Barnaby Part 7

His matter-of-fact politeness, as he waited with the cigarette unlit between his fingers, provoked in her a fugitive smile.

"There!" he said. "You are beginning to see the funny side of it too, as I do. A man who has knocked about the world as I have doesn't bl.u.s.ter like a Pharisee and a brute, unless he is mad,--or angry. What on earth could I do to you?"

"Are you not--angry?" she asked faintly.

"Not exactly," said Barnaby. "I am rather astonished at your pluck.

Of course, it was frightfully dangerous, and you have got us both into a hole.--I'm not going to preach at you----"

He hesitated a little.

"You know," he said. "I'm an awfully prudent chap, but once or twice in my life I have lost my head. When I went to America three years ago, I was only fit to be clapped into a strait-waistcoat. Of course, I did the first mad thing that came into my head."

There was a touch of some old bitterness in his voice then, and a sort of retrospective contempt.

"It's a grim fact, that," he said. "It can't be got over. I don't know what possessed me;--but there _was_ a marriage."

"She is very beautiful," said Susan, uttering her own wandering thought. She did not know why.

"Who?" said Barnaby. "Oh,--yes. She was like somebody I knew."

There was silence between them. Then the man laughed.

"It was one of those unaccountable acts of temporary madness," he said.

"We're all guilty of such at times. Did she tell you why we fell out?

How she mistook me for a sort of prince in disguise, and turned on me afterwards, as furious as I was--disillusioned? Don't let's talk about that. We have our own problem to consider."

"Yes," said the girl, catching her breath.

"I am afraid," he said gravely, "we must keep it up for a bit."

"I--don't--understand," she said.

"It's the only thing to do," he said. "Look at it fairly. Since the lady who married me sent you over as her subst.i.tute, she can't complain if I should acknowledge you as my wife. It injures n.o.body.--Don't mistake me!"

For the girl had sprung to her feet, and was gazing at him with horror in her eyes.

"Wait!" he said. "I'm not one of these talking fellows.--Perhaps I'm not putting it clearly. As far as I can make out, the doctor believes another shock on the top of this one might possibly kill my mother.

She's not to be worried or contradicted. I can't go to her and tell her, 'That girl you are so fond of is an impostor. I've turned her out of the house,' seriously, how could I? And do you imagine she'd be contented with any excuse I could make to her for your disappearance?

I can't risk it. You wouldn't want me to risk it. Come, you owe her a little consideration----!"

"Oh--!" she cried. "Yes"--but still she trembled.

Barnaby smiled down on her encouragingly. Apparently,--after that one quick word that had hushed her outcry,--he was unconscious of misconstruction.

"Besides," he said, "there will be row enough in the papers over my reappearance. I couldn't stand them getting hold of this. Good Lord!

It would make us a laughing-stock."

"I am--sorry," she said, in a broken voice. Barnaby dropped his own.

"Don't be sorry," he said. "Be a brave girl, and let's keep it to ourselves."

Her heart jumped and stood still. She looked at him like some wild thing caught in a trap, without hope or help, crying its uttermost defiance.

And the man understood. His eyes looked straight into hers, blue and earnest, no longer careless.

"If I trust you," he said, "you must trust my honour. Please understand that I am a gentleman. We'll play our farce to stalls and the gallery, and when the curtain is down we'll treat each other with the most profound respect."

She tried to speak and could not. His voice softened.

"There's nothing else to be done," he said. "It won't be so hard on you;--you're an actress. And we'll find a way out, somehow. Perhaps, in a month or two, I can manage to have important business in America----"

She caught at that.

"And take me with you and drop me somewhere--?" she suggested.

"Take you with me and drop you somewhere?" he repeated. "Exactly. We must think it over."

"I could get killed in a railway accident--anything!" she said, in an eager, breathless voice.

"How accommodating!" said Barnaby. "There, that's settled. To my mother, and all outsiders, we'll be the most ordinary couple; but in private it shall be Sir and Madam. Shake hands on it, and promise me you'll play up."

He took her hands, the one with his ring on, the other bare. And Susan looked up at him, and was not afraid any more. She felt safe, and yet reckless;--almost as if she did not care at all how it ended, as if nothing were too dangerous, too adventurous for her to promise him.

"Right," he said. "And it's comedy, not tragedy, we're playing. We mustn't forget that."

"No," she said uncertainly; but she was not so sure.

"And now I'm going round to the stables," he said, changing his tone.

But he turned back again on his way to the door.

"What am I to call you?" he asked. "The other lady had a string of fine-sounding names. Which of them do you go by?"

She coloured. His question smote her with the strangeness of their compact.

"Only one," she said, "and that was my own. I asked your mother to call me Susan."

"Susan," he said to himself. "Susan ... I'll remember."

She took one impetuous step towards him as he was going out.

"How good you are to me," she cried unsteadily. "Oh, how good you are!"

But Barnaby shook his head.

"Poor child," he said briefly. "I hope you'll always think I was good to you."

And he went out of the house whistling to himself.