CHAPTER 19.
With a shock of dismay so abrupt and overwhelming that it was likea physical injury, George became aware that something was wrong.Even as he gripped her, Maud had stiffened with a sharp cry; andnow she was struggling, trying to wrench herself free. She brokeaway from him. He could hear her breathing hard.
"You--you----" She gulped.
"Maud!"
"How dare you!"
There was a pause that seemed to George to stretch on and onendlessly. The rain pattered on the leaky roof. Somewhere in thedistance a dog howled dismally. The darkness pressed down like ablanket, stifling thought.
"Good night, Mr. Bevan." Her voice was ice. "I didn't think youwere--that kind of man."
She was moving toward the door; and, as she reached it, George'sstupor left him. He came back to life with a jerk, shaking fromhead to foot. All his varied emotions had become one emotion--acold fury.
"Stop!"
Maud stopped. Her chin was tilted, and she was wasting a balefulglare on the darkness.
"Well, what is it?"
Her tone increased George's wrath. The injustice of it made himdizzy. At that moment he hated her. He was the injured party. Itwas he, not she, that had been deceived and made a fool of.
"I want to say something before you go."
"I think we had better say no more about it!"
By the exercise of supreme self-control George kept himself fromspeaking until he could choose milder words than those that rushedto his lips.
"I think we will!" he said between his teeth.
Maud's anger became tinged with surprise. Now that the first shockof the wretched episode was over, the calmer half of her mind wasendeavouring to soothe the infuriated half by urging that George'sbehaviour had been but a momentary lapse, and that a man may losehis head for one wild instant, and yet remain fundamentally agentleman and a friend. She had begun to remind herself that thisman had helped her once in trouble, and only a day or two beforehad actually risked his life to save her from embarrassment. Whenshe heard him call to her to stop, she supposed that his betterfeelings had reasserted themselves; and she had prepared herself toreceive with dignity a broken, stammered apology. But the voicethat had just spoken with a crisp, biting intensity was not thevoice of remorse. It was a very angry man, not a penitent one, whowas commanding--not begging--her to stop and listen to him.
"Well?" she said again, more coldly this time. She was quite unableto understand this attitude of his. She was the injured party. Itwas she, not he who had trusted and been betrayed.
"I should like to explain."
"Please do not apologize."
George ground his teeth in the gloom.
"I haven't the slightest intention of apologizing. I said I wouldlike to explain. When I have finished explaining, you can go."
"I shall go when I please," flared Maud.
This man was intolerable.
"There is nothing to be afraid of. There will be no repetition ofthe--incident."
Maud was outraged by this monstrous misinterpretation of her words.
"I am not afraid!"
"Then, perhaps, you will be kind enough to listen. I won't detainyou long. My explanation is quite simple. I have been made a foolof. I seem to be in the position of the tinker in the play whomeverybody conspired to delude into the belief that he was a king.First a friend of yours, Mr. Byng, came to me and told me that youhad confided to him that you loved me."
Maud gasped. Either this man was mad, or Reggie Byng was. Shechoose the politer solution.
"Reggie Byng must have lost his senses."
"So I supposed. At least, I imagined that he must be mistaken. But aman in love is an optimistic fool, of course, and I had loved youever since you got into my cab that morning . . ."
"What!"
"So after a while," proceeded George, ignoring the interruption, "Ialmost persuaded myself that miracles could still happen, and thatwhat Byng said was true. And when your father called on me and toldme the very same thing I was convinced. It seemed incredible, but Ihad to believe it. Now it seems that, for some inscrutable reason,both Byng and your father were making a fool of me. That's all.Good night."
Maud's reply was the last which George or any man would haveexpected. There was a moment's silence, and then she burst into apeal of laughter. It was the laughter of over-strained nerves, butto George's ears it had the ring of genuine amusement.
"I'm glad you find my story entertaining," he said dryly. He wasconvinced now that he loathed this girl, and that all he desiredwas to see her go out of his life for ever. "Later, no doubt, thefunny side of it will hit me. Just at present my sense of humour israther dormant."
Maud gave a little cry.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Mr. Bevan. It wasn't that. It wasn't thatat all. Oh, I am so sorry. I don't know why I laughed. It certainlywasn't because I thought it funny. It's tragic. There's been adreadful mistake!"
"I noticed that," said George bitterly. The darkness began toafflict his nerves. "I wish to God we had some light."
The glare of a pocket-torch smote upon him.
"I brought it to see my way back with," said Maud in a curious,small voice. "It's very dark across the fields. I didn't light itbefore, because I was afraid somebody might see."
She came towards him, holding the torch over her head. The beamshowed her face, troubled and sympathetic, and at the sight allGeorge's resentment left him. There were mysteries here beyond hisunravelling, but of one thing he was certain: this girl was not toblame. She was a thoroughbred, as straight as a wand. She was puregold.
"I came here to tell you everything," she said. She placed thetorch on the wagon-wheel so that its ray fell in a pool of light onthe ground between them. "I'll do it now. Only--only it isn't soeasy now. Mr. Bevan, there's a man--there's a man that father andReggie Byng mistook--they thought . . . You see, they knew it wasyou that I was with that day in the cab, and so they naturallythought, when you came down here, that you were the man I had goneto meet that day--the man I--I--"
"The man you love."
"Yes," said Maud in a small voice; and there was silence again.
George could feel nothing but sympathy. It mastered other emotionin him, even the grey despair that had come her words. He couldfeel all that she was feeling.
"Tell me all about it," he said.
"I met him in Wales last year." Maud's voice was a whisper. "Thefamily found out, and I was hurried back here, and have been hereever since. That day when I met you I had managed to slip away fromhome. I had found out that he was in London, and I was going tomeet him. Then I saw Percy, and got into your cab. It's all been ahorrible mistake. I'm sorry."
"I see," said George thoughtfully. "I see."
His heart ached like a living wound. She had told so little, andhe could guess so much. This unknown man who had triumphed seemedto sneer scornfully at him from the shadows.
"I'm sorry," said Maud again.
"You mustn't feel like that. How can I help you? That's the point.What is it you want me to do?"
"But I can't ask you now."
"Of course you can. Why not?"
"Why--oh, I couldn't!"
George managed to laugh. It was a laugh that did not soundconvincing even to himself, but it served.
"That's morbid," he said. "Be sensible. You need help, and I may beable to give it. Surely a man isn't barred for ever from doing youa service just because he happens to love you? Suppose you weredrowning and Mr. Plummer was the only swimmer within call, wouldn'tyou let him rescue you?"
"Mr. Plummer? What do you mean?"
"You've not forgotten that I was a reluctant ear-witness to hisrecent proposal of marriage?"
Maud uttered an exclamation.
"I never asked! How terrible of me. Were you much hurt?"
"Hurt?" George could not follow her.
"That night. When you were on the balcony, and--"
"Oh!" George understood. "Oh, no, hardly at all. A few
scratches. Iscraped my hands a little."
"It was a wonderful thing to do," said Maud, her admiration glowingfor a man who could treat such a leap so lightly. She had alwayshad a private theory that Lord Leonard, after performing the samefeat, had bragged about it for the rest of his life.
"No, no, nothing," said George, who had since wondered why he hadever made such a to-do about climbing up a perfectly stout sheet.
"It was splendid!"
George blushed.
"We are wandering from the main theme," he said. "I want to helpyou. I came here at enormous expense to help you. How can I doit?"
Maud hesitated.
"I think you may be offended at my asking such a thing."
"You needn't."
"You see, the whole trouble is that I can't get in touch withGeoffrey. He's in London, and I'm here. And any chance I might haveof getting to London vanished that day I met you, when Percy saw mein Piccadilly."
"How did your people find out it was you?"
"They asked me--straight out."
"And you owned up?"
"I had to. I couldn't tell them a direct lie."
George thrilled. This was the girl he had had doubts of.
"So than it was worse then ever," continued Maud. "I daren't riskwriting to Geoffrey and having the letter intercepted. I waswondering--I had the idea almost as soon as I found that you hadcome here--"
"You want me to take a letter from you and see that it reaches him.And then he can write back to my address, and I can smuggle theletter to you?"
"That's exactly what I do want. But I almost didn't like to ask."
"Why not? I'll be delighted to do it."
"I'm so grateful."
"Why, it's nothing. I thought you were going to ask me to look inon your brother and smash another of his hats."
Maud laughed delightedly. The whole tension of the situation hadbeen eased for her. More and more she found herself liking George.Yet, deep down in her, she realized with a pang that for him therehad been no easing of the situation. She was sad for George. ThePlummers of this world she had consigned to what they declaredwould be perpetual sorrow with scarcely a twinge of regret. ButGeorge was different.
"Poor Percy!" she said. "I don't suppose he'll ever get over it. Hewill have other hats, but it won't be the same." She came back tothe subject nearest her heart. "Mr. Bevan, I wonder if you would dojust a little more for me?"
"If it isn't criminal. Or, for that matter, if it is."
"Could you go to Geoffrey, and see him, and tell him all about meand--and come back and tell me how he looks, and what he saidand--and so on?"
"Certainly. What is his name, and where do I find him?"
"I never told you. How stupid of me. His name is Geoffrey Raymond,and he lives with his uncle, Mr. Wilbur Raymond, at 11a, BelgraveSquare."
"I'll go to him tomorrow."
"Thank you ever so much."
George got up. The movement seemed to put him in touch with theouter world. He noticed that the rain had stopped, and that starshad climbed into the oblong of the doorway. He had an impressionthat he had been in the barn a very long time; and confirmed thiswith a glance at his watch, though the watch, he felt, understatedthe facts by the length of several centuries. He was abstainingfrom too close an examination of his emotions from a prudentfeeling that he was going to suffer soon enough without assistancefrom himself.
"I think you had better be going back," he said. "It's rather late.They may be missing you."
Maud laughed happily.
"I don't mind now what they do. But I suppose dinners must bedressed for, whatever happens." They moved together to the door."What a lovely night after all! I never thought the rain would stopin this world. It's like when you're unhappy and think it's goingon for ever."
"Yes," said George.
Maud held out her hand.
"Good night, Mr. Bevan."
"Good night."
He wondered if there would be any allusion to the earlier passagesof their interview. There was none. Maud was of the class whoseeducation consists mainly of a training in the delicate ignoring ofdelicate situations.
"Then you will go and see Geoffrey?"
"Tomorrow."
"Thank you ever so much."
"Not at all."
George admired her. The little touch of formality which she hadcontrived to impart to the conversation struck just the right note,created just the atmosphere which would enable them to part withoutweighing too heavily on the deeper aspect of that parting.
"You're a real friend, Mr. Bevan."
"Watch me prove it."
"Well, I must rush, I suppose. Good night!"
"Good night!"
She moved off quickly across the field. Darkness covered her. Thedog in the distance had begun to howl again. He had his troubles,too.