Barnaby Part 19

She was ashamed of the foolish impulse that made her ask. Melisande looked at her indulgently. But her disclaimer was too hasty to be convincing. In a way, it was more disquieting than if she had overwhelmed the sinner's wife with evil prognostications.

"There was nothing in it. Nothing!" she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"That's right. Don't frighten us," said Kilgour.

Susan was not frightened. But she could not shake off an unaccountable nervousness;--could not forget Melisande's wild sayings.... Why was she afraid of Rackham?

It was odd that as soon as they came into the ballroom her eyes should light on him. Everybody was arriving at once, jammed in under the gallery;--and Rackham was pus.h.i.+ng through the crowd to her side, and she could not fly.

"What is the matter?" said Barnaby. "Why, you're trembling?"

The truth came out before she could stop herself, though she could not explain it.

"I am shy," she said. "--And I don't want to dance with your cousin."

He did not scoff at her. He took her programme and scribbled his name across it.

"See," he said. "Whatever he asks you for, say you're dancing it with me. How will that do? Fill it in with any of the others, of course, just as you like; and let me know what I am booked for later."

He moved on in the swaying throng, distracted by somebody signalling to him, hailed on all sides, nodding to his friends. Other men were surrounding Susan. She could smile at them now, although Rackham was at her side.

"They're just finis.h.i.+ng number one," he said. "Will you give me number two?"

"I am dancing it with my husband."

"Number three, then?"

"I am dancing it with my husband."

Another claimed her attention; she gave him a dance quickly. Kilgour, who could not get near her, held up five fingers to her above the bobbing heads in the crowd. She counted them gaily, putting down the number.

Rackham was still at her side, insisting, but her answer was the same.

He looked at her queerly.

"You seem to be dancing everything, more or less, with your husband."

Kitty Drake, floating in like a smoke wreath, put in her word.

"A husband," she said sapiently, "is the only possible partner for a frock like hers. _I_ always come to the Melton Ball in rags."

But when Rackham had departed, she looked curiously at Susan.

"You were rude to him," she whispered. "Was it the frock, or what? I am safe."

"I don't know," said Susan. "It is very unreasonable of me, but--I am always a little frightened when he is near me."

Kitty seemed to think that she understood.

"Reason?" she said. "My good girl, I've known more women wrecked because they were ashamed to give in to their frightened instincts than I dare remember. Don't begin to reason! It's simply a machine for making mistakes; it never mends them. Go and be happy. Go and dance with your husband!"

Barnaby had come to her, and there was pity as well as liking in Kitty's little push.

"Shall we begin?" he said, and his arm went round her as she swung out with him on to the s.h.i.+ning floor. Dimly she was aware of music, of lights and people; an atmosphere of enchantment.

"Tired?" he said, pausing.

"Tired? Oh, no," she panted, as if he had asked her the strangest question.

"I didn't know you could ride," he said, "and I didn't know you danced.

I really know very little about you, Susan."

They had stopped a minute near a ring of idlers who had drifted on to the floor, and somebody caught up his words.

"Have you never danced with her before, Barnaby?"

"No," he said, and bent to gather her train himself, that the weight of it should not tire her arm.

"Do you hear that?" chuckled the man behind them. "Never rode with her, never danced with her. What on earth did he find to do?"

"Made love to her, of course."

Susan felt his arm tighten round her as they whirled into the dizzy s.p.a.ces.

"I've never made love to you, have I, Susan?"

He was breathing quicker; her cheek almost touched his as he bent his head; her pulses were beating in tune with his. In a sudden faintness she shut her eyes.

And then the music crashed into silence and she was leaning against a pillar, stupidly watching the brilliant scene. There was a great buzz of talking under the gallery, and Barnaby was turning to his friends.

She heard his voice now and then amidst the babel, but it was Kilgour and Gregory Drake who were trying to amuse her, picking out the celebrities, good and wicked, in that a.s.sembly of glittering dresses and scarlet coats.

"You'll notice," Kilgour was saying, "it's the older men who are dancing, and the young 'uns are looking on. They've no stamina, the lads! Do you see that woman like a tub, with hungry eyes?--She was a beauty once, but when her admirers began to slink off she went in for spirits--that awfully unpleasant kind that you can't absorb. She's always calling 'em up and setting 'em on to tell tales about her dearest friends."

"Yes," said Gregory, "it's really more unhealthy to offend her now than when she was an anarchist and used to spring little clicking machines on you and offered to explain how they worked. She got into hot water once, while it lasted, making herself a side-show at a bazaar. Some foreign personage was attending, and a rumour started that she meant to wind up her clock in earnest. It emptied the hall like winking. The Board of Charitables were no end annoyed."

"They say her fellow anarchists begged her to take her name off their books. Said she brought 'em into contempt."

"That wasn't why," said Gregory. "It was because she would bring Toby, her mastiff, to all their meetings. He and Biff, the thing she carried in her m.u.f.f, used to scare 'em out of their lives."

"Look at that shop window!" said Kilgour, as another woman, smothered in diamonds, canted past.

"American, isn't she?--c.u.mmerbatch married her for her money, and of course they're wretched. It never pays----"

Susan was conscious that the speaker had checked himself, in his face a ludicrous awkwardness. Had the world jumped to a similar conclusion about her and Barnaby? Instinctively she turned her head. She wanted to share the joke with him, to see his delighted appreciation;--but he was not near.

And he did not dance with her any more. The night dragged on, and one man after another bent his sleek head and offered her his arm. All Barnaby's friends were rallying to her flag. Still, in its turn, would come a star in her card, a dance that found her waiting for a partner who did not come.

After one of these blanks she came face to face with him in the Lancers. He was romping as violently as the rest, charging down the room;--and as the chain of dancers burst it was his arm that kept her from falling into a bank of pale tulips against the wall.