Part 7

She seated herself. Reluctantly he followed her example. But when she was seated, she found herself at a loss for words. She drew off her gloves, and sat there folding and refolding them. He waited for her to commence; the silence was unbroken, save for the laughter of children playing in the Square and the occasional tapping of footsteps on the pavement. He leant across the table and took her hand. "Terry, after all these years you're not afraid of me? You don't need to be. Remember what you've just said: it's the waiting that's so wearing; the real pain's over in a second. Get the real pain over; then we'll plan for the best."

She looked up gratefully with eyes that were almost clear of trouble. "You're gentle--so different from other men. I could almost love you; I do love you. But not quite in the way---- You understand. I trust you more than any one in the world."

"Then why----?"

"Ah, why?" she echoed. "That's what I wish you could tell me. Why should I be able to offer more to--to some one else whom I trust less? So much less?"

"But is that love, Terry? Isn't it infatuation? Could you keep on offering? Loving means marrying and marrying means being together without respite."

"I know," she nodded wisely. "I know all that. I know it so well that I don't want to marry him or anybody--at least, not yet."

"Then why----?"

She took his other hand in hers, clinging to it as if she were drowning. "That's the second time you've asked me why. I'll tell you. Because if I don't say 'Yes,' I shall lose him. Even though I may not want him forever, I can't bear to lose him for now. You must know the feeling--you who are in love. And that's why," her voice choked with the tears that she kept back from her eyes, "that's why I promised him last night."

"Last night!" Tabs spoke slowly, trying to bring the finality home to himself.

"Last night," she repeated; "the night that should have been yours. The night I had promised to you for years." Then, in a flame of self-derision, "Why don't you let go my hands and hate me, now that you know how treacherous I am?"

"You're not treacherous." He smoothed the slim fingers as though he were coaxing a child. "You mustn't be unjust to yourself. When we're in love we're all apt to be unjust; I was yesterday, to this man. Injustice, whether to oneself or to some one else, works most of our mischief; one never knows where it ends. We can't control our hearts, Terry; you've tried. You've tried to make your heart love me and it's refused. Don't be miserable because of it; you couldn't help that. And this man--he's a fine fellow. I always knew he was a fine fellow, until seeing him with you yesterday made me jealous and blinded my eyes. He's a finer fellow than ever now. You couldn't love him if he weren't."

She wasn't giving him the enthusiastic attention that his praise deserved. Somewhere at the back of her mind there lay a doubt with which she wrestled while he strove to comfort her. He believed that he had guessed her doubt. "As for not trusting him the way you trust me," he explained, "that's natural. We know the whole of each other's lives; our families are the same kind of families and we share the same kind of friends. Whereas----"

"Whereas," she broke in, "I know nothing about his past, where he lived, who his people were or anything. I know nothing that he enjoyed or laughed at before I saw him lying quietly in our hospital-ward in France. I've questioned him as much as I dared; but always he grows vague. There's something that he's hiding from me. I only gathered that he had known you from the way he pricked up and listened whenever your name was mentioned. That was why, without warning either of you, I----You see, I had to find out. And then, when he met you face to face he--he lied."

"Hush, Terry."

"But he did. He lied."

She had withdrawn her hands from his and sat back eyeing him with a clear look of challenge. Tabs was at a loss to explain her change of attitude. Yesterday she had been all for defending this man. What did she gain by accusing him now that she was engaged to him? In any case she had employed too ugly a word. And here was a strange state of affairs, that it should be left to him to defend his successful rival.

"A man is not compelled to know another man unless he likes," he said cautiously. "They may have met some time in the past under unfortunate circumstances--circumstances which are embarrassing to remember. The man to whom that memory is a disadvantage has a right to protect himself by sweeping it clean from his mind."

"But not to lie about it to the girl he says he loves," she declared. "There can be only one motive for such a denial: that it covers up something which is dishonorable."

"But there never was anything dishonorable. That I swear."

"Then he believes that I would think it dishonorable," she insisted; "which means that he doesn't trust me. That's the reason I can't trust him in return. If we don't trust each other now, how can we hope that things would be better if we married?"

Her logic was unanswerable, but she was arguing on the wrong side. At what was she driving? He gave it up. Was she wanting him to tell her where and when he and her future husband had met? The eagerness of her silence seemed to demand as much. But there are rules to every game. No pressure that she could bring to bear could make him tell her that. She recognized those rules by refraining from putting her request into words.

It was he who broke the silence. His tones were puzzled. "You come to me on the morning that I had hoped to be engaged to you myself and you confide all these secrets about this other man. You insist that neither of you trusts the other and that you could find no happiness in marriage. Then why, in heaven's name, Terry, did you pledge yourself to him last night?"

"The fear of losing him----" Her face quivered pitifully. She was on the verge of weeping. "He overheard what Daddy said about forbidding him the house. It seemed our last time together. I couldn't bear that it should be the last. It was to keep him near me for just a little longer that I----"

Tabs rose and limped to the window. He dared not let himself go, the way his instincts urged. They might carry him too far. She looked so much like the little girl in short skirts he had known, as she sat there bravely trying not to cry. He wanted to take her on his knees, as in the old days. Now that she loved another man, he was not allowed to show her comfort in that way any longer. That she should run to him for help and yet love some one else, wounded his pride. What was the matter with him that he had failed to stir her passion? Why could he appeal only to her helplessness?

Inside the communal garden, with its surrounding railings and locked gates, nurses in uniforms were pushing prams. Toddlers were tossing a ball across the lawn and tottering after it with excited shouts. Beneath a tree in the clear sunshine a young mother sat sewing. Other men's women! Other men's babies! He would have to set out in search of his kingdom afresh; all his old quests had been mistaken. But he was older now and lame; he lacked the energy for a new journey. It seemed to him that he would be alone and unwanted always.

A telegraph-girl was mounting the steps. He heard the bell ring without interest. Gazing out, with his back towards Terry, he put to her what he intended should be his final question. "You promised him last night--then why did you hurry round to me this morning?"

Her dress rustled and her breathing quickened. "Because----" she commenced and failed. He did not turn his head. She tried again in a lower voice, "Because I want you to get my promise back."

He swung round and crossed to where she was still sitting. With his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, he stared down at her golden head. "But, Terry dear, why? Look at me. You must tell me."

She did not look at him. "I'm frightened. Nobody knows as yet; so before they know---- Oh, Tabs, you're so clever; you can do anything." And then she repeated whimperingly, like a child over a broken toy, "I want you to get my promise back."

"Listen to me, Terry dearest," he spoke coaxingly, "don't be a baby. What is it that you're asking me to do? Is it to see him for you and to break the news that you've altered your mind over night. You know he'll want reasons. What shall I tell----?"

She lifted her head, stretching back her throat so that all her face looked up at him. "If you'll still have me----" His hands on her shoulders tightened. "Say that you still want me, Tabs." For answer his head slowly nodded, but his eyes never left her eyes. "Tell him that I'm engaged to you, instead."

In the tumult of surprised desire he bent over her, but he got no further, for a tap fell on the panel of the door and the handle turned. He drew himself upright quickly and stepped back aloofly. "What is it?"

"A telegram, your Lordship." Ann entered. "I told the girl to wait in case there was an answer."

He tore it open, glanced through it and handed it to Terry. To Ann he said, "There won't be any answer."

Terry read, "_Shall be delighted to have you lunch with me to-day Savoy Hotel one o'clock. Braithwaite._" She examined the address and looked up startled, "But it's to you. It's--it's as though he knew we were together. What made him send it?"

When Tabs answered there was no echo of her excitement in his voice. "I wrote him yesterday asking him to call here. Evidently he preferred a more public place."

She glanced at him shrewdly. "Why did you write him? You must have done that between leaving me and coming to our house to dine. I know it's no good my asking you." Her last words were more of a question than an assertion. "I can see that it's no good my asking you." "No, Terry, it's no good. Braithwaite's past is his own secret. But I can pledge you my word that it bears no stain."

"Then why shouldn't he----?" She changed her question. "Shall you meet him to-day at lunch?"

"Yes."

"Shall you tell him what we've----?"

"Not all of it, Terry."

"Why not all of it? Which part are you going to leave out?"

He came again to where she sat and stood gazing down on her. "Terry, why do you want me to tell him? Why can't you tell him yourself? It would be kinder."

"Because---- Oh, Tabs, you do want me, don't you? Because I daren't trust myself to see him."

"And so you want me to tell him we're engaged because you daren't trust yourself to tell him! Isn't that it?"

She nodded.

"And you daren't trust yourself to tell him because the moment you saw him you would fall again under his spell?"

This time she didn't nod, but her eyes gave assent.

"And what does that mean, little Terry? Whether you call it love or fascination, it means that even though you do not see him, your heart is his at present. It means that against your will he's infinitely more to you than I am. It means that you only ask me to become engaged to you in order that you may be strong to break his spell. It doesn't mean that I will be anything more to you to-morrow than I was last night, when you gave him your pledge."

She tried to speak, but he halted her words. "I'm older than you are. Have you thought of that? I'm not the man I was; I'm lame. You can like me as a friend and believe me indispensable; but, if I were your husband, fifteen years from now when you're only the age I am to-day----Have you considered that? My dear, I love you so well, that I'll never let you tie yourself to me, till you're as certain that you can't risk meeting me without loving me as you're certain at this moment that you daren't risk meeting this other man. When you can do that----"

The tenderness in his eyes hurt her. "Directly I can do that, I'll tell you, Tabs. And--and I believe I could almost tell you now."

"If you can now," he said, "there's a test. Will you take my place at lunch and tell Braithwaite?"

She shrank, and tried to smile, and shook her head.

"Then it'll be I who'll have to do it." He tried to assume a cheerful manner. "But I can't give him your reason about being engaged to me. If it were true, which it isn't, it wouldn't be generous. If I carry any message, the only honorable thing for me to do is to inform him of everything."

"Of everything?" she questioned.

"Yes, of everything. I must tell him where the trouble lies and give him his chance to be frank with you. Only when that is done, shall I be free to do my utmost to win you for myself."

She took his hands and drew herself up to him. "Do what you like, Tabs. As long as I know that I've not lost you," her voice became small and almost happy, "I'm content."

She was tiptoeing against him. The next thing he knew he was kissing her warm red mouth.

III

She was gone. He had watched her from the steps until she had reached the end of the Square where the swirl of passing traffic had engulfed her. At the last moment she had looked back and smiled. For some minutes after she had vanished, he had stood there recalling the way in which her brave little figure had tripped out of sight among the blustering March sunshine and shadows. A child, he thought, impulsive and lacking in perspective, with a child's alacrity for drying its tears and believing in a future happiness. How would she regard this morning years hence in the after-glow of experience? Would she find nothing in its calamities but foolishness? And what relation would he himself bear to her when she had arrived at that stoical calm?

He reëntered the house. In the room where they had been together the fragrance of her presence still lingered. The chair was pushed back, just as she had risen from it to lift her warm, red lips to his. How smooth they were! Again like a child's! Everything about her was young and undeveloped. She had kissed simply and gratefully, with none of the blundering, sweet surrender with which a woman clings to her lover. If she had ever kissed Braithwaite, she had not kissed him like that.

And then Tabs was overcome with a reluctant remorse, which was tinged with a shameful sense of triumph. She had offered him her lips in gratitude; they had kindled in him the flames of passion. For the moment he had devoured her with kisses--her eyes, lips, cheeks and hair.

If he were to keep himself in hand, he must fill his days with interests--_new_ interests. He must move among people and normalize himself. He must fight against the melancholy of his obsession. His eyes chanced to rest on the crumpled sheet of scented note-paper tossed into the empty grate. Stooping, he picked it up and smoothed it out. This problem of Maisie would at least divert him--besides, he had promised to do what he could for Adair. He noted the Chelsea address and reread the contents with its sly humility and hint of coquetry: "I have been given to understand that you are exceedingly anxious to make my acquaintance. If this is so, I shall be at home when you call to-morrow afternoon."

She had been quite certain that he would call when she wrote those words. They had all the assurance of one who was fully persuaded of her own powers of charm and beauty.

"Again, Maisie P.," he apostrophized her, "I'm bound to acknowledge that you know more about me than I know about myself. I didn't know that I wanted to make your acquaintance at the time when you were writing this letter. I was quite sure that I wasn't going to call upon you when I read it. In both cases you were the better informed, for I shall be with you as soon as I've fulfilled my Savoy engagement."

An hour later, as he was on his way out, he found Ann waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.

"I don't want to bother your Lordship."

"You're not bothering me. What is it?"

"I've been thinking that if I wrote the particulars down myself----"

"The particulars! What particulars?"

"About Braithwaite, sir. There were things you wouldn't know or might leave out. So I thought that if I stated my case myself, it might make things more sensible-like to your Lordship's friend at the War Office."

"It might. Are those the particulars you have in your hand?"

"Yes, sir. But they're kind of private. I shouldn't like them to be read by just anybody. That's why---- Perhaps, if your Lordship was seeing your friend----"

"As it happens," Tabs spoke with a careless air, "I shall be lunching with him to-day. I can deliver your letter direct."

"Your Lordship is very kind."

"Not in the least, Ann. And remember, whatever happens, that Braithwaite was brave and he'd expect you to be brave. If you're not---- D'you know what you'll do? Whether he's alive or dead, you'll let him down."

Her head lifted proudly, despite the tears in her eyes. "No fear of that, sir. I'll never let my man down."

"That's the way to talk. And don't worry too much. You know the saying about night always being blackest at the hour before the dawn? If we'd only all believe that and cheer up----"

He let himself out. As he walked down the Square he tried to stroll jauntily; probably Ann was watching.

"I could do worse than live up to that advice myself," he thought. Then, "And so I will, by the Lord Harry."

IV

As he passed through the doors into the Savoy, he consulted his watch; he was five minutes late. He halted in the middle of the foyer, gazing round. There was the usual collection of officers on leave or out of hospital, British, Overseas, American, all of them out for a good time and debonair. There were the usual rows of expectant girls, wondering whether their men had forgotten the appointment or whether the fault was theirs in mistaking the place of rendezvous. Here and there through the crowd worried and assertive literary individuals wandered, searching for invariably unpunctual publishers. As though Time pressed behind them with his scythe, hatchet-faced journalists from Fleet Street were making a bee-line for the restaurant. In contrast to this perfervid haste, self-possessed young queens of the footlights lolled with their admirers, importantly believing they were recognized. All the medley of London as it used to be, is and will be again, was there; but nowhere could Tabs descry a General's uniform.

He went to the desk to enquire whether there was any message for him. At mention of the General his enquiry was received with marked respect. Yes, General Braithwaite lived there. No message had been left, but he might be in his room. While they were telephoning and he was waiting, Tabs remembered and smiled at remembering. Under quite other circumstances, on a former occasion, he and Braithwaite had stayed there together. The clerk interrupted his reflections. "The General's not in his room---- Ah, here he comes, your Lordship."

Tabs turned quickly and looked in vain at first. He did not become aware of his host till he was standing almost at his elbow. Then he held out his hand, "How are you, General? You must pardon me for not having picked you out at once. Like all of us, you look different in mufti."

"More like the old Braithwaite your Lordship used to know?" The General smiled. "Well, I have to thank that experience for this at least--that I know where to find the proper tailors. How about lunch? Are you ready?"

Against a window looking out on the Embankment, one of the best tables had been reserved--a further proof of the new esteem in which Braithwaite was held. The head-waiter hurried up immediately to advise what he should eat and passed on his orders to subordinates with as much solemnity as if they had been the details for an offensive. "Yes, my General." "No, my General." When everything had been chosen and there was nothing to do but wait for the first dish to be served, Braithwaite leaned across to Tabs, "Your Lordship is amused. I don't blame you."

Tabs drew out his case and offered him a cigarette. "I'll make a bargain with you, sir. Let's cut out the unfriendly formalities. I'll call you Braithwaite if you'll call me Taborley."

The General blew a puff of smoke into the air and watched it disappear before he answered. In civilian clothes he bore a more distinct resemblance to the man he had been; and yet the resemblance only served to emphasize the change that had taken place in him. The old Braithwaite had been a slight-built, gentle creature, loyal to the point of self-effacement, soft-spoken and dependent on the appreciation of a master for his happiness. The new Braithwaite both in body and character had hardened. His gray eyes had concentrated into command. His clean-shaven cheeks and small military mustache gave him an expression which was tolerantly ironic. The moment you saw him, you knew beyond question that he was ruthlessly aware of what he wanted out of life. He was a sword which had lain hidden in its scabbard and was now withdrawn, glistening, intimidating and fiercely pointed.

Tabs compared his forceful appearance with his own, where in a mirror their reflections sat facing each other. There was little to choose between them in outward gentility, despite the immense disparity of their chances. There was no fault to find; everything about Braithwaite bespoke confidence and refinement--his neatly brushed chestnut hair, his well-cut gray tweeds, his black, woven tie with the horse-shoe scarf-pin of diamonds, his fine white teeth, his trim mustache. He looked a man of iron will and unswerving decision, destined from birth to take control of crises and to shoulder responsibilities. As a last humanizing touch, there was a hint of cavalier devilment about him, of the gambler who was also a sportsman.

The puff of smoke had faded. The General's eyes came back with a twinkle to his guest. "You're right. Between us this 'Your Lordship and General' business would grow tiresome. I never thought the day would come when I'd call you Taborley, however. As for myself, plain Braithwaite's a little reminiscent---- Still, we'll consider that part of our compact settled. And now, what?"