The Education of Eric Lane Part 47

"The usual things, Eric. I'd have told you what I was doing, I'd have sent you my love. If you're tired of that, darling----"

"Not _that_, Barbara!"

Her eyes opened wide with distress.

"Eric, what's the matter? What have I done? Mayn't I even call you 'darling' now?"

"_Are_ you being quite honest, Barbara?"

"Thank you, Eric!"

"Have you nothing to tell me since last time?"

She looked at him imperiously and considered her words before speaking.

"The last time we met? Or the last time we corresponded? Which d'you mean? The last time we corresponded was when your secretary telephoned to thank me for the flowers. Before that, you sent me a message by her that you probably wouldn't be well enough to take me to your first night. . . . I'd have come round the evening before if Dr. Gaisford hadn't made me promise not to. I've always said that I'd come to you from the ends of the earth if you were ill. When I heard that you weren't allowed to see any one----"

"It wasn't as bad as that," Eric interrupted. "Gaisford let me get up for the first night. I--caught sight of you in the distance. But I left after the first interval."

4

From the end of the table Lady Poynter was making desperate attempts to attract Eric's attention.

"Mr. Lane, you're the only person who can tell us this----"

Barbara touched his wrist and nodded past him.

"Margaret's trying to speak to you," she said.

Eric galvanized his attention and turned with a murmur of apology.

"Mr. Lane, is it true that 'Mother's Son' was refused _three--times_?"

Lady Poynter asked. She could not have been more righteously indignant if she had been judging the three denials of Saint Peter. "I've never _heard_ of such a thing!"

"It wasn't quite in its present form," Eric explained. "The theme's the same, but I've rewritten almost every word."

Lady Poynter nodded triumphantly.

"Ah! Then I was right!" she informed her neighbour, and Eric was free to turn again to Barbara.

"Where had we got to?" he asked, after a moment's embarra.s.sed silence.

"You came to the theatre after all. You saw me. You left after the first interval," she reminded him fearlessly. "As you seem to be--drawing an indictment, is that the phrase?--don't you think you'd better go on?"

"There's nothing more to say. Once or twice I wondered whether I should get home alive; and, on my soul, I prayed the whole time that I shouldn't. . . . I'm not drawing an indictment. I rather expected to hear from you. . . . It wasn't easy waiting. . . . As for America, I didn't see how it could possibly interest you. . . ." He broke off and whispered to himself, "G.o.d! what those days of waiting were like! I should have thought that, after what _you'd_ been through . . . in common humanity----"

"And if I had nothing to tell you?" she interrupted.

For a moment Eric did not understand her. For all her self-possession, there were shadows under her eyes, and she was haggard as on the night when they first met. Jack's appearance, then, and their conversation together had made no difference . . . no difference one way or the other; she had not telephoned because there was nothing to tell him.

"I don't think I've anything more to say, Babs."

An arm interposed itself between them, and he looked down to see what was being put before him. To his surprise they had only reached the fish. He seemed to have been dining for an eternity!

"D'you care to hear what happened?" she asked.

"What d'you think I'm made of?" he muttered.

Barbara began eating her fish and telling her story at the same time. It was short, and she gave it in jerky little sentences. George Oakleigh had telephoned to say that he had two stalls for "Mother's Son" and would be delighted if she would dine and go with him. . . . They arrived and saw a certain number of friends. . . . At the end of the first act George went out to smoke a cigarette. . . . She had just begun talking to Gerry Deganway when she looked up and caught Jack's eye. . . . They were both so much surprised that they became praeternaturally natural. . . .

"I said: 'I've not seen you for a long time. I heard you were home.' He said: 'I got back a fortnight ago.' I asked him how he was and whether he'd had a very awful time in Germany. . . . And he laughed and said he was glad, on the whole, that it was all over, but that he was a fair German scholar now--or something of that kind--and he'd never have taken the trouble to learn another language if it hadn't been for the war. . . .

I think he didn't find it easy to slip away; and I hate people leaning over me, when they're talking, so I asked him to sit down till George came back. _Then_ the only thing we talked about was his being wounded and taken prisoner. I'd heard it all before, of course, but I felt I couldn't bear it if we both stopped talking. . . . Then George came along and shook hands. . . . And a moment later Jack went back to his place. You see, there wasn't very much to tell you."

"But is that all?"

"Absolutely all," she sighed.

Eric lapsed into silence, wishing that his brain were not half paralyzed. Then he glanced round the table, counting their numbers.

"Say you're too tired to play bridge, Babs," he begged. "Or say you want to talk to me before I go away; we're such common property here that no one will be surprised. It's our last chance; we may never meet again----"

"But, Eric----?"

"Yes! . . . I haven't told even my own people. This is not blackmail, because I arranged it all before I saw you; I never expected to see you again after that night at the theatre. I was just trying to save something out of the wreckage. . . . I'm going away nominally for three months, but I'm not coming back. I could have got on happily enough, if you'd never come into my life; but, once you were there, I couldn't get rid of you. I couldn't go on living in England with you half a mile away, carved out of my life . . . meeting you, seeing you--and knowing that it was all over. I've looked on you as my wife; if you ran away from me and lived with another man, I couldn't keep on a flat next to yours. . . . I felt it at the theatre; I felt I must clear out; I couldn't sink back to any pa.s.sionless friendship. So I arranged to go away and stay away. After three months I shall say that I'm going for a holiday in South America--or j.a.pan. I've been moving quickly the last few days. This morning--and this afternoon--I knew that everything I was doing was for the last time. And since I've seen you----"

He looked round apprehensively, fearful that he was being overheard.

"You're going away like this from your people? But they love you, Eric!

They're so proud of you! You'll break their hearts!"

"I shouldn't have done it eighteen months ago--before you took my education in hand," he answered bitterly. "I've given myself heart _and_ soul to you."

He hardly cared now whether the servants or his neighbours heard him, and Barbara had to press his knee to restrain him.

"Then will you do something for me?" she asked.

"What is it?"

"I want you to come back. Come back in three months, when they expect you."

"And then?"

"I'm not asking for myself! I'm asking for them. You _can't_ be so wicked! It's not like you; I don't know you when you talk like this.

You'd break their hearts!"

"I don't know that this comes well from you, Babs."