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The clock over the stables was chiming seven when Miltoun and Barbara
passed out of the tall iron gates, in their swift-moving small world,
that smelled faintly of petrol. Though the cab was closed, light
spurts of rain drifted in through the open windows, refreshing the
girl's hot face, relieving a little her dread of this drive. For,
now that Fate had been really cruel, now that it no longer lay in
Miltoun's hands to save himself from suffering, her heart bled for
him; and she remembered to forget herself. The immobility with which
he had received her intrusion, was ominous. And though silent in her
corner, she was desperately working all her woman's wits to discover
a way of breaking into the house of his secret mood. He appeared not
even to have noticed that they had turned their backs on London, and
passed into Richmond Park.

Here the trees, made dark by rain, seemed to watch gloomily the
progress of this whirring-wheeled red box, unreconciled even yet to
such harsh intruders on their wind-scented tranquillity. And the
deer, pursuing happiness on the sweet grasses, raised disquieted
noses, as who should say: Poisoners of the fern, defilers of the
trails of air!

Barbara vaguely felt the serenity out there in the clouds, and the
trees, and wind. If it would but creep into this dim, travelling
prison, and help her; if it would but come, like sleep, and steal
away dark sorrow, and in one moment make grief-joy. But it stayed
outside on its wistful wings; and that grand chasm which yawns
between soul and soul remained unbridged. For what could she say?
How make him speak of what he was going to do? What alternatives
indeed were now before him? Would he sullenly resign his seat, and
wait till he could find Audrey Noel again? But even if he did find
her, they would only be where they were. She had gone, in order not
to be a drag on him--it would only be the same thing all over again!
Would he then, as Granny had urged him, put on his armour, and go
down into the fight? But that indeed would mean the end, for if she
had had the strength to go away now, she would surely never come back
and break in on his life a second time. And a grim thought swooped
down on Barbara. What if he resigned everything! Went out into the
dark! Men did sometimes--she knew--caught like this in the full
flush of passion. But surely not Miltoun, with his faith! 'If the
lark's song means nothing--if that sky is a morass of our invention--
if we are pettily creeping on, furthering nothing--persuade me of it,
Babs, and I'll bless you.' But had he still that anchorage, to
prevent him slipping out to sea? This sudden thought of death to one
for whom life was joy, who had never even seen the Great Stillness,
was very terrifying. She fixed her eyes on the back of the
chauffeur, in his drab coat with the red collar, finding some comfort
in its solidity. They were in a taxi-cab, in Richmond Park! Death-
incongruous, incredible death! It was stupid to be frightened! She
forced herself to look at Miltoun. He seemed to be asleep; his eyes
were closed, his arms folded--only a quivering of his eyelids
betrayed him. Impossible to tell what was going on in that grim
waking sleep, which made her feel that she was not there at all, so
utterly did he seem withdrawn into himself!

He opened his eyes, and said suddenly:

"So you think I'm going to lay hands on myself, Babs?"

Horribly startled by this reading of her thoughts, Barbara could only
edge away and stammer:

"No; oh, no!"

"Where are we going in this thing?"

"Nettlefold. Would you like him stopped?"

"It will do as well as anywhere."

Terrified lest he should relapse into that grim silence, she timidly
possessed herself of his hand.

It was fast growing dark; the cab, having left the villas of Surbiton
behind, was flying along at great speed among pine-trees and
stretches of heather gloomy with faded daylight.

Miltoun said presently, in a queer, slow voice "If I want, I have
only to open that door and jump. You who believe that 'to-morrow we
die'--give me the faith to feel that I can free myself by that jump,
and out I go!" Then, seeming to pity her terrified squeeze of his
hand, he added: "It's all right, Babs; we, shall sleep comfortably
enough in our beds tonight."

But, so desolate to the girl was his voice, that she hoped now for

"Let us be skinned quietly," muttered Miltoun, "if nothing else.
Sorry to have disturbed you."

Pressing close up to him, Barbara murmured:

"If only---- Talk to me!".

But Miltoun, though he stroked her hand, was silent.

The cab, moving at unaccustomed speed along these deserted roads,
moaned dismally; and Barbara was possessed now by a desire which she
dared not put in practice, to pull his head down, and rock it against
her. Her heart felt empty, and timid; to have something warm resting
on it would have made all the difference. Everything real,
substantial, comforting, seemed to have slipped away. Among these
flying dark ghosts of pine-trees--as it were the unfrequented
borderland between two worlds--the feeling of a cheek against her
breast alone could help muffle the deep disquiet in her, lost like a
child in a wood.

The cab slackened speed, the driver was lighting his lamps; and his
red face appeared at the window.

"We'll 'ave to stop here, miss; I'm out of petrol. Will you get some
dinner, or go through?"

"Through," answered Barbara:

While they were passing the little their, buying then petrol, asking
the way, she felt less miserable, and even looked about her with a
sort of eagerness. Then when they had started again, she thought: If
I could get him to sleep--the sea will comfort him! But his eyes
were staring, wide-open. She feigned sleep herself; letting her head
slip a little to one side, causing small sounds of breathing to
escape. The whirring of the wheels, the moaning of the cab joints,
the dark trees slipping by, the scent of the wet fern drifting in,
all these must surely help! And presently she felt that he was
indeed slipping into darkness--and then-she felt nothing.

When she awoke from the sleep into which she had seen Miltoun fall,
the cab was slowly mounting a steep hill, above which the moon had
risen. The air smelled strong and sweet, as though it had passed
over leagues of grass.

"The Downs!" she thought; "I must have been asleep!"

In sudden terror, she looked round for Miltoun. But he was still
there, exactly as before, leaning back rigid in his corner of the
cab, with staring eyes, and no other signs of life. And still only
half awake, like a great warm sleepy child startled out of too deep
slumber, she clutched, and clung to him. The thought that he had
been sitting like that, with his spirit far away, all the time that
she had been betraying her watch in sleep, was dreadful. But to her
embrace there was no response, and awake indeed now, ashamed, sore,
Barbara released him, and turned her face to the air.

Out there, two thin, dense-black, long clouds, shaped like the wings
of a hawk, had joined themselves together, so that nothing of the
moon showed but a living brightness imprisoned, like the eyes and
life of a bird, between those swift sweeps of darkness. This great
uncanny spirit, brooding malevolent over the high leagues of moon-wan
grass, seemed waiting to swoop, and pluck up in its talons, and
devour, all that intruded on the wild loneness of these far-up plains
of freedom. Barbara almost expected to hear coming from it the lost
whistle of the buzzard hawks. And her dream came back to her. Where
were her wings-the wings that in sleep had borne her to the stars;
the wings that would never lift her--waking--from the ground? Where
too were Miltoun's wings? She crouched back into her corner; a tear
stole up and trickled out between her closed lids-another and another
followed. Faster and faster they came. Then she felt Miltoun's arm
round her, and heard him say: "Don't cry, Babs!" Instinct telling
her what to do, she laid her head against his chest, and sobbed
bitterly. Struggling with those sobs, she grew less and less
unhappy--knowing that he could never again feel quite so desolate, as
before he tried to give her comfort. It was all a bad dream, and
they would soon wake from it! And they would be happy; as happy as
they had been before--before these last months! And she whispered:

"Only a little while, Eusty!"

The Patrician by John Galsworthy

General Fiction
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