The Education of Eric Lane Part 49

"Take a sip of this," he ordered.

She drank obediently and thanked him with her eyes.

"I'm better. The first time we met I was fainting in the train. Before I knew you. . . . And I loved you and dreamed of your love for me. I used to hear your voice. . . . No one will ever look after me as you've done; no one will ever understand or love or make allowances for me----"

As he restored the flask to his pocket, Eric saw that the time was within a few minutes of midnight; in less than twenty-four hours he would be at Liverpool; in less than twenty-four minutes he would have lost the thing that was dearest to him in life.

"Barbara, you've seen Jack," he said. "He had his chance; he neglected it. There's the answer we've been waiting for all these weary months. I don't want to worry you when you're ill, but I can't charge my own conscience with the knowledge that I've left undone anything which will stop the present tragedy."

Though she opened her eyes slowly, there was now no trace of faintness or exhaustion.

"He never had a chance! Eric, if you'll think for one moment--in a crowded theatre, with people listening all round----"

"He could have written the moment he left Germany. He could have written or seen you any time since that night. On the night itself he could have asked you to let him come and see you. He didn't raise a finger! And you still hypnotize yourself with one excuse after another--How much longer are you going on?"

"I don't know, Eric." She covered her eyes for a moment and then rose to her feet. "I'm bound in honour, as I've told you a hundred times. When I know definitely----"

"Anything you know will have to be known to-night."

"But if you found a cable waiting for you in New York----"

"It would tell me what I know already--plus the fact that your vanity had been convinced in spite of itself."

"I prefer 'honour' to 'vanity.'"

"Hadn't we better leave 'honour' out of the discussion?"

She looked at him for a moment, her mouth tightly shut; then, declining his arm, she began walking slowly eastward. Opposite Bath House Eric hailed an empty taxi and told the driver to take them to Berkeley Square.

"You wouldn't like me to drop you in Ryder Street?" Barbara asked.

"Not even to gratify your love of artistic finish."

"How you hate me!" she whispered with a catch in her breath.

"No, I love you as much as ever; I need you more than ever. Whatever happens to you, I wish you all happiness. You once undertook my education, but I can tell you that you'll never find the happiness I'm wishing you till you learn to sink yourself and think of other people."

Barbara looked at him like a startled animal, then looked away.

"Haven't I sunk myself, haven't I thought of Jack before any one else for two and a half years?" she whispered.

"No, you've thought solely of yourself--with Jack as a limelight. At this moment you're thinking less of Jack or me than of your _amour propre_."

"You must be thankful to be rid of me after the way I've sacrificed you to my vanity."

"You'll outgrow your vanity."

"Perhaps Jack still wants me in spite of the way I've behaved to _him_."

"Perhaps so. I shan't be here to see."

The taxi turned into Berkeley Street, and Eric held out his hand.

"Good-bye, Barbara," he said.

"Won't you come in for a moment?"

"No, thank you."

"Eric, you must! There's something I want to say to you! Eric, I _beg_ you to come in."

He opened the door without answering and stood on the kerb, ready to help her out. She delayed so long that the driver turned curiously round.

"Eric, please!" she entreated.

"Have you your latch-key?"

She gave a choking sob, as she mounted the steps, and Eric set his teeth; suddenly losing control, she gripped him by the arm.

"Eric, you're _not_ going to-morrow!"

"Indeed I am."

"When?"

"That's immaterial. Good-bye."

He returned to the taxi and pressed himself into the corner, staring ahead so that he should not see the familiar ermine coat on the door-step. Barbara fumbled blindly with the lock and spun round, as the taxi began slowly to turn. As the driver changed speed, she dropped her key and ran twenty yards down the square, crying "Eric!"; but the grinding of the gears drowned her voice.

The tail-light dwindled to a ruby pin-point and vanished. . . .

The telephone-bell was ringing, as Eric entered his flat. He unhooked the receiver and tossed it on to his bed; but after a moment's silence there broke out a persistent metallic buzzing, while the bells in the other rooms rang with all their accustomed clarity. He began to undress; but the merciless noise racked his nerves. There was nothing for it but to tie a handkerchief round the clapper of the bell. . . .

Then he threw himself in shirt and trousers on the bed and buried his face in his hands.

"_A man does not continue drinking corked champagne. With women, his palate is less critical._"--From the Diary of Eric Lane.

THE END