Eric Lane

“ Opposite Bath House Eric hailed an empty taxi and told the driver to take them to Berkeley Square.
"You wouldn't like me to drop you in Ryder Street?" Barbara asked.
"Not even to gratify your love of artistic finish."
"How you hate me!" she whispered with a catch in her breath.
"No, I love you as much as ever; I need you more than ever. Whatever happens to you, I wish you all happiness. You once undertook my education, but I can tell you that you'll never find the happiness I'm wishing you till you learn to sink yourself and think of other people." ”

“ Eric Lane, the well-known dramatist and author, in his charming Ryder Street residence.' As you probably know, the papers have been full of you; the gaping world now knows to the last inch of your benevolent smile exactly how you work and smoke a cigarette and dress and have your pyjamas laid out. If the photographs are at all good, you seem to have got rather a comfortable billet. Talking of which, if you hear of any cheap and handy rooms within a hundred miles of Whitehall, you might keep me in mind. People out here tell me that London's rather congested.... ”

“ Eric was walking blindly through streets which only his feet recognized. Regency Theatre.... And he had been heading for Whitehall. He would never go to the Regency again without seeing her—either a head leaning against his knee at rehearsal as they sat on a platform over the orchestra, or in their box, hand in hand, as on the first night of "The Bomb-Shell," when his nerves were jangling like the broken wires of a harp; he could never go to Mrs. Shelley's house without hearing her singing Madame Butterfly's song—and without some fool's asking if he had seen anything of Lady Barbara lately.... ”

“ Shelley had eclipsed both her rivals by the chance of having known Eric Lane for ten years; to Lady Maitland he was still "Mr. Eric," to Lady Poynter "Mr. Lane."
"You don't mind my coming like this, do you?" she asked timidly, disengaging herself from Lady Poynter's embrace and indicating her commandant's uniform. "I was at the hospital until eight."
"As if I minded what you wore!" her hostess cried. "In war-time, when we haven't a moment to turn round ... ! ”

“ Barbara caught her hostess' eye and picked up her gloves. "You'd write a tolerable play in the middle of it, a work of genius at the end——"
Eric's laugh interrupted her eager outpour.
"I'm quite satisfied to be an observer of life."
"Dear child, you're quite satisfied with everything. You're sunk in soulless contentment; you shirk emotion because it would force you to see below the pink-and-white surface; that's why you write such bad plays. Margaret!" She approached Lady Poynter with outstretched arms. "I've argued myself hoarse trying to persuade Mr. Lane to fall in love with me. ”

“ Eric was not interested in the figures. He was recalling the mood in which he had sent the manuscript to Grierson, when he was working under inspiration. He had grudged the hours wasted on sleep and food when he might have been working for Barbara.
"I seem to have more money than I know what to do with," he answered shortly. "By the way, has Manders given tongue yet about the play?"
"'Mother's Son'? Yes, I wrote you last night. Didn't you get my letter? Oh, he's quite enthusiastic about it. He suggests a few small changes——"
"Manders would," Eric rejoined from habit rather than resentment. ”

“ For three months Eric buried himself in his flat, only emerging at the week-end. Lashmar Mill-House gave him proximity to Agnes Waring; and every week he made an excuse to walk over to Red Roofs and ask for tidings of Jack. The news that he was alive seemed better than the suspense of no news; but the tyranny of love was strange when a man could pray for the death of a friend. The Warings' atmosphere of dignified expectancy rebuked him; they made no more pother than if a single letter had gone astray. The colonel motored daily into Winchester and sat on his tribunal ”

“ The babble of high-toned voices, the quick patter of speech, the sense of hurry, the hyperbolical intimacy and enthusiasm were bewildering to a man who was naturally shy and at that moment mentally tired. Eric commended his soul to his humour and circumambulated the room, two steps at a time, until a sudden lessening of noise and tension told him that luncheon had dawned upon Lady Crawleigh as a thing to be not only discussed but eaten. ”

“ Extravagant tension and violent relief destroyed the serenity required for good work; but Eric was not dissatisfied with the progress of his play. Ease and command had grown reassuringly; his psychology was surer, perhaps because his own psychological experience had been so much enriched; and his dialogue, losing nothing of its neatness and economy, had taken on an added verisimilitude. It was too early to judge dispassionately; but, as Eric made his last corrections and sent a copy of the script to Manders, he felt a warmer glow of confidence than either of his first plays had inspired. ”

“ She stopped and put her hands on his shoulders, drawing his head to her until she could kiss him. Still capable of being surprised, he thanked Heaven—after a quick survey—that they had Eaton Square to themselves.
"Dear Eric, are you very delicate?" she asked. "It's only when health is mentioned that you become human. Last night, at the very beginning of dinner.... And again this evening. If—if I gave in and had a week in bed, I could twist you round my finger. Now, don't pull yourself away and look dignified! ”

“ She was glad that she had given him no opportunity of a denial, for Eric had always told her the truth, hitherto.
He went to bed early and fell asleep at once after the restlessness of the last two nights. When he felt his way back to wakefulness in the morning, there was a subconscious sense that something important had happened; a moment later he remembered with a pang that he and Barbara had said good-bye.
He jumped up and rang for his shaving-water, though it was not yet seven. He must find work to do, he must keep himself continuously occupied ”

“ But for Basil, who was in Salonica, the party would be complete; and Eric felt a moment's compunction at having allowed himself to be so much caught up by the work and distractions of London. When the car stopped at the door of the Mill-House, he looked with affection at its squat, sleepy extent, punctuated with lifeless, dark windows and wrapped in age-long slumber; as the door opened, he saw{90} his mother silhouetted against the golden light of the hall.
"At last, Eric!" she cried.
"It's good to be home again, mother," he answered, jumping out of the car and embracing her. ”

“ Eric led her into the dining-room and gave her a tumbler of soda-water with a hand that trembled.{43}
She had taken him by surprise as much as if she had struck him in the face. Incuriosity and fastidiousness, partly timid, partly romantic, had conspired to let him reach the age of two-and-thirty without ever kissing or being kissed. The act, now that he had experienced it, was nothing. A warm body, yielding in self-surrender, had pressed against him for a moment ”

“ There was no call from Barbara in the morning, neither note nor meeting throughout the day and no call at night. Such a thing had never happened before; there might be some occult cause of offence; his experience of Barbara taught Eric that she would cease to sulk when she wanted him; it was his experience of all women that none repaid a man the trouble of trying to understand her moods. Thursday was like Wednesday (and he knew that she was not returning to Crawleigh until Saturday) ; Friday was like Thursday—until the evening, when he nervously entered the Thespian Club as guest of honour. ”

“ He broke off and waved to a taxi which was rolling lazily down Whitehall. "I must go and see my own man. Good-bye."
"Good-bye! Good luck!" Eric cried.
As he walked home he wondered how much composure he would shew if a sentence of death were slapped at him like an overdue bill. He wondered, too, what he would do with those testing, supreme three months, if they were all that he was allowed. Stoicism, hedonism, the faith of his childhood, new-fangled mysticisms would join hands and hold revel round his soul for those twelve weeks, those eighty-four days, those two thousand and sixteen hours.... ”

“ The intermittent presence of the maid, rather than any state of mental satisfaction in Eric, kept the conversation peaceful. He almost forgot the annoyances of the last week in watching Barbara's delighted enjoyment of a new experience so trivial as dining with him for the first time in his own flat. Nothing escaped her curious notice—a wine that he gave her to try with the scallops, the Lashmar chrysanthemums in a flat, blue-glass bowl, the unaging pleasure of an invisibly lighted room, Australian passion-fruit at dessert, a new artist's proof.... ”

“ Lord Ettrick wrinkled his forehead in surprise and shook his head with a grim smile.
"Then, my young friend, if that's your ambition, you're not going the right way about it. I'm too busy by day to go out much at night, but any time during the last month or two ... You know how people talk; and you're both of you pretty well known." Eric's look of mortification roused him to a more conciliatory tone. "It's done now, and, if it doesn't blow over, you'll only have yourself to{154} thank. I wouldn't have mentioned the subject, if I thought it was going to spoil your dinner. ”

“ Eric walked up the familiar stairs, with the august butler, at whose nod or frown he had once trembled, turning at intervals to impart confidences from the advantageous height of an advance stair. ("We" had only come back the day before and were, on the whole, better for the change. He was afraid her ladyship would hardly be dressed yet.... If Mr. Lane did not mind waiting a moment.... There was the evening paper....) Eric settled himself with a comfortable sense of home-coming, his eyes on Barbara's bedroom door, wondering how she would greet him. ”

“ Then she stepped out and told the driver to go back to Belgrave Square for Mrs. O'Rane.
It was a moon-lit night between half-past eleven and twelve. Ryder Street had roused to life with a widely-spaced but steady stream of men returning to bed from Pall Mall and sparing the fag-end of their attention for the unexpected tall girl who stood wrapped in a long silk shawl in the shadow of a bachelor door-way. The brougham turned round and drove away. Eric lighted another cigarette.
"Am I right in thinking that you're being obstinate?" Barbara enquired after some moments of silence. ”

“ The corridors and stairs were wrapped in warm darkness, and, after one stumble, Eric felt a hand running down his sleeve and twining round his fingers.
"Are you angry with me?" Barbara whispered. "You were so grumpy in the taxi. And I made such a success of your lunch. Mr. Manders and Mr. Grierson loved me, and I made even you smile."
Eric tried to locate Manders in the velvety darkness before replying.
"You were very amusing," he answered unenthusiastically. "But it's possible to be amusing even when you're making rather a nuisance of yourself to several very busy men." ”

“ He flapped the script impatiently on his knee as the now familiar knock of Eric's parlour-maid was heard yet again.
"Lady Barbara Neave to see you, sir," she whispered a little breathlessly.
"Will you please say that I can't possibly see any one?" Eric answered curtly. "Tell her that two gentlemen have come to see me on business. Ask her to leave a message."
He turned to find Manders smiling, as though to say, "Why didn't you tell us? We should have understood. We're men of the world." ”

“ Then he threw himself in shirt and trousers on the bed and buried his face in his hands.
"A man does not continue drinking corked champagne. With women, his palate is less critical."—From the Diary of Eric Lane. ”

“ Eric looked at the photograph on the mantel-piece before sitting down.
"He was the greatest friend I ever had," he answered wistfully. "An unusual character. If you liked him, he could make you do anything he pleased.... Did you see much of him? His sister was surprised to find that you knew him."
Barbara finished her soup without answering. Then, as Eric took away her empty plate, she looked up at him with a slight frown of perplexity.
"Did he never mention me to you?" she asked. "Somehow—I thought you understood, Eric. Didn't any one else tell you? ”

“ Lady Crawleigh was timorous and subdued, with an air of having been all her life interrupted in the middle of her sentences and with a compensating pair of flashing pigeon's eyes which seemed to miss nothing.
"I'm so glad Babs gave us the opportunity of meeting you," she said to Eric. "I enjoyed your play so much. Your first, wasn't it? It must be a glorious sensation to make such a success at the outset."
("She takes in a thousand times more than she ever gives out," Eric said to himself; then he found himself being spun through the rest of the family. "Wonder what she does with it?") ”

“ The new Byron would achieve an effect, if he gained the reputation of always being ten minutes late for everything; but the pose offended Eric's sense of tidiness. Signing his letters, he ripped open half-a-dozen envelopes and glanced at the contents, pushed the news-cutting album neatly into its shelf and hurried into his bedroom with a glass of sherry in his hand.
It was time to order a taxi, and a tall Scotch parlour-maid, of whom he lived in secret dread, came in answer to his ring. He would have preferred a man, but men were unprocurable in war-time. ”