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Updated: June 11, 2025
Randall Pearcy, a retired manufacturer, had died after a brief but mysterious illness. Pearcy had been married a year or so ago to Annette Oakleigh, a Broadway comic opera singer, who was his second wife. By his first marriage he had had two children, a son, Warner, and a daughter, Isabel.
Failing that, he would have to say good-bye to her, though she had become so much a habit as almost to be part of his life. . . . The imitations were succeeded by more music, and Eric threaded his way to the piano where Carstairs and Oakleigh were begging Barbara to sing. "Honestly, I've no voice to-night," he heard her say.
Each move was a little further out, a little bigger house and a little higher rent until at Oakleigh Park, when I was six years old, it was a big semi-detached villa, with a garden and tennis-lawn and professional people for neighbours. That year my brother was born and my father began to die.
Lunching with George Oakleigh, he met Deganway who had neither news to impart nor questions to ask; at dinner Mrs. Shelley observed with sublime innocence: "You must have been disappointed not to be able to come the other night. Barbara was there, and it was she who told me you were ill." The next day brought no tidings, and Eric had to exert all his strength to keep from writing.
"I feel a certain responsibility towards her." "You mustn't mind too much what people say. . . . You know George Oakleigh?
"I've discussed the nightly takings of a theatre with Ettrick," he whispered, when Manders arrived at half-past eleven as vigorous and high-spirited as if he had just got out of bed; "the Dardanelles expedition with Gaisford, the plays of Synge with George Oakleigh, 'The Bomb-Shell' with Vincent Grayle, memories of Jessie Farborough with Deganway, 'The Bomb-Shell' with Grierson, Ibsen with Harry Greenbank, and 'The Bomb-Shell' with Donald Butler.
Jack had sat silent and motionless, too much dazed even to rise and leave her. There was a sound of more voices in the hall, and Charlie Framlingham waltzed into the room with Jack Summertown and subsided at a table by the door. They had hardly begun supper when George Oakleigh entered to say that war had changed from speculation to probability and that officers were being mobilized.
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.
The whole meeting was incredibly suave and unemotional. They were talking as any other two people in the theatre were talking without any great interest. After a few minutes Oakleigh returned and shook hands with noticeable warmth; there was a short triangular conversation before the lights were lowered; then Jack hurried back to his place.
I thought of my pleasant home at Oakleigh Park then, the quiet autumn streets, the bright fire in the dining-room and the cosy warm bed. Oh yes, I thought of it, but not with regret. I was out to win through, and all hell wouldn't have made me desert! "At twelve o'clock it was pretty serious. The Chief had the Second out to help with the pumps and sent me to call the old Third.
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