The Patrician eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 339 pages of information about The Patrician.

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!

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The Patrician from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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