The Education of Eric Lane Part 24

1

"I don't ask you to say it's a good play," Eric observed to Barbara, as they rumbled slowly home from the O'Ranes' supper-party, "but is it less bad than the other?"

Any natural diffidence had evaporated before the memory of the darkened theatre, the insistent calls of "Author," his effort--while waiting for the applause to die down--to distinguish faces in the stalls, the renewed clapping at his speech's end, the _levee_ in their box and the triumphant supper.

"I'm too happy to be teased, Eric," she answered, nestling to his side.

"It isn't the great play that you're going to write some day, when you've learned . . . and suffered; you still get your women out of rag-books and toy-shops; but it's very clever, it's a great success and it's made you happy. That's what matters. Who was the man in the box that you called 'sir'?"

"I call most men 'sir,' if they're older than I am."

"He was with a girl in a grey dress and some rather good pearls."

Eric thought for a moment and looked at her in some surprise.

"That was Colonel Waring--Jack's father. The girl was Jack's sister Agnes."

Barbara did not answer for a moment.

"I thought it was _him_ at first," she whispered.

Since the night of Barbara's confession, Jack's name had never been mentioned. If he were indeed killed, her memory of him would gradually wither and die; and it was almost impossible to discuss him without taking sides and indulging in moral judgements. The Warings had exhausted every means of getting news and would soon be forced to presume his death; perhaps they had already done so, but Eric was avoiding Red Roofs since his discovery that he did not want to marry Agnes. Amid the turmoil of greetings and congratulations, he had found time to feel embarra.s.sed by her presence in the box; until Barbara took the light and colour out of all other women, Agnes had satisfied every demand. He was embarra.s.sed, too, by seeing the two girls face to face, watching, measuring and un.o.btrusively speculating about each other, as women always did; if there were room for moral judgements, Barbara had no defence against Jack Waring's sister.

"She gave me that gla.s.s horse-shoe for luck the night my first play was produced," said Eric irrelevantly.

"And Jack gave me the counterpart," Barbara sighed. "That's why I wanted yours to replace it. Instead of which I only broke yours."

"Well, you haven't broken my luck, as you feared."

Her shoulder, pressing against his, communicated a shudder. Though three months had pa.s.sed without news of Jack, Barbara could not feel secure even when she was alone with Eric.

"Don't boast. You may yet come to curse the day when we met, you may find I've spoiled your life and broken your luck."

"Luck?" Eric laughed a little scornfully. The success of the "Bomb-Sh.e.l.l" ensured that, if he never wrote another line, he would at least not starve. "When are we going to meet again, Babs?"

Looking out of the window, she saw that their cab was opposite the Ritz and that she had three hundred yards more of him.

"Does it matter?" she asked. "If you're so independent of me?"

"I can live without peach-brandy, but I like it. If you'll dine with me, I'll give you some--and all the food you most like. I owe the O'Ranes a dinner----"

"Oh, we won't have any one else!" she interrupted. Her use of the plural lost none of its charm by familiarity. "I'll come on Friday, if you like."

"On Friday old Ettrick is giving a dinner in my honour at the club. What about Monday? But I shan't let you come alone; as a matter of fact, I've invited the O'Ranes for that night."

"You don't like being alone with me?"

"I'm thinking solely of what would be said."

Barbara pouted and sat silent until she could launch an ultimatum as the cab stopped at her door. The success of his first night was making Eric masterful; and she wanted to test her power.

"If I can't dine with you in the way I like . . ." she began fretfully.

"You only want to shew me off to the O'Ranes. . . ."

Eric forgave the petulance because he could see that she was tired. But he was tired too. . . .

"If you don't care about the O'Ranes, I'll see if I can get some one else some other time," he said. "It wouldn't do for you to _dine_ with me alone."

"I believe you're in love with Sonia," she rejoined ill-humouredly.

"What nonsense! . . . Good-night, Babs. Thanks so much for coming."

On reaching home, he wrote to invite Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley for Monday. If Barbara rang him up in the morning, her repentance would be too late; he had only four arm-chairs in the dining-room.

There was no call from Barbara in the morning, neither note nor meeting throughout the day and no call at night. Such a thing had never happened before; there might be some occult cause of offence; his experience of Barbara taught Eric that she would cease to sulk when she wanted him; it was his experience of all women that none repaid a man the trouble of trying to understand her moods. Thursday was like Wednesday (and he knew that she was not returning to Crawleigh until Sat.u.r.day); Friday was like Thursday--until the evening, when he nervously entered the Thespian Club as guest of honour. The hall-porter projected himself through the window of his box and handed Eric a note.

"_All success, dear Eric_," he read. "_I wish I could be there to hear you. I shall ring you up to-night, and you must tell me all about it.

Imagine I'm sitting by you, darling, and don't let the speech disappoint me. B._"

He thrust the note into his pocket, as Lord Ettrick came forward to greet him. Congratulations and badinage broke out on all sides; he shook hands until his arm ached and he gave up trying to count the numbers; it was enough that he could recognize one face out of three. . . .

"You seem to have mobilized half the club," Eric commented, looking with gratification at the growing half-circle by the fire.

"You're between Gaisford and me," said Ettrick, detaching him for a c.o.c.ktail and cigarette at the far end of the room. "I'm proposing your health, you'll have to reply; and that'll be all the speeches, unless we sit late. Manders has promised to come as soon as he can get away from the theatre, and that may start the ball again. By the way, is it official yet? I haven't seen any announcement."

"Is _what_ official?"

"I heard that you were engaged."

Eric's composure poured out of him, and he felt his mouth growing loose.

"Where did you hear that?" he asked with an effort.

"Oh, scores of people have told me. I came to your box rather late the other night, but I was told that the lady in question had been inviting every one to congratulate you both."

For a moment Eric frowned in perplexity; then his face lightened.

"That was on account of the play," he explained. "She came to one or two of the rehearsals, and, on the strength of that, it was always 'our play.' . . . I say, have you really heard that from many people? She's a very great friend of mine, and I shouldn't like to feel that our names were being coupled."

Lord Ettrick wrinkled his forehead in surprise and shook his head with a grim smile.

"Then, my young friend, if that's your ambition, you're not going the right way about it. I'm too busy by day to go out much at night, but any time during the last month or two . . . You know how people talk; and you're both of you pretty well known." Eric's look of mortification roused him to a more conciliatory tone. "It's done now, and, if it doesn't blow over, you'll only have yourself to thank. I wouldn't have mentioned the subject, if I thought it was going to spoil your dinner.

But I very nearly congratulated you publicly. . . . Let's see if we're all here."

They returned to the fire, and Ettrick called the roll. Throughout dinner, when Eric ought to have been thinking over his speech, he sat dazed by the warning and his own blindness. Six weeks before, Lady Maitland was proclaiming that he and Barbara were in love with each other; now a dry stick of a law lord, retiring and uninterested in gossip, heard of their engagement from a dozen different mouths and was an inch removed from congratulating him before half the club. Eric might a.s.sume that other eyes had observed him calling for her, shopping with her; it was accepted that, when they dined in the same house, he should always take her home; it was almost accepted that one could not be invited to dine without the other. . . .

It hardly lay in his mouth to tell Barbara that she must not compromise herself.

A waiter entered with a telegram for Lord Ettrick, which he read and handed to Eric.