Barnaby took her hands in his; clasped them hard. It was surely not his voice that was so unsteady.
"It's the last time, is it?" he said. "Let's play it out gallantly. Let's pretend. Susan,--Susan--is that how you say good night to your husband?"
Her heart beat fast; her head was dizzy. He was looking down in her eyes, drawing her hands to his breast.
No, not Barnaby:--not the one man she trusted!...
And he remembered; he let her go and stood back as she passed him on her way to the stairs.
"Good night," he repeated, in that queer, unsteady voice. "I beg your pardon,--Madam."
It was the same kind of morning as other mornings; there was no lurid conflagration lighting up the sky. Outside it was dull and quiet, and even the wind was still. Susan paused at the staircase window, gazing a little while.
In the hall beneath she heard Barnaby talking to the dogs. And his voice shook her. The stunned sense of finality that was with her gave way to a sharp and sudden pain.
She could not bear to go down to him. Turning, she fled back.
"Is that you, Susan?" called Lady Henrietta. She was sitting up at her breakfast, and the door of her room was ajar. "Where is Barnaby riding out so early? I heard his boots creaking as he went by."
"I don't know," the girl said, truly. "I haven't seen him."
"Then don't loiter like a draught in the door," said Lady Henrietta impatiently. "Come in and have your tea up here and help me to read my letters."
She did as she was bidden. The sharp kindliness of Barnaby's mother was sweet to her; and it was the last time she would sit with her, the last time she would listen with a smile that was not far from tears to her caustic prattle. Whatever happened to her, however they managed her disappearance, she and Lady Henrietta would never meet again. Would she think of her sometimes,--kindly?--She was not to know....
"What's the matter now?" said Lady Henrietta suddenly. "You look pale."
Hurriedly the girl defended herself from the imputation.
"Of course, it's Barnaby," said Lady Henrietta, undismayed. "I suppose he has been behaving badly."
Lady Henrietta waved her hands impatiently. How fragile she looked, how pretty;--the pink in her cheekbones matching her painted silk peignoir. The hardness that sometimes marred her expression had softened to a pitying amusement, and she had a look of Barnaby when she smiled like that.