I hardly remember when the meaning became clear to me.
I was reading with but half my attention, when I met a reference to Croxton Hall, followed by familiar names. The letter was badly written, in pencil, and more than badly arranged. The writer had been ill; he was so ill at that moment that I could not make out the signature. I examined the envelope. There a different hand had traced the bold address; I noticed for the first time that the letter had been forwarded from the Crawleighs’ house in Berkeley Square; then I saw an American stamp and understood the faint pencil scratching.
It was from Eric Lane; and he was dying as he wrote.
2
The shock numbed me; and I read again with so little attention that I had to turn back in the middle. Then a second shock drove the first from my mind.
Eric was dying: yes, I realized that. He was bidding Barbara farewell; and, in my first uncaring glance, I had seen so much that I must now see all. After losing Barbara, he had found little inducement to live; and, though he had once hoped to marry little Ivy Maitland, John Gaymer had returned—almost on the eve of the wedding—to establish again his empire over Ivy’s will. Eric had made his failing lungs an excuse to set her free:
“Two years would have cured me; but I wanted her to choose for herself. And, when she too dropped out of my life, I didn’t try to get well.” . . .
There followed pages of apology, pages of explanation. Eric’s love for Barbara was consuming him; and, as the flame died to a pale flicker, he forgot family, friends and self in desperate prayers for her happiness. Once more the name of Croxton Hall fell like a black shadow across his mind. There was an agonized reference to some rebuff that he had inflicted upon her. Then came the reason for the rebuff.
It was while I was in Ireland that Barbara had gone to the Pentyres. When the party broke up on the first night—Eric’s apology could not have been more damningly circumstantial if he had been indicting her—, she had concealed herself till he came up to bed, then invaded his room, finally begged him to take her, take her away. Her marriage to me was a mistake; I should not want to keep her when I realized my mistake; I loved her enough to forgive her. . . .
I remembered, I now understood her distraught questions whether I should be broken-hearted if I lost her, whether I was prepared to sacrifice life, honour, everything to secure her happiness. . . .