“Yes, yes, Adrienne, that’s just it,” broke painfully from Barney, and, as he seized the clue thus presented to him, Adrienne turned her head slowly, with an ominous stillness, and again rested her eyes upon him. “It’s childish, you know, darling. It’s not like you. And of course I understand why; and Roger does. You’re not yourself; you’re over-strained and off-balance and I’m so frightfully sorry all this has fallen upon you at such a time. I don’t want to oppose you in anything, darling—do try to believe me. Only you must give me the credit for my own convictions. I do feel I must go. I do feel Roger must take that message to Mother. After all, darling,” and now in no need of helping clues he found his own and the irrepressible note of grief vibrated in his voice, “you do owe me something, don’t you? You do owe us all something—to make up, I mean. Because, without you, Meg would never have behaved like this and disgraced us all. Oh—I don’t mean to reproach you!”
“Good-bye then, I’m off,” said Oldmeadow. “I’m very sorry you made me come up. Good-bye, Mrs. Barney.” She had not spoken, nor moved, nor turned her eyes from Barney’s face.
“Good-bye. Thanks so much, Roger.” Barney followed him, with a quickness to match his own, to the door. But Adrienne, this time, did not call him back. She remained standing stock-still in front of her sofa.
“Tell Mother I’m off,” said Barney, grasping his hand. “Tell her she’ll hear at once, as soon as I know anything. Thanks so awfully,” he repeated. “You’ve been a great help.”
It was unfortunate, perhaps, that Barney should say that, Oldmeadow reflected as he sped down the stairs. “But she’s met reality at last,” he muttered, wondering how she and Barney faced each other above and hearing again the words that must echo so strangely in her ears: “Disgraced us all.” And, mingled with his grim satisfaction, was, again, the sense of irrelevant and reluctant pity.
CHAPTER XVI
IT was Saturday and he had to wire to Mrs. Aldesey that he could not go with her next day to the Queen’s Hall concert they had planned to hear together.
Nancy was waiting for him at the station in her own little pony-cart and as he got in she said: “Is Barney gone?”
“Yes; he’ll have gone by now,” said Oldmeadow and, as he said it, he felt a sudden sense of relief and clarity. The essential thing, he saw it as he answered Nancy’s question, was that he should be able to say that Barney had gone. And he knew that if he hadn’t been there to back him up, he wouldn’t have gone. So that was all right, wasn’t it?
As he had sped past the sun-swept country the reluctant pity had struggled in him, striving, unsuccessfully, to free itself from the implications of that horrid word: “Disgraced.” It was Adrienne who had disgraced them; that was what Barney’s phrase had really meant, though he hadn’t intended it to mean it. She, the stranger, the new-comer, had disgraced them. And it was true. Yet he wished Barney hadn’t stumbled on the phrase—just because she was a stranger and a new-comer. And Barney would never have found it had he not been there. But now came the sense of relief. If he hadn’t been there, Barney wouldn’t have gone.