The Education of Eric Lane Part 26

"My dear Mr. Lane, you don't even know what I was going to say!"

"I think I do."

"Then you aren't very complimentary to Babs."

"I feel a certain responsibility towards her."

"You mustn't mind too much what people say. . . . You know George Oakleigh? Well, in the dark ages, when I came out, he and I were very great friends; we always have been; I've known him all my life, and his cousin married my poor brother. . . . Need I say that _quite_ a number of people . . .? If they'd troubled to think for a moment, they might have remembered that I was a Catholic, but a little thing like that never occurs to them. . . . D'you mind my talking to you like this?" she asked with a smile that sweetened the abruptness of her tone. "When I introduced the subject, you froze up so----"

"Can't you understand?" he interrupted. "I'm very fond indeed of Barbara, but if people talk like this . . ."

"Don't mind what people say, Mr. Lane. . . . I feel we--all the family--owe you such an enormous debt. No one knows what was the matter with Babs, but my aunt was really afraid we might lose her. Of course, she'd led rather a wild and wearing life since she was a child; suddenly she collapsed. I do feel that you've saved her life, you know; she's the old, vital, irresistible Babs once more--except that you've taught her to take care of herself."

"The position is a little awkward. If people talk, if Lord Crawleigh----"

"I think he quite likes you," Amy interrupted.

Eric bowed and pretended for a moment to listen to the music. It was common knowledge that Barbara's fortune was forfeit on the day when she married any one but a Catholic; if he had ever contemplated marrying her, the fees from the "Divorce" and "The Bomb-Sh.e.l.l" would not keep them for six months. He wondered whether Amy Loring's emba.s.sage had been inspired.

"I always feel that Lord Crawleigh condemned the world and then allowed it to continue existing on day-to-day reprieves," he said.

"That's rather my uncle's manner. He hasn't insulted you yet? He _will_."

"He's only seen me once by daylight. I fancy he thinks I'm one of the footmen. If I came to him in any other capacity . . . The industrious ink-slinger, you know----"

Amy tossed her head impatiently.

"I don't know whether you're a genius or not, because I'm not clever about books and things. But you've made an enormous name for yourself, you've a big career before you; and, so long as a man's a gentleman--by which I _don't_ mean what most people do,--I wouldn't let anything stand in the way--except religion, of course. And I'm afraid that doesn't count very much with Babs." She lapsed into silence, as though she had already said too much. "And I know I'm right," she added at length.

"I daresay you are. . . . You see, I've never regarded Barbara as anything but a wonderful friend. We casually dropped into an extraordinary intimacy----"

"It's been too easy, too casual!" she cried. "You've taken it as a matter of course. Neither of you appreciate what you are to the other--I'm simply speaking from my impression; Babs hasn't said anything, naturally, and I've hardly had two words with you until to-night----; if it had been less easy----"

"If your uncle had forbidden me the house?" he suggested.

"If either of you were in danger of losing the other . . . I wonder what you think of me, talking like this?"

"I'm grateful."

The music came to an end, and Gerald Deganway gave imitations of the various ministers whom he had served as private secretary. Eric looked across the room and identified Barbara leaning against the piano. She was better, happier; and he had grown to be very fond of her. So long as they met daily without marrying, he shirked deciding whether he wanted to marry her. It would be pleasant to drift; but, when the cloud of gossip and speculation penetrated into the heart of the Crawleighs' own home, a man of honour could not shirk the decision any longer. He could ask Barbara to marry him; or her father could inspire a paragraph in the press, admitting the rumour in order to contradict it. Failing that, he would have to say good-bye to her, though she had become so much a habit as almost to be part of his life. . . .

The imitations were succeeded by more music, and Eric threaded his way to the piano where Carstairs and Oakleigh were begging Barbara to sing.

"Honestly, I've no voice to-night," he heard her say.

As he drew near, she seemed to feel his presence and turned with a quick smile.

"Can't you manage one?" he asked.

"Well, perhaps one, if you want me to. What shall it be?"

"That thing out of '_b.u.t.terfly_,'" Eric suggested.

"I'll sing it, if you like."

As Eric sought a chair, Oakleigh looked at him, stroked his chin, sighed gently and withdrew to the bridge-room as though he could not face seeing them together.

3

"I want you to take this seriously," said Eric, when Barbara arrived for dinner. "Don't try to laugh it off by saying I'm conventional; I _know_ I am. The fact is, people are beginning to talk about us. I want to discuss what's to be done."

His earnestness kept Barbara from smiling, and, as he was worried and ill at ease, she beckoned him to a place by her side on the sofa.

"Do you find it so intolerable to have your name joined with mine?" she asked a little wearily.

He looked at her in perplexity. Instead of being embarra.s.sed herself or feeling grat.i.tude that he was embarra.s.sed for her reputation, she spoke as though the gossipers had conferred a favour upon him.

"If the thing were true, it would be another matter altogether. Subject to your parents' approval, I think the best thing would be to get a paragraph into the papers, saying that there's no foundation for the rumour."

"But the rumour hasn't got into the papers yet," she objected.

"I'm meeting it on every hand."

"But, if I don't mind, why should you?" she asked.

"Well, I _do_ mind. I don't like you to be 'talked about.' And I don't care to have people saying that I'm getting you 'talked about,'" he added with heat. "You must try to look at this from a man's point of view. If you were my sister, and some man who had no intention of marrying you, some man whom you had no intention of marrying----"

"You've never asked me," she interrupted.

Eric was shocked into silence. When he was fighting for her reputation, she was once more the coquette as he remembered her at their first meeting.

"I've thought this over, Babs, from every point of view," he went on, with an effort keeping his temper under her look of slightly bored amus.e.m.e.nt. "There are three ways out of the difficulty; the first is what certain people think the most obvious--that we should make the story true; the second is that we should contradict it publicly--it's the easiest thing in the world to do--and the third is that we should give up seeing each other."

He stood up with the pretence of warming his hands and fidgeted restlessly by the fire. Barbara had lost her expression of amus.e.m.e.nt and was honestly puzzled that he should make so great a pother about a piece of idle gossip.

They remained without speaking until a maid entered to announce dinner.

"I'm sorry you've been worried," she said gently. "For once it really wasn't my fault. . . . I suppose I'm hardened to this sort of thing. Why don't you just not worry? And give me dinner, because I'm very hungry."

"I can't leave it like that," said Eric, as he accompanied her to the dining-room. "A plain statement in the press----"

"It would simply draw attention to it."

"Well, that's one of the solutions ruled out."

"And I'm left with the choice of marrying you--you haven't asked me _yet_!--or saying good-bye? There _is_ another alternative, Eric: and that is to shew you're too sensible to mind what silly people say about you."

Eric shook his head obstinately.