The Education of Eric Lane Part 33

"D'you think I'm keen to lose you? Darling Eric, if you know what you mean to me . . . But you've got to get well!"

"I don't know why California should make the--waiting any easier."

"Ah, don't say _I've_ made you ill! I'll say 'yes' Eric. . . . Now. . . .

But I should only be able to give you a little piece of myself, I should always be divided. . . . I don't think you really want that, and you'd be simply wretched if you found you'd spoiled my life after saving it.

. . . Eric, don't hurry me? It's only April. Wait till twelve months have gone by since the--news. If there's no further news . . . Wait till--my birthday!"

Next morning, Barbara departed to Crawleigh Abbey, and for a month they did not meet. As spring budded and blossomed into summer, Eric counted the days that separated him from the fulfilment of her promise. There was no reason for him to be anxious; but his mind was filled with nervous images, and imagination suggested a thousand fantastic ways in which Barbara might be s.n.a.t.c.hed from him. As her birthday drew near, he forced a meeting with Agnes Waring and once more asked if there was any news of Jack.

"Nothing yet," she answered. "A long time, isn't it?"

"Very long. . . ." He hated himself for the hypocrisy of this conventional solicitude, when he was only impatient for authentic news that his best friend was dead. "You'll let me know . . .?"

"Of course I will, Eric," Agnes answered. "I don't know _when_----"

Her undramatic courage, reinforced by his own sense of make-believe sympathy, restored him to sincerity. Though he had never been in love with Agnes--as Barbara had taught him to understand the term--he was still fond of her.

"I wish you came to London sometimes," he said, beating his stick against the side of his boot. "It would make a little bit of a break for you. Will you let me give you dinner and take you to a play?"

It was the first time in eight months that he had made her any sign of affection, and she looked at him curiously. Eric wondered whether she imagined that he had failed elsewhere and was drifting back to her.

"Somehow I hardly feel----" she began. "d.i.c.k Benyon--you remember we brought him over to dine with you?--wanted me to come. . . ."

"It can't do any _harm_."

"It can't do any harm, certainly. I'll talk to mother about it."

Two days later she wrote to suggest a night, and Eric felt that he had involuntarily succeeded where young Benyon had failed; a week later he was waiting for her in the lounge of the Carlton. Though she had stipulated for a seven o'clock dinner so that they should be in their places before the curtain went up, half-past seven had struck before she hurried in with breathless apologies.

"It's all right, but I'm afraid your c.o.c.ktail will be tepid," he said.

"I ordered it beforehand to save time. I suppose you couldn't get a taxi."

"Yes." She laid her hand on his arm for support and walked with the same breathlessness into the restaurant. "My head's in a whirl. . . . I nearly telephoned to say I couldn't come--but I didn't see what good that would do. Eric, I want you to straighten this out for me; Jack was reported missing on the 27th----"

"Of August. Last year. Yes."

"Well, father had a letter from Cranborne's the army bankers, just before I left this morning, to say that a cheque had come in--through Holland, I think--dated October the 9th. Apparently a lot of people are traced in that way, and Cranborne's wanted father to know as soon as possible. They sent the cheque and asked father to look at it very carefully and say if _he_ was satisfied that it was Jack's signature; then they'd know what to do about it or something. . . ."

Eric looked at her unwaveringly and bade her finish her story. He tried to tell himself that he had always expected and discounted this.

"I brought the cheque with me and had a long talk with one of the partners. That's why I'm so late. There's no doubt about it, Eric! Mr.

Cranborne--told me--as a banker--that he was prepared to honour the cheque--is that the phrase?--as being signed _by Jack_--_on_ that day.

What does it mean, Eric? I want you to explain it all."

A voluble waiter was gesticulating and seeking instructions about the wine.

"Oh, open it now!" Eric exclaimed without turning round. A moment later the champagne was creaming slowly up his gla.s.s. He drained it, coughed once and collected himself.

"Let's first hear what Cranborne said," he suggested.

"Oh, he had all sorts of theories! That Jack had lost his memory--he remembered his name all right--; that some one had found the cheque on his body after the push and altered the date--a cheque for ten pounds--; that he'd tried to escape, and those brutes had punished him by not letting us know he was a prisoner. . . . It doesn't matter, does it, Eric? He's _alive_! That's what I want you to say to me! He's _alive_!"

"He was alive on the ninth of October," he amended.

"Weeks after the push? Then he's alive now! _Isn't_ he, Eric? He _must_ be! I was right in believing. . . . Eric, will you think me an awful pig, if we waste the tickets to-night? I'd so much, much sooner sit and talk to you. It's so wonderful! It's like a man rising from the dead!

It's----"

"You must get some food inside you," he ordered prosaically. "Take your time. Don't try to tell me all about it in one breath."

She gulped a mouthful of fish and looked up with br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes.

"Oh, Eric, if you only understood what it meant. . . ." Her expression changed to blank fear. "You do _believe_ he's still alive?"

"I do." He bent down and fumbled for the wine with a needless clatter in the ice-pail. "Agnes, for your sake, for all your sakes, I'm very, very glad!"

3

The next morning Eric called on Dr. Gaisford in Wimpole Street before going to his office. His brain felt numbed, and he had to speak with artful choice of words to prevent being tripped up by a stammer. The doctor looked once at his drawn face and pink eye-lids, then pushed a chair opposite his own and tidied away his papers.

"I suppose you _have_ breakfasted, by the way?" he asked.

"Well, I'm not much of a breakfast-eater," Eric answered. "You must forgive a very early call, Gaisford; it's so hard for me to get away during the day. Well, it's the old trouble; I'm sleeping abominably. I took your wretched medicine, but it didn't have any effect."

"H'm. You did _not_ take my advice to go right away."

"It hasn't been practicable so far. I may go--quite soon. But I've a certain number of things to finish off and I want to be absolutely at my best for them." He moistened his lips and repeated "I want to be absolutely at my best for them. I've been rather worried and I've lost confidence in myself."

Gaisford listened to his symptoms, asked a few questions and set about his examination. At the end he made a note in his card-index and wrote out a prescription.

"If you're not careful," he said deliberately, as he blotted it, "you'll have a bad break-down. Now, I never tell people to do things, when I know they're going to disobey me; I shan't order you to California to-day, I shan't knock you off all work. But how soon can you go?"

"Oh--a week, if I have to," Eric answered carelessly.

"Then go in a week. Your own work, your writing--can you drop that absolutely? It's far more exhausting--anything creative--than your office-work. And what's your minimum for your office? Don't do a stroke more than the minimum. As regards your general mode of life . . ."

He ordained a rigid, but familiar, rule of diet, exercise and rest; and Eric's attention began to wander. As well bid him add a cubit to his stature! He wondered how much Gaisford suspected. . . .

He became aware, in mid-reverie, that the doctor had finished speaking.

"And I'm to take this stuff?" Eric tried to read the prescription.

"Strychnine--Is that right? Iron? Bromide? I can't make a guess at the other things. I say, Gaisford, will this make me sleep?"

A hint of despair in his voice was not lost on the doctor.

"I hope so. It will tone up your nervous system. But it's only for a week, mind! That's the limit of your reprieve before you go away. Don't imagine that stimulants and sedatives take the place of natural food or rest. Whatever--odds and ends you have to clear up must be cleared up within the next week."

Eric nodded and held out his hand. Gaisford had understood, then. . . .

He wondered how long the medicine would take to "tone up" his nerves, for he had written a telegram to Barbara the night before, as soon as Agnes left him.