He walked to his office, trying to face the position more clearly than he had been able to do in the night. Why fret and worry? Barbara"s "solemn promise" had already been broken in spirit; if she kept it in form, she would be haunted by a new memory, the intrusive shadow would take on a more terrific outline. There was no proof that Jack was alive . . . but Eric believed without proof; no certainty that he would present his claim . . . but Barbara would see nothing but certainty. Two allegiances, two promises . . . and no one could tell which she would choose.
Eric was walking blindly through streets which only his feet recognized.
Regency Theatre. . . . And he had been heading for Whitehall. He would never go to the Regency again without seeing her--either a head leaning against his knee at rehearsal as they sat on a platform over the orchestra, or in their box, hand in hand, as on the first night of "The Bomb-Sh.e.l.l," when his nerves were jangling like the broken wires of a harp; he could never go to Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley"s house without hearing her singing Madame b.u.t.terfly"s song--and without some fool"s asking if he had seen anything of Lady Barbara lately. . . .
A telegram was waiting for him, when at last he reached his office: Barbara would come up that day and dine with him; she hoped that he had received no bad news. . . . Eleven o"clock; and he would not see her until eight. He was too restless to work and at one o"clock he handed his papers to a colleague and slunk into the street. His foot-steps were turned towards the Thespian Club; but he could not pa.s.s the hall-porter without looking for a note, as on the night when he dined in his triumph with Lord Ettrick; he could not see a page-boy without expecting to find that Barbara had telephoned to him. . . .
Half-way across the Horse Guards" Parade, he encountered George Oakleigh.
"Hallo! Come and have some lunch with me, if you"ve nothing better to do," he said. "I haven"t seen you for a long time."
"Not since we met at Barbara Neave"s," answered Oakleigh. "Where is she?
I"ve quite lost sight of her."
"They"re all down at Crawleigh," said Eric. Every one _would_ come to him as the leading authority on Barbara"s movements. "What about the Carlton? I can usually get hold of a table."
As they entered the lounge, Eric wondered why he had chosen this of all places. Last night"s ordeal should have kept him away for ever; and the band was playing a waltz which he had heard when Barbara dined with him on her return from the Cap Martin. Music, especially the seductiveness of the waltz rhythm, was bad enough at any time when one needed to keep one"s nerves unstimulated. . . .
When Oakleigh returned to the Admiralty, Eric stood aimlessly in Trafalgar Square, wondering what to do. It was too late for a _matinee_; and theatres were all becoming reminiscent of Barbara. He had long meant to order a new dessert-service and was only waiting until Barbara was in London again. Perhaps, that night, they would be saying good-bye for ever; he could no longer tell himself stories of the life that he wanted her to share with him. Perhaps, when she came to choose a dessert-service, it would be with some one else; she would give to some one else all that she had given him, all that she had been unable to give him. . . .
He was home before he knew that he was even walking homewards and thankful when his housekeeper came to discuss dinner. He chose a cigar and at once put it back in the box. His hand was shaking; and, if he once began to smoke, he would never stop. Stimulants and sedatives, he must remember, were not the same as natural food and rest; therefore he had drunk nothing at luncheon, therefore he would not smoke now. There was nothing that he could do; and Barbara"s train did not reach Waterloo for another hour. . . .
His sense of time became dulled: Barbara was standing in the doorway before he had even thought of dressing.
"My dear! I expected to find you in bed! How _dare_ you give me such a fright? When I got your telegram this morning--oh, I"m out of breath! I ran all the way upstairs!--you"d been saying that you felt so ill! Tell me what it"s all about. I had the most awful difficulty with father about getting away; he couldn"t make out why I always wanted to rush up to London just when he"d got people staying down there----"
"I didn"t mean to work on your emotions," said Eric, as he helped her out of her cloak.
"Sweetheart, _whatever_ I was doing, you know I"d come from the ends of the earth, if you were ill. But I"m afraid father"ll think me a fraud.
It"ll be your fault if I can"t get away next week."
Eric had to think for a moment before he recalled that her birthday fell in the following week. It was the first time that she had referred even indirectly to it on her own initiative. He looked at her closely, but her face revealed only high spirits and a radiant pleasure in being with him again.
"I wanted to talk over one or two things with you," he explained, "We shall start fairer if you don"t feel you"re under any obligation to me----"
She caught hold of his hand and kissed it.
"I shall always feel that, Eric."
"Well, for to-night I want you to feel quite unembarra.s.sed. I want to talk to you about Jack Waring. He was reported missing last August."
Barbara"s face grew suddenly grave; and, in a whisper, she supplied the date.
"Well, his sister dined with me last n-night----"
Eric stopped as he caught himself stammering, but Barbara laid her hand imploringly on his arm.
"Go on!" she cried. "I can stand it!"
"They don"t know whether he"s alive or dead." Her hands were slowly withdrawn from her cheeks, her face regained its composure, and she resettled herself, still breathing a little quickly, on the sofa. "They know nothing," he went on slowly. "But there"s reason to suppose that he wasn"t killed at the time when he was reported missing. There"s reason to suppose that he was alive at the beginning of October."
Still standing with his shoulders leaning against the mantel-piece, Eric told her slowly and colourlessly of the belated cheque. At the end she sat watching him in silence. She too, surely, was trying to convince herself that this was what she had always expected. . . .
"That"s all I know. That"s all his people know," he added.
"But October. . . . June. . . . Why hasn"t he written?"
"You"re a.s.suming he"s alive. We don"t know. He may have been badly wounded, he may have died of wounds----"
"But if he was well enough to write a cheque?"
"I don"t pretend to explain it. His sister threshed it all out at the bank yesterday; she and I threshed it all out again last night. And we"re none the wiser--except that on the ninth of October he drew, dated and signed a cheque. I think that"s certain. There"s no doubt about the signature, and no one would trouble to forge a cheque for ten pounds. . . .
I always promised to let you know as soon as I had any news, Babs."
She nodded and pressed her knuckles into her eyes.
"October to June . . . instead of August to June," she murmured at length. "And not a word of any kind. What do his people . . .?"
"He"ll now be published as "Previously reported missing, now reported to be missing and a prisoner." _They_ don"t know what to think any more than we do."
She sighed and then looked up to him with a grateful smile.
"Thank you for telling me, Eric."
He turned away and moistened his lips.
"You mustn"t forget that it affects my own position," he warned her.
The smile faded from her face, and she looked at him with startled eyes.
4
It was a silent dinner, for Eric was exhausted and Barbara was thinking deeply. Nearly a year ago, when Jack was first missing, she seemed to have lived through all these emotions, to have been tossed backwards and forwards in her dreams like a plaything of the G.o.ds at sport. For twelve months she had been sick with longing to know whether he still wanted her; and, when the G.o.ds had tortured her to madness, they let her think that the cruel game was over. She dreamed again of happiness, seeing herself as a child; another child, the very symbol of love and forgiveness, came to bring her peace, and they played together in the sun-drenched loveliness of a dream. Then the G.o.ds flung a shadow before her feet. In dream after dream her child-lover begged her to stay, but the shadow parted them and urged her forward. In time she realized that it was Jack"s shadow. . . .
Never were dreams more vivid. She knew each note of her lover"s voice as he begged her to stay and let him make her happy; and night after night she awoke to find herself stifling in the embrace of the shadow. Every one thought that she was dying; she herself knew that she was being driven mad; and, when the G.o.ds saw that she could bear no more, they filled the world with a blaze of light which banished dream and shadow.
"I hoped G.o.d had forgotten me," she whispered. "I"ve been happy too long. What am I to do, Eric?"
"You must follow your inclination."
She sighed and looked away into the shadows beyond the table.
"My inclination"s always to do what you want. . . . I"m glad for both our sakes that this came when it did. I couldn"t have made you happy while I was uncertain. . . ."
"And, if the war ended to-morrow and Jack came back safe and sound next week, what then?"
"It depends on him. I gave him my solemn promise, when I was trying to make reparation."