Barnaby Part 27

Still she kept her lip steady, letting Barnaby hurry her down the room; reminding herself that she had no right to feel insulted, or even a little sad.

When they reached home she was going straight upstairs, as was her custom, but Barnaby stopped her.

"Don't go up yet," he said. "You ate no dinner. I told them we'd have something when we came in."

She let him draw a chair for her beside that red fire in the hall that always tempted the weary to go no farther; and bring things that she did not want out of the dining-room.

"I've sent away the servants," he said. "I've got out of the way of them flitting round me. You'd rather sit here, wouldn't you, and get warm and let me forage?"

For a little while they were gay, and then he cleared away plates and gla.s.ses, and a silence fell between them. He settled down in another of the great chairs and lit a cigarette. A smile curved in the corners of his mouth and vanished; he was thinking hard. Susan watched him, shading her eyes with her hand that he might not raise his head suddenly and read their wistfulness. She was not often alone with him in the house.

What was he thinking? His face was no longer careless; the kind blue eyes were fixed earnestly on the fire. She remembered the strangeness of Julia's look and her heart ached, guessing. Something must have happened between them; he must have let her see unmistakably that he loved her still. For there had been no restlessness in Julia's air, no bravado,--it had been the smile of a woman who was sure. And he had himself set a barrier between them.

She felt a wild longing to comfort him, to take his head on her arm and whisper that nothing was too hard for a man,--nothing worth that steadfast, unhappy gaze.

He moved, and the start it gave her set her pulses beating fast. If he had not stirred, might not the impulse have been too much for her?

might she not have found herself kneeling by him, comforting him in the madness of her heart? She heard her own voice, imploring, sharp as if in some stress of mortal fright--

"Oh, let me go! Oh, will you not let me go?"

He had looked up quickly. The sobbing wildness of her cry broke in on his absent mood.

"You are tired of the farce?" he said.

She came back to herself. What was the matter with her?

"I--cannot--bear it," she said slowly.

And for a minute there was silence again between them. She heard the fire crackling, a far-away clock ticking on the stairs; ... she thought she could hear the silence itself.

"I didn't know it was hurting you," he said.

He was sorry for her; he must not be sorry. She tried to laugh.

"Don't think of me," she said. "It--it didn't matter. After all, I'm an actress. I am one of these strange people that can pretend. Let me go back to the other kind of acting, where n.o.body will think me real; where there will be crowds applauding, and not just one person to be amused and say--'She carries it off well, but she'll make a slip,--she will stumble!' ... Oh, it couldn't hurt me. Don't you know we can only hurt ourselves?"

"Do you think I'll let you go back to that life?" he said.

His voice recalled the raging warmth of pity with which he had once referred to his lawyer's tale of her plight. Apparently the situation still roused in him a mistaken feeling that she was in his charge. She flushed, struggling with a betraying weakness.

"A hard life," she said, "but not unbearable.... My public will not be cheated. They will not shame me with too much kindness----"

Barnaby was not listening.

"Who was the man,--that fellow last night?" he said.

Why did he speak of that? Did he dare to imagine that she was building on another man's promises? that she was scheming, calculating--?

"No,--" she cried bitterly. "No,--not that!"

A great while after, it seemed to her, he spoke again. His voice was quiet.

"I think you are right," he said. "It's time to make an end of this.

It's too dangerous."

"Yes," she said faintly. That at least was true....

He went on, rather quickly. She was not looking at him. She could not.

"Listen. To-morrow you'll have a wire from London. I'll see to it.

I'm afraid we can't make it a cable; there isn't time. It will have to be from my lawyers, saying you are wanted in America on important business. My mother doesn't understand business. Anyhow, you'll be excited, and you needn't know what it means; so you can't explain."

"Yes," she said, in the same low voice. "To-morrow."

"We'll have to see about boats and things when we get up to town. And, of course, we'll have to make up a story. But once you're out of this country----"

Yes, once she was out of this country it would all be simple. She had only to disappear.

"What will you say of me?" she asked, with a sad quaintness. "Will you tell them that I am dead?"

He moved suddenly, checking himself.

"Oh, G.o.d knows!" he said. "It will take a lot of planning. You've forgotten the--other lady."

Yes, that was his difficulty. Although she would be gone there would still be a bar between him and Julia. That was the tragedy.

"I'll be out when the wire comes, probably," he said. It seemed to amuse him to settle the details; he seemed to be flinging his seriousness aside. "Rackham is coming over to try a horse. For form's sake you'll have to send for me immediately. I'll be somewhere down in the schooling pastures."

The nearness of exile took away her breath. But the impossible situation could only have ended so. That had been their bargain. At least she had not failed him, she had done all that he asked of her, drinking the bitter cup of her own dishonesty to the dregs. A rush of memory carried her back to that first night of his return, so distant, and yet such a little while ago. She held out her hand to him, humbly, uncertainly--

"Good night," she said. "You--you have been good to me."

Barnaby took her hands in his; clasped them hard. It was surely not his voice that was so unsteady.

"It's the last time, is it?" he said. "Let's play it out gallantly.

Let's pretend. Susan,--Susan--is that how you say good night to your husband?"

Her heart beat fast; her head was dizzy. He was looking down in her eyes, drawing her hands to his breast.

No, not Barnaby:--not the one man she trusted!...

"Good night,--Sir," she whispered.

And he remembered; he let her go and stood back as she pa.s.sed him on her way to the stairs.

"Good night," he repeated, in that queer, unsteady voice. "I beg your pardon,--Madam."