“And... there came down a certain priest that way: and... he passed by on the other side.

“And likewise a Levite...”

Eric drove to Ryder Street with the knowledge that he had been beaten; and for the first time, now that it was too late to be of any use, he explored his motives in going. An ingrained conventional sense of fitness told him that, when a man had behaved as Gaymer had done, he must marry his victim as a matter of honour; more rational modern teaching objected that a man would commit two crimes instead of one if he consented to marry a woman whom he did not love. Eric felt he must really have assumed that Gaymer loved Ivy but that he was too inconsiderate to treat her kindly; he had himself gone to Buckingham Gate to demand an explanation rather than to force on the marriage.

But he had been beaten. And what else could he have expected, after interfering in something that did not concern him? Gaymer’s victorious rebuff did not matter so much as his adroitness in preventing their ever getting to grips over Ivy; he might marry her, or he might not, but at least he had made it plain that he would not be coerced even into saying whether he cared for her....

In his bath and as he dressed, Eric became permeated with the feeling that Gaymer had no intention of marrying. An honourable man with an unclouded conscience would have resented interference far more warmly; and a man who meant to keep his engagement had no motive for not publishing it. And, after all, when Ivy had overcome her immediate unhappiness, was not this all for the best? In a further analysis Eric fancied that he had gone to assure himself of Gaymer’s bad faith, in part because he distrusted the fellow and in part because he did not want to see Ivy’s youth sacrificed to him. Perhaps he would have been a little disappointed if Gaymer had explained everything convincingly.

The first act of Aida was over before Eric reached Covent Garden. Hardly seeing who nodded to him, he hurried through the crowded hall to the pit-tier, only conscious of the languid, chattering double procession on the stairs, as of a well-dressed, rich and soulless stage-army that never participated in the emotions and crises of life; these people surrounded and stared uncomprehendingly at the drama in their midst, but they seemed to have no drama of their own. George Oakleigh’s box-door was open, but he had passed it before he had time to wonder who was inside and in another moment was apologizing to Lady Maitland for his lateness.

“I must apologize to you,” she said, “for disturbing you last night. It was this naughty child’s fault. She went on to a party and never warned me.”

Ivy’s excuse had apparently been accepted without further question, and Eric bowed and shook hands with her as though they had not met earlier that day. She was paler than in the morning, and her eyes and cheeks were hollow with fatigue. He could have described every thought that was passing like a white-hot needle through her brain, for she was feeling as he had felt when Barbara broke faith with him, betrayed and utterly lost; ultimately it might be all for the best, but days of agony lay ahead of her, and she would learn how long and pitiless the nights could be.

As the lights were lowered, he pulled his chair forward, resting his arms on the sill of the box. Ivy leaned back to screen herself from her aunt, and, when he put down his glasses and half-turned to offer them to her, he saw tears standing in her eyes. Feeling for her hand, he pressed it gently, and a tear splashed hot and startling on to his own. She gripped and held his fingers till the end of the act; and, as the curtain fell, he stood up and made a barrier of himself.

“I think this is the appropriate moment for tobacco and fresh air,” he suggested. “You not coming, Lady Maitland? Will you, Miss Maitland?”

He opened the door without waiting for a reply and hurried her downstairs and into the street before the first call had been taken.

“It’s cooler here,” he began, as they walked towards Long Acre. “Do you mind about smoking in public?”

“I feel too ill, thanks... Mr. Lane, I can’t bear it! All this afternoon I had to hold myself back to keep from rushing around and beating on his door! I couldn’t stay in the same room as a telephone. I had to see him and I was afraid he’d turn me away... I can’t bear it, I can’t!”

“Ssh! I’ve been through this, Ivy, longer and worse than I pray you’ll ever know. And you can only get over it by setting your teeth—”

“I don’t want to get over it!,” she broke out.

“But you must. And you must begin getting over it to-night. Ivy, I went to see Gaymer this afternoon.”

She turned on him in swift surprise which changed to dawning hope. But there was nothing in his face to encourage hope, and her eyes dulled to resignation.

“Yes?,” she whispered.

“You may say, if you like, that I had no business to interfere. I went to see if I could do any good. I did no good at all, I found out nothing and I came away with what’s commonly called a flea in my ear.”

“Was she—?”

Ivy could not bring herself to finish the sentence, but Eric guessed its end and shook his head.

“I don’t think she has anything to do with it. I don’t believe he ever meant to marry you from the moment when he refused to publish the engagement.”

“But he promised, he gave me his oath!”

“Because he... saw you expected it of him. Ivy, you said this morning that you’d told me everything...” She covered her face with both hands as though he had struck her. “Dear child, I’m not asking for the pleasure of torturing you!”

She hurried on without answering by word or nod, and Eric had his answer.

“You poor child!,” he whispered. “Ivy, I promised to help you, if I could; you know that this makes no difference, don’t you? Except that I’m a thousand times more anxious to help you. I’ll help you in any way I can. But you must help me to help you; you have to put all your courage into this—”

“I can’t! I want to die!,” she sobbed.

“Don’t talk like that! This is a frightful thing for you, but you must see it in perspective. When once you’ve the pluck to recognize it’s all over... You’ve told no one else; no one else has guessed, no one else will ever know—”

“But they can’t help it!”

“Ivy—”

Eric looked at her, and the glib solace died on his lips.

“Ivy, pull yourself together and listen to me!” he whispered. “You’re not to tell a soul till I give you leave! Do you promise? I want time to think this out. And it’s going to be thought out, we’re going to win on this. I swear to you that I’ll see you through this somehow. Do you believe me?”

His vehemence steadied her, and she nodded quickly:

“Yes.”

“Dry your eyes! We must be getting back, or your aunt will wonder what’s been happening to us. Are you doing anything to-morrow? Right! I’ll make a plan for to-morrow, and we’ll talk things over. Now get control of yourself and of your voice: talk to me about the opera, anything. We have to put up a big bluff. Are you ready?”

They walked back to the opera-house, lazily discussing the singers. The hall was still half-full, and they stopped to exchange a greeting with Dr. Gaisford. In the passage behind the boxes, Lord John Carstairs and his wife were pacing slowly up and down, and they stopped again. Deganway scurried past like a frightened rabbit and confided to Lady Poynter that Eric Lane and the little Maitland girl were going about again together.

“My dear, it’s the second time I’ve caught them to-day!,” he added. “They’re positively inseparable.”

Eric walked on, deep in conversation. Barbara Oakleigh was standing in the open door-way of her box. He did not see her, but she looked curiously at his companion and turned for a second look, as they passed. When they were out of sight, she returned to the front of her box and levelled her glasses on them for a moment as they sat down.

“It’s hotter than ever!,” Eric exclaimed. “Lady Maitland, will you trust Ivy to me for the whole of to-morrow? I want to take her to Maidenhead, we’d lunch at Skindle’s, punt gently for about ten yards—which is the limit of my punting capacity—, tie up under a tree until dinner, dine at Skindle’s and return to London. May I do that? I promise not to drown her.”

Lady Maitland smiled guardedly. She had noticed for some weeks that Eric was interested in her niece, but this was the first time that he had avowed it; and, though she was lazily content to keep Ivy at Eaton Place or in Shropshire until she or her parents came to their senses, a marriage so suitable in every way was undeniably the most satisfactory escape from an awkward family entanglement.

“What do you say about it, Ivy?,” she asked.

“I should love it. It’s sweet of you, Mr. Lane.”

“I’ll call with a taxi at half-past ten,” said Eric.

At the end of the opera he intercepted Gaisford and begged him to wait and come home for a drink as soon as the Maitlands had been packed into their car. The distraction of the stage and of the music, the presence of Ivy and the touch of her hand, which sought his as soon as the curtain went up, kept him from thinking clearly; and he needed the shrewd brain and blunt speech of one who had been a second father to him in order to correct his own impulses.

From Covent Garden to Ryder Street the two men drove in silence. Only when the doctor had been given an arm-chair, a brandy and soda and a cigar did he say:

“Well, my son, who’s worrying you now? It’s a mistake to let people worry you.”

“How d’you know any one’s worrying me?,” asked Eric.

“Because you’re one of these damned reserved people who never squeal when they’re hurt themselves, but simply go through the world inviting other people to hurt them. Drive ahead. To-morrow’s Sunday, so I don’t mind if you keep me up late.”

Eric threw himself into one chair and put his feet up in another.

“It’s in strict confidence, of course,” he began slowly. “A girl I know slightly has been victimized by some one whom for brevity I may describe as an “officer and a gentleman”; now she has to face the consequences. My interest in the thing’s confined to keeping her from chucking herself under the nearest train. What’s to be done, Gaisford?”

The doctor hoisted himself on to a smaller chair, where he took up a favourite attitude with feet round the legs and his arms folded over the back.

“I want a lot more data than that,” he grunted. “Is she the girl who was with you to-night?” Eric stared at his cigar without answering. “Good! I don’t want to know her name—or the man’s. I take it she’s a girl in a good social position. And I take it that you’re not proposing that I should run my head against the law? Good again! Why doesn’t he marry her?”

“Doesn’t want to. Never meant to.”

“Does he know the state she’s in?”

“I can’t say. With respect, I don’t think it matters. I’d never encourage any girl to marry a man against his will just to preserve her reputation.”

“I’m inclined to agree. Has she any money?”

“Her parents have.”

“She has parents? Then where do you come in?”

Eric laughed with impatient bitterness, jumping up with a wriggle of his shoulder-blades and beginning to fidget with the bibelots on his mantelpiece.

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself for some time,” he jerked out; “and especially while I was bearding the man this afternoon... Father, mother, married sisters, brothers... But I don’t think she can go to her people. She doesn’t get on very well with them at the best of times and, if I diagnose her aright, she’d screw up her courage to commit suicide long before she’d screw up her courage to face them. I met her for a moment in New York, and she’s confided in me for some reason. She’s one of these modern, emancipated girls who want to live by themselves and lead their own lives—”

The doctor interrupted him with an impatient sniff:

“Then she needn’t bother to find a father for her child.”

“My dear Gaisford, you know the worth and weight of all that froth! Modern woman wants to make the best of both sexes; she thinks she can get ‘freedom’ and ‘equality’ without fighting or paying for it. Once present the bill—! As I see it, I’m the only soul that the girl can turn to; and, in that belief, I’ve promised to see her through. I suppose this sort of thing is happening daily; I suppose she can be sent somewhere till the trouble’s over... If necessary—I’ve not thought it out yet—, I’ll take her abroad as my secretary—”

A scornful snort interrupted his flow of facile suggestion:

“How old is she? Twenty? And a very pretty girl, so far as I could see. And you’re disgustingly well-known. Don’t you think it would cause some little comment, if you and she went on your travels together?... After all, I think you’d better tell me who she is.”

Eric shook his head, and a silence followed. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

“Connie Maitland’s niece, a daughter of the judge,” he said at length.

“My dear friend, there are limits to human faith even in your moral reputation!” cried the doctor. “No, something can be done in this country, but you must find an excuse for getting her away from her friends for a considerable time.”

“I was wondering whether I’d get my mother to ask her down to Lashmar.”

“It wouldn’t be fair on Lady Lane; she’s of the old school. Besides, your sister wouldn’t give her a fair chance: a woman’s severest judges are her own sex. And you’ve brothers; the girl wouldn’t face them. And you always tell me it’s a dead-and-alive little hamlet where the servants would gossip and every one would gape and whisper. In twenty-four hours the responsibility would be laid at your door, and people would wonder why you didn’t marry her.”

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself.”

Gaisford prepared to speak and then closed his lips, waiting for more to come, as Eric covered his eyes with his hand and tapped the fender with one restless heel. By shutting out the light he could forget the doctor’s presence and imagine the room as he had seen it that morning, with a slim black figure shrinking into one corner of a big chair. At this moment—he listened to the calm deliberate ticking of the clock behind his head—at this moment she was probably lying on her bed, powerless even to undress, smothering her sobs in a pillow; or perhaps she was on her knees, praying wildly, desperately until she fell asleep from exhaustion; when she awoke, a sense of disaster would cloud and terrify her mind until it defined itself and she wept to find herself still alive. The anguished incoherence of her prayers seemed to rise and swell like wind in the rigging of a ship; he could see her very clearly, hear her very plainly....

The creak of the doctor’s chair recalled him to the present, and Eric looked cautiously round the room as though uncertain who was there. From the moment when Ivy came and sobbed in his arms, he had forgotten everything but an urgent need to help her; one accusing pile of letters lay unopened on his writing-table, another was waiting unsigned; he had done no work; and for the first time in nearly three years he had hardly thought of Barbara.

But there was something more than an abstract desire to help. He could now confess to himself that he would have been disappointed if Gaymer had been anxious or even willing to marry Ivy....

“It would be one way out of the difficulty,” he suggested indifferently.

“And it would be one way into a great many others,” said Gaisford sharply, a little startled to find himself taken so literally.

“You mean I’m damaged goods? I know that,” said Eric quietly.

Gaisford made a noise of impatience as he looked up at the spare frame and thin, vital face in front of him. He was reasonably proud of the man whom he had so long kept alive and now restored to full health.

“I mean nothing of the kind. Eric, you owl, you’re making a very big income, you’ve a very big reputation all over the world. You’ve everything to offer. If you’re treating the question as a profit-and-loss account, I confess I don’t see what this girl—”

“Don’t you?” As he stared up at the light, Eric’s eyes grew bigger and changed from smouldering brown to a black brilliance that illumined his whole face. “She gives me youth, beauty... Gaisford, if you try to be cynical, I shall brain you; she gives me something to talk to, something to look after, something to care for... Some one who believes in me... I don’t ask more than that of any woman in these latter days. All this business about money and position... God! If I could give everything I’ve got, everything I’m likely to get, lay it at her feet, persuade her to accept it—”

“Are you in love with her?,” the doctor enquired with a sedative detachment that stilled the passion in Eric’s voice.

“It might make me... I’ve been paralysed for the last two years; there’s been absolutely nothing in life for me. I must be fond of that child, or I couldn’t worry about her so much... If I had somebody to care for, somebody to try and make happy, somebody to take me out of myself and make me forget myself... Then I could win... I never used to be lonely... I’m talking to you as the ideas come, Gaisford... You said it as a joke, but, if you ask me seriously why I don’t marry her....”

His tone and attitude did not invite cynicism. Gaisford stood up and laid a hand on his shoulders.

“Sit down,” he suggested. “You mustn’t do anything till you’ve thought this over coolly. In the first place, what do you know of the girl? She’s broken down completely in what most men consider to be woman’s first essential.”

“She’s a child,” cried Eric, wrestling free from the numbing bondage of Gaisford’s sedative voice. “If you told me that he’d made her drunk... or doped her... I shouldn’t be surprised. This is a thing that touched her body and not her spirit.”

The doctor grimaced unconsciously at the romantic phrasing:

“I see. She’s a child, and you think you’re going to form her mind and character... Don’t interrupt, Eric; every man thinks that of every woman mentally less mature than himself. Is she going to be an intelligent companion or a pathetic doll? Is she honest? Is she honourable? Is she unselfish? Is she loyal? Has she grit—under the pink and white of the child? Those are qualities that every wife must have. In other words,” he continued with prosaic mockery, “d’you know a—single—dam’—thing about her? Is she clever enough, Eric, to know how to live with you? I don’t doubt your patience, affection, self-effacement and the rest, but you’re a queer customer, you know; an idealist... you’d hit me if I said she deserved all she’d got...; too many nerves, much too sensitive; if I tell you you’ve a smut on your nose, you’ll probably forswear human society and run away for ten years to a desert island. Can she live with you without getting on your nerves? And—remember I’ve seen her for three seconds, at a distance—are you man enough to control her? I don’t gather she’s learnt much self-discipline; can you lick her into shape, or will you go flabby every time she cries?”

He waited for an answer, but Eric only murmured:

“Go on.”

“Marriage is a long and intimate business. You’re not marrying her for passion—or money—or social advantage; you’ve to start right away with what most people come to when passion’s worn out; you’ve to be companions from the beginning. And you know as little of her as I do. You must wait, therefore—”

Eric interrupted him with a quick gesture:

“If I’m to be of any use, I must act at once. The girl’s nearly out of her mind.”

“I’m sorry for her. That doesn’t justify you in doing something that may send both of you nearly out of your minds before you’ve been married six months. After all, something can be done to avoid a scandal. And you must study her... And study yourself. I mean, have you considered how you’ll like to have another man’s child always with you and to pretend it’s yours? Are you strong enough never to patronize? And do you want a wife who marries you out of gratitude or one who marries you because she loves you?”

“I want to have some one in my life who belongs to me,” Eric answered. “Another man’s child... Complications generally... I feel rather like a man who tries to escape from the pains of life by embracing a new faith; the more services and observances and penances you give me, the better I shall be pleased.”

Gaisford wrinkled his nose and sniffed.

“Excellent for the first week,” he said. “Will you be of the same mind a year from now, if you find she gets on your nerves so that you can’t work? This is self-indulgence... Don’t glare at me! You’re as bad as all the rest, you’ve the faults of your ridiculous, neurotic generation. This is a stunt! You’re having enormous fun with a brand-new emotion... By the way, you’ll probably have to tell your people everything.”

Eric nodded without speaking. Obviously Lady Lane would have to be told. She was a kind woman, a practical Christian; she would be shocked and touched; she too would think in terms of sacrifice and she would admire her son extravagantly. In her heart, too, she would despise Ivy as a traitor who had sold her sex; she would find a thousand honest objections to the marriage, she would conscientiously make Ivy miserable by hinting them to her; she would exhaust every device for getting her practical Christianity carried out by deputy; and, if she failed to save her son, he would lose his mother in the very struggle which she was making on his behalf.

“I see that,” said Eric grimly. “Plenty of obstacles, aren’t there? And all because she sat in this chair this morning and cried her heart out.”

Gaisford looked at his watch and jumped up with an exclamation of dismay:

“D’you know it’s two o’clock, Eric? I must get to bed. Understand! I’m not forbidding the banns, but promise me to think before you do anything irrevocable; you’re too good to waste on an impulse. Only one thing more. Why was she crying this morning?”

“You can hardly expect her to be light-hearted. I should think the man didn’t mince matters with her last night—”

“And she was crying—for him. Don’t forget that, my friend. Unless she’s right-down vicious, he must have fascinated her pretty completely before she consented to play the fool like this; she was very much in love with him. For all I know, she may be very much in love with him still. You’re adding to your troubles, if you’ve to chain her by the leg to keep her from going back to him.”

“She won’t have much temptation when the blackguard’s deserted her.”

Gaisford put on his hat and coat to the accompaniment of a succession of grunts:

“Women don’t—have much temptation—to go on living—with men who beat them.—They still do it, though—even when there are no children,—even when they could run away... You always underrate the strength of sex in a woman; I’m afraid you always will. It’s because you’re an idealist....”

Eric did not go to bed at once. The conversation had excited his brain too much; and he felt that, if he had to meet Ivy in the morning, he must first deal honestly with every objection raised by Gaisford and overcome it or be overcome by it. He started virtuously, as he began to undress, but quickly tired. There was a trace of powder on his looking-glass; he could not see his familiar wash-hand-stand without seeing in imagination Ivy’s slim, black figure bending over it, as she bathed her eyes. And then he knew that he had only listened to Gaisford in order to have some idea what difficulties he had to face.

Already his brain was half-unconsciously making plans, as it had not done since last he had in his life some one who belonged to him, “somebody to work for and take care of.” As he had lived through the day with scarcely a thought for Barbara, so now he could think of her without wincing. He set himself to think of her deliberately, as she used to come into the library, or sit on the floor in front of the fire, resting her head against his knee. Her changes of expression were as familiar as ever; he could conjure up her phrases, her intonation and laugh; the touch of her hand was still felt in his, but he could think of her without pain. That was a silent answer to Gaisford’s questions.

Eric could have put it into words, but he only discovered it when he was alone, when the flat was empty, when he could shut his eyes without seeing Barbara’s wan ghost....