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Half-way across the Horse Guards' Parade, he encountered George Oakleigh. "Hallo! Come and have some lunch with me, if you've nothing better to do," he said. "I haven't seen you for a long time." "Not since we met at Barbara Neave's," answered Oakleigh. "Where is she? I've quite lost sight of her." "They're all down at Crawleigh," said Eric.
As he walked to Berkeley Square, Eric decided that, by telling Barbara of his encounter, he would annoy her without bringing relief to himself. The announcement, when it came, would be made with imposing ceremony after a meeting between his father and Lord Crawleigh, an adjustment of religious differences and a distressingly material discussion of settlements.
The pleurisy developed four days after Christmas, and Eric had not seen Barbara since the night of their sick-room dinner. A week after they reached the Riviera, he heard a story, traced without difficulty to Gerald Deganway, that Lord Crawleigh had spirited Barbara away from the danger of a mésalliance.
The Neave fortunes had their origin in the character and position of Lord Chancellor Crawleigh; and history has dealt faithfully with him. John, first baron, acquired the Abbey from a misguided supporter of the '15 and left it with sufficient means for its upkeep to his grandson William, the second baron and first viscount, who built on sure foundations.
When Barbara left him for Crawleigh Abbey, he had resigned from his department and withdrawn the resignation, accepted an invitation to lecture in America and cancelled the acceptance; every night he led Gaisford through the same argumentative maze; complete rest, partial rest in London or the country, flight from England and all association with Barbara, full work as soon as he could resume it to keep him from brooding about her; he could not decide.
"Mine's purple and white in London purple carpet, purple curtains, purple counterpane and nothing but white except the rose-wood, of course at Crawleigh." "This is the smoking-room," said Eric, conscientiously firm and unimpressed. Barbara gave a little gasp of pleasure as he flooded the room with light.
It was hard enough to do the right thing without being incited on all hands not to do it and in the name of affection and charity! In the afternoon an unfamiliar voice enquired for him by telephone. "Lady Crawleigh speaking. Mr. Lane, I want you to do something for me, if you'll be so kind. Are you engaged this evening?"
No one wrote to him, no one confronted him with a blunt question, though Ettrick had protested that the story was common property. When Eric walked to Berkeley Square for the birthday party, he was embarrassed for the first time in shaking hands with Lord Crawleigh; sooner or later he would be summoned to a very unpleasant interview.
For a moment he thought of writing to her; but in fact there was no news, he would have only himself to blame if he re-established communications with her in obedience to a passing whim. She was at Crawleigh, resting and building up her strength; he would be back in full harness within thirty-six hours, and there would be no room for her madcap incursions into his life.
Eric poised himself on mental tip-toes, wondering, in general, how far Barbara made her family a party to her life and, in particular, to which night Lady Crawleigh was alluding. "Really ," he began. "She gets these turns," Lady Crawleigh pursued. "I blame myself entirely; I allowed her to stay on working at the hospital when she simply wasn't fit for it. Now she has to pay for my weakness."
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