6
As I hung up the receiver, I saw Barbara standing in the doorway. One hand gripped the moulding of the frame; the other was pressed to her side. I jumped up in sudden alarm and helped her to a chair, for her lips were moving without giving forth any sound.
“Babs! Darling heart, what’s the matter?,” I asked.
“That’s what I came to find out,” she answered with an effort that almost choked her. “George, you’re not going!”
“Not till you’re all right,” I promised. “Are you feeling faint? I shall have to go out for a bit: a man who’s waiting to see me at the office . . .”
“But you’re not going!,” she repeated frantically.
“It’ll only be for an hour or so . . .”
“It’ll be for all eternity! George, if you go, you won’t come back! Can’t you feel it? I know when death’s at hand! Have I ever been wrong? Uncle Bertrand. Eric . . . Oh, before the war! Jack Summertown and the other boys in Jim’s last party! I know, I know! You think I’m mad . . .”
“But, my dear, who’s going to kill me?,” I asked. “I’ve been in too many London fogs to fear them much; and, if you’re thinking of the hunger-marchers, I’m afraid the poor devils couldn’t do any mischief even if they wanted to. I made an appointment with a man . . .”
“With David. You put him before me?”
I was at a loss to think of anything that would calm her.
“He is my best and oldest friend,” I said.
“You always have put him before me,” she cried.
“My dear, you speak as if you were jealous! It’s absurd . . .”
“I heard what you said to him.”
“Then you couldn’t have heard more than about six words. I said I’d be with him . . .”
“And wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t it enough when I knew he wanted you? I’m not jealous; I’m terrified! Don’t I know what he said to you? He’s in trouble and he wants to drag you into it. But he shan’t, he shan’t!”
I sat down by Barbara’s side and told her, so far as I could remember, word for word all that O’Rane had said to me.
“You know what Fleet Street rumours are,” I ended, though I felt it was unfortunate that this rumour of rioting in Hampstead had followed so disquieting soon on Sonia’s jaunty account of her meeting with Griffiths.
“If there weren’t danger, you wouldn’t think it necessary to go. It’s no good lying to me, George. I’ve lived with you too long not to know something about you. I ask you to stay.”
“If Raney could see for himself . . .,” I began.
“Let some one else go!”
Though I could not tell Barbara, I remembered vividly the night when I had sat alone in that room, begging O’Rane to come and keep me company. I remembered, too, his characteristic promise that he would see me through to the grave and beyond.
“He’s never asked me to do anything for him before. I’ve promised; and I’m afraid I can’t go back on it.”
Barbara stood up as though she were going to rejoin her guests. Physically she was in control of herself and could walk without difficulty or apparent pain; mentally she seemed to be on the verge of a collapse.
“Four and a half,” she muttered at the door.
“Four and a half what?,” I asked.
“Four and a half years since you made certain promises to me. Four and a half years since we were married. David has only to raise his little finger . . .”
“This is hardly the time to hold a post mortem on our marriage,” I said.
“And I’m hardly the person?,” she taunted.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You wouldn’t! You made up your mind to be patient with me at all costs. You just wouldn’t lose your temper! Dear God, why didn’t you, George? I deserved it. We could have been friends if you’d dropped your hateful superiority for a moment, if you’d ever become human! You can be! You were marvellously sympathetic when all was going well; but, after the crash, you behaved like a stone god. I was wrong. I told you I was wrong. You didn’t blame me. You know I’m jealous through and through, but you wouldn’t punish me by falling in love with some one else. You didn’t even complain of this ghastly two years’ imprisonment. Won’t you ever meet me half way? I told you my love for Eric was dead; you know I never loved any one else. What more do you want? Must I apologize? I will! I’m sorry. I love you, I need you! I wouldn’t say it the other night, because I was trying to hold together the rags of my pride. Isn’t that enough? If you’ll stay, I’ll make up for all my wickedness and cruelty. You’re all I have in the world. I didn’t know it before; but now I can feel death hovering over you like some great black bird. If you go . . . If you go . . .”
Suddenly turning, she clung to me, laughing and crying. I stood without speaking because her intensity of feeling overwhelmed me. I remember stroking her hands. I believe I told her that I should be back before she had time to miss me.
“But you’re not going now?,” she cried.
“Darling, I must. I shan’t be in any more danger than I am now; but, if it were a question of bombs and machine-guns, you wouldn’t ask me to let Raney down. He wouldn’t have asked me if he didn’t need me.”
Barbara’s hands disengaged themselves from mine and rose to draw me into her embrace. As our lips met, I felt that she belonged to me, at last, heart and soul; but, when I looked into her eyes, I read her frantic certainty that we should never kiss again.
“I’m coming back, sweetheart,” I promised her.
“Good-bye,” she whispered. Then, still gripping my shoulders, she looked wildly about the room as though to face and drive away this black presence of death that was haunting her. “It’s . . . come too late. Good-bye . . . and forgive me.”
“I’m coming back,” I told her again; but Barbara was now kneeling with eyes closed and folded hands.
If she heard me, she made no sign; I fancy she heard nothing but her own passionate prayers. As I stumbled into the choking fog, the door slammed behind me; and for the first time in these bewildering five minutes I realized that I was awake.