pace a minute or two, would you? I"m going the same way."