Heartbeat :: :: By 
 
 Stacy Aumonier :: Author of One 
 
 After Another,'* ''The Love a Duck!* &c. 
 
 V 
 
 LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO. 
 PATERNOSTER ROW 
 
CfG7^ 
 
 
 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Book I. 
 
 Diastole 
 
 Book II. 
 
 Systole 
 
 Book III. 
 
 Diastole 
 
 h- 
 
 ^ 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
HEARTBEAT 
 
 BOOK I.— DIASTOLE 
 
 I. 
 
 Outside the window a starling uttered a long 
 deep note, then fluttered away. In the twilight 
 of her mind some chord of gratitude responded. 
 She was conscious of the pleasant sense of 
 delightful coming things. . . . Something 
 tremendous and moving occurring deep down 
 within herself, and she enjoying the cosy contem- 
 plation of it. They say this is the hour when 
 people usually choose to die, when the vitality is 
 at its lowest; perhaps it is only shifting from one 
 plane to another. The vitality of Barbara was 
 certainly very pronounced, long before it shifted 
 to the plane of actual consciousness. Rich and 
 full were the anticipations and visions which 
 crowded upon her. When the daylight came, and 
 she had washed and dressed and gone out into the 
 sun, you could see the reflection of them in those 
 profoundly questioning, profoundly vivid eyes. 
 
 3 A2 
 
 5232G1 
 
4 HEARTBEAT 
 
 The young are so closely in touch with their inner 
 selves that it is only the external things they ques- 
 tion, the things which threaten to re-act upon 
 themselves, to harden them. 
 
 The starling did not come again; doubtless he 
 had other sleepers to warn of the miracle of the 
 sun's approach, and they in the exact measure of 
 their true or false visions would welcome or 
 execrate him. Her father, that man of almost 
 unfathomable dignity, the holder of high office 
 under the Crown — how would the warning of the 
 starling affect him ? . . . Barbara was too far 
 away to concern herself with such an imponder- 
 able question. She had the genius of happiness. 
 
 Several hours elapsed before the chain of visions 
 snapped abruptly, caused by a maid opening the 
 door quietly. She had come to awaken the young 
 mistress. In a flash Barbara was awake in every 
 living tissue. A crowd of definite facts leapt to 
 the fore-front of her mind. They took somewhat 
 this order : Yesterday had been her twentieth 
 birthday. It was over, but there were crowds of 
 things to look forward to. Billy Hamaton and 
 the Stradling girls were coming to spend the day. 
 Daddy was going to town after breakfasti and 
 wouldn't be back for a week. She had a pony, a 
 real live pony of her own, given her by her father 
 yesterday. Its name was Tarbrush. These 
 thoughts crowded upon each other while she was 
 speaking. 
 
 ** Good morning, Sally." 
 
 ** Good morning, miss.'* 
 
 *' Is it going to be fine, Sally ? '' 
 
HEARTBEAT 
 
 tt 
 
 I shouldn^t like to say, miss. It's all right at 
 present — a bit misty." 
 
 Sally was a born pessimist. She could always 
 find a cloud or a mist about somewhere. When 
 she had retired, Barbara assured herself with 
 regard to the dubious weather forecast by lean- 
 ing out of the window in her nightdress. She 
 knew by experience that it was the kind of day 
 likely to be fine. A slow-moving day, with a thin 
 white mist that would lift later, and leave a scorch- 
 ing sun to do its worst. Poor daddy ! What a 
 curious idea for Parliament to sit in August, when 
 all the schools and colleges and everything else 
 of the kind were shut ! Surely those old gentle- 
 men, who were mostly like her father, well-to-do, 
 comfort-loving old gentlemen, could make what 
 times they liked ! If I was Parliament I should 
 break up in early July, she thought. And then — 
 w^ell, after all, July is very jolly, and so is June, 
 and May. Why not sit in the winter, when it's 
 wet and foggy ? How jolly the lavender smelt 
 in the bed beneath her window, and — yes, there 
 was Beal already rolling the tennis-lawn while the 
 dew was upon it. . . . 
 
 II. 
 
 There was something about the tenuous lines of 
 the girl's body as she darted about the room — 
 immature, like the quivering bud of a plant that 
 has never seen the sun except through glass. Her 
 movements were eager and vital . . . 
 
6 HEARTBEAT 
 
 epicene, indeed almost boyish. She might have 
 been a boy of seventeen rather than a girl of 
 twenty. Even the face was boyish, a pretty, 
 effeminate boy. Her dark hair was caught tight 
 back from the forehead and hung in a long plait 
 down her back. The business of bathing, un- 
 doing the plait, brushing out the hair, donning a 
 rather shapeless print frock, was all done in the 
 manner of a boy late for school. Some of the 
 boyishness may have been due to the fact that in 
 her curiously detached life she had many people 
 to spoil her and no one to spoil. She was her 
 own mother, and sister, and brother. Her father 
 was so much away. Mrs. Tollboy, the house- 
 keeper, and Miss Ridde, her tutor, were kindness 
 itself, but for neither of them had she any deep 
 affection. She lived for herself. She had no 
 recollection of her mother at all; neither did her 
 father ever mention her. Between her father 
 and herself there were strange little chasms of 
 reserve. Many years previously, when quite a 
 little girl, she had been taken by Miss Ridde to the 
 House of Commons to hear her father speak. He 
 was a very important man. Miss Ridde said he 
 was a Chancellor, whatever that was. He had 
 charge of all the money in the country — millions 
 and millions. The knowledge had impressed her 
 enormously. She deduced the fact that if he had 
 charge of all the money in the country he must 
 be the one man that everybody trusted most. If 
 he had millions and millions to look after, it would 
 be so easy to help himself to a little — say, a pound, 
 or perhaps half-a-crown. No one could surely 
 
HEARTBEAT 7 
 
 ever find out. She had no strong moral bias 
 about these things. She had been brought up to 
 take anything she wanted. But if the knowledge 
 of his position and power impressed her, the sight 
 of him in the House was a thing she would never 
 forget. The memory of it was one of the causes 
 of the Httle chasms. There were rows and rows 
 of middle-aged and elderly men solemnly listen- 
 ing to her father as he stood by a table, holding 
 a sheaf of papers in his hand. He looked exactly 
 the same as he did at home. It was the setting 
 which made him appear more impressive. A 
 loose, badly-fitting frock-coat hung in swathes 
 and pendulous masses about his vast person; 
 chains and signets dangled between the crevices 
 in his waistcoat. His heavy, melancholy face, 
 with the deep bags beneath the eyes, and the great 
 dome of a forehead, gave an atmosphere of com- 
 plete immersion in his subject, of complete aloof- 
 ness from his surroundings. The deep boom of 
 his tired voice filled the great hall with effortless 
 ease, as he developed the scheme of his ponderous 
 economies. Sometimes a ripple of applause 
 would run round the hall ; at other times from odd 
 corners would come murmurs of dissent; but he 
 seemed to be quite unconscious of either interrup- 
 tion. Once a thick-set man with a grey beard 
 addressed a long remark to him in a strident 
 voice. Her father placed one of his large fat 
 fingers on a certain place on the sheet of notes 
 before him, and turned his gloomy face in the 
 direction of the speaker. His face expressed 
 neither annoyance nor approval. He was 
 
8 HEARTBEAT 
 
 apparently carefully weighing the value of the 
 interruption. Satisfying himself that the remark 
 was not '' germane to the subject/' he continued 
 his discourse in the same imperturbable accents. 
 At moments he became husky and wheezy, and he 
 blew his nose in a languid tornado of sound in 
 identically the same way she had seen him do in 
 the dining-room at home after breakfast. The 
 speech seemed interminable, and quite incompre- 
 hensible. Occasionally he would put the papers 
 down and, leaning heavily with one hand on the 
 table in front of him and the other thrust into the 
 sleeve-opening of his waistcoat, he would wander 
 off into a maze of figures, and averages, and per- 
 centages, all quoted from memory. Barbara felt 
 a great desire to call out : '' That is my father f '' 
 but she dreaded the vision of all those bald-headed 
 and solemn-looking men looking up at her It 
 was not exactly pride that she felt, but an 
 mstmct to enlarge the claims of her possessive 
 
 sense. 
 
 III. 
 
 Curiously enough, this experience did not tend 
 to augment her sympathy with him. At the time 
 he appeared sufficiently impressive, but after- 
 wards, when she beheld him in their own home be- 
 having in the same way, talking to the same kind 
 of men on the same or similar themes, she could 
 not shake off the effect of some overpowering and 
 passionless fate. In his attitude towards her he 
 
HEARTBEAT 9 
 
 expressed an enveloping affection, within the con- 
 fines of an elaborately-thought-out code. She 
 knew that he took infinite pains working out the 
 meticulous programme of her welfare. He 
 looked far ahead, and allowed for every conceiv- 
 able eventuality. He protected her from the 
 buffets of worldly friction by a wide fortification 
 of considered training and physical detachment — 
 High Barrow, where they lived, was thirty miles 
 from London; their neighbours were families of 
 gentle birth and culture. In spite of this, she did 
 not know her father at all. She doubted whether 
 anyone knew him. He kissed her night and 
 morning. He called her brief, endearing names. 
 He humoured her follies and her wilfulness. He 
 never upbraided or scolded her; and yet at times 
 he had a way of regarding her through half-closed 
 eyes, as though he had observed her for the first 
 time, and was considering whether she herself was 
 really ** germane to the subject.'* The sensation 
 made her feel like an interrupter who has hazarded 
 a foolish remark. 
 
 It was probably partly due to this attitude and 
 partly to her environment that at the age of 
 twenty she was like a boy of seventeen, a rather 
 selfish, very wilful, impressionable, not very 
 well-informed schoolboy. For it must be 
 observed that as an instructress Miss Ridde was 
 not very convincing. Thomas Powerscourt's 
 instructions to her had been to '' teach his 
 daughter all the elementary subjects, but under 
 no circumstances to teach her music, or to allow 
 her to attend concerts or theatres." 
 
lo HEARTBEAT 
 
 As Miss Ridde knew no music and her know- 
 ledge was essentially elementary, she found no 
 difficulty in following these instructions. She 
 often cogitated upon the queer embargo upon 
 music and drama, but it was not her business to 
 question. The situation was a well-paid sinecure, 
 and, except for wilful moods, Barbara was a 
 pleasant companion, one who preferred games 
 and amusement to work. In any dispute Miss 
 Ridde always gave in to her pupil. She had not 
 attempted to give her lessons for years. 
 Occasionally they read something together, or 
 discussed safe subjects in a pleasant, tentative 
 way. Miss Ridde was a very useful person. She 
 had quite a genius for self-effacement. 
 
 The character of Mrs. Tollboy was more asser- 
 tive, but it was one of her proudest boasts that 
 ** she knew her place.*' Her respect for Thomas 
 Powerscourt amounted to reverential awe, and 
 Barbara was his daughter. Her aunts, Jenny 
 and Laura, paid fugitive visits. They, too, were 
 under the spell of their brother's astounding 
 reputation, and they appeared to adopt towards 
 her a similar attitude of reserve. She felt that 
 she would never get to know them. Both rather 
 fragile old ladies, they made no attempt to 
 influence or interfere with her way of life. And 
 the girl had a great capacity for living. She 
 crowded her day with pleasant occupations, 
 riding, walking, games, lying in the sun, 
 dreaming. She quickly acquired the social 
 habit. Among the numerous friends who 
 lived near by she soon detected a kind of herd- 
 
HEARTBEAT ii 
 
 instinct for doing a certain thing- in a certain way, 
 and she herself acquired this habit. There was a 
 strong convention of thought and behaviour, 
 never openly acknowledged, but nevertheless 
 relentless. In these circles she even found the 
 figure of her father, in spite of his distinguished 
 attributes, somewhat gauche. He was not 
 assimilable. These people visited him, and on 
 occasions he visited them; but in either case the 
 visit was a Dead-Sea-fruit adventure. His 
 manners were courteous, and his conversation 
 irreproachably correct, intelligent ; but he had that 
 faculty of listening without hearing, and of talk- 
 ing as though his mind were actively engaged 
 elsewhere. 
 
 In spite of a certain ingrained affection for her 
 father, therefore, it was always with a slight feel- 
 ing of relief that she heard, as on this morning, 
 that he was going away. His presence acted 
 more as a check upon her freedom of thought 
 than on her freedom of action. When at home 
 he left her entirely to her own devices, but she 
 could not avoid the pervading consciousness of 
 his unexpressed critical perceptions. Sometimes 
 she wished he would get angry with her, order her 
 to do this or that, display some evidence or dis- 
 approval of her numerous delinquencies. His 
 passivity dulled the flow of her quickly-moving 
 thoughts. Like all young and healthy people, 
 she conceived happiness an affair of escaping from 
 the actuality of her environment. She saw her- 
 self objectively a creature participating in the 
 delights of a thousand romantic episodes, her 
 
12 HEARTBEAT 
 
 mind coloured by the chromatic tissues of fiction. 
 She and Miss Ridde read a great deal of fiction — 
 Dumas and Charles Reade, Victor Hugo, Steven- 
 son, Daudet and Thackeray. Her tendencies 
 were not neurotic. Love with her was essentially 
 an affair of chivalry, brave deeds and self-sacrifice. 
 Her tastes were masculine. Stevenson's pirates 
 and Dumas* adventurers meant more to her than 
 erotic imaginings. She admired those aristo- 
 cratic women who overthrew kings and cardinals 
 and married some simple fellow in the end. At 
 the back of it all there lurked the ever-recurring 
 impulse to probe experience, to thrill with the 
 responsibility of quick decision ; above all, to have 
 a good time. She was not unaware of the good 
 times to be had surreptitiously in her father's 
 house. Sometimes she felt herself an inter- 
 loper, as though she were there under false 
 pretences. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Her father was eating kidneys and bacon — a 
 favourite dish. She kissed him lightly on the 
 brow, and he wiped his mouth with his napkin, 
 rumbling : 
 
 Well, my dear- 
 
 << ixr^ii .^„ A^^^ yy 
 
 On the other side of the table was a young 
 secretary, a beautifully-groomed, rather super- 
 cilious young man, who said alertly : 
 
 ** May I fetch you something. Miss Powers- 
 court ? " 
 
HEARTBEAT 13 
 
 She said:. ** Yes, you can, please, Mr. Thorn- 
 ley, ril have some bacon — no kidneys." 
 
 It gave her a sense of satisfaction to be waited 
 on by this well-dressed person. Whilst he dived 
 about amongst the silver dishes on the side table, 
 she said : 
 
 *' All right after last night's depravity, Dad? '' 
 
 ** Yes, my dear. And you? " 
 
 She was all right, of course. But she had 
 asked the question because she could see that her 
 father wasn't. He ought not to be eating kidneys 
 and bacon now. It was a very curious thing 
 about her father. In spite of his aloofness from 
 the ordinary distractions of social life, he was 
 peculiarly attached to the good things of the table. 
 He drank moderately, but he ate to excess. All 
 the doctors told him the same thing. He was 
 always being unwell, and then he liked to 
 visit well-known specialists. He would listen 
 absorbedly to what they told him. He would 
 order an array of bottles of medicine. When 
 they came he would hold them up to the light and 
 examine them. Sometimes he would take a cork 
 out and smell the medicine, but he never drank it. 
 Neither did he ever take the doctor's advice. He 
 went on just the same as usual. But the visit 
 seemed to give him some kind of satisfaction. 
 When on occasions Barbara remonstrated with 
 him about not obeying the doctor's orders, he 
 would look at her with mild surprise, and murmur 
 a dim acquiescence. It was as though he simply 
 had not the power to resist. It seemed strange 
 that a man who had shown such strength of 
 
14 HEARTBEAT 
 
 character in his public life, and was adamant about 
 the nation doing the wise thing for itself, could 
 not resist the oleaginous appeal of a slice of fried 
 ham. 
 
 V. 
 
 Cicely and Jean Stradling were her chief fellow- 
 conspirators in this enterprise of robbing the 
 orchard of experience of its choicest fruit. Both 
 pretty, companionable girls about her own age, 
 daughters of a wealthy Justice of the Peace, 
 incorrigibly high-spirited, quick and clever, they 
 brought her the satisfying friction of social con- 
 tact, the narcotic of adulation. She revelled in 
 their society, adored, schwdrmed, and smothered 
 them with embraces, but, as there was nothing 
 she could give them, they touched her less pro- 
 foundly than she imagined. It was with them, 
 however, that she formed the great conspiracy. 
 It came about through an occurrence at their 
 house which had happened when she was 
 seventeen. 
 
 She had been in a sullen mood one day, un- 
 reasonable and quarrelsome. It was July, and 
 the air was humid and enervating. She had 
 quarrelled with Mrs. Tollboy and been very rude 
 to Miss Ridde, and, to cap all, she felt that the 
 Stradling girls didn't love her. They had some 
 sort of party on, and they hadn't asked her, 
 although their gardens adjoined. She took a 
 book, and went and lay under the mulberry tree. 
 
HEARTBEAT 15 
 
 But even Dumas bored her on this sultry after- 
 noon. She wandered further afield. On the 
 other side of the hedgfe was a green slope fringed 
 by a clump of larch trees. Thither she drifted, 
 and stretched herself luxuriously under their 
 shade. A little later there was a sound of 
 laughter. Cicely and Jean and the boy, Billy 
 Hamaton, came out into the Stradlings* garden. 
 Their high-spirited fooling annoyed her more 
 than ever, and she was about to vanish further 
 amongst the trees when she heard one of them 
 say: 
 
 ** Hullo! there's Barbara." 
 
 She could not pretend she was not there when 
 they called to her. Cicely and Jean were per- 
 fectly friendly. It was probably only by chance 
 that they had not asked her in. Jean cried 
 out: 
 
 '* Oh, do come in, Barbara. We're having a 
 rag.'' 
 
 She did not want to go. She was not in the 
 mood, and she was feeling slightly aggrieved. 
 Nevertheless she answered politely enough, and 
 in a few minutes' time found herself wandering 
 on the Stradlings' lawn. One or two elderly 
 people came out through the French win- 
 dows and talked together in groups. No one 
 was particularly interested in Barbara. She sat 
 on a deck chair on the edge of the lawn. The boy 
 wanted to talk to her, but Cicely and Jean were 
 in one of their giggling moods, and they dragged 
 him to the croquet-lawn, where a game of clock 
 golf was in progress. And then as she sat there 
 
i6 HEARTBEAT 
 
 in idle dejection, there occurred to her one of 
 those little experiences which sometimes affect 
 one's whale life. Through the open doors came 
 the sound of a song. A French girl was singing 
 *' La Pauvre Irm^ocente/* As she listened to the 
 notes of this delightful song, something stirred 
 within her. Her whole nature responded to the 
 melodic appeal. Deep, inexplicable yearnings 
 found their partial solution. She felt intensely 
 happy . . . elated. She dimly realised that 
 during all these years one side of her nature had 
 been starved. And it was her father who was 
 responsible. He had lavished upon her every 
 luxury and comfort except the one thing she 
 needed most profoundly. She began to wonder 
 what was the secret of this deprivation. Why? 
 Why this terrible embargo ? Shewasnotconscious 
 of her loss till that moment, for the reason that 
 she had never before heard music of good enough 
 quality to be moved by it. But on that afternoon 
 she became abruptly aware that it was a bare 
 necessity of existence). When the song was 
 finished her eyes glowed brightly, her breath 
 came in little stabs. She arose and walked away 
 quickly into the woods, her senses tingling with 
 the thrill of her experience. 
 
 When the party was over she went back and 
 visited Cicely and Jean. She had forgiven them 
 for their haphazard invitation. She was affec- 
 tionate and discursive; she told them the exact 
 truth of her experience. In her father's house 
 there was no piano at all, no musical instrument 
 of any kind; music was forbidden. 
 
HEARTBEAT 17 
 
 ' ■ I will neve^ rest/' she concluded, ** till I 
 can sing- like that girl — or better." 
 
 Cicely and Jean were appropriately sympa- 
 thetic. Jean was having music lessons herself 
 from a Miss Trent, who came to her once a week. 
 Why should Barbara not come across and have a 
 lesson at the same time? She could use their 
 piano whenever she liked. But surely, if her 
 father were approached properly, he would only 
 be too delighted — such a kind, generous, easy- 
 going man. Well, Barbara would make one 
 attempt, but she had an ominous presentiment of 
 the result. 
 
 And she was right. He listened puffily to her 
 appeal, moved into the shadow of the window 
 recess, unnerved her with the implication of a 
 long, critical silence, then boomed in the imper- 
 sonal voice of; an oracle (echoing through the 
 hollow gloom of a forgotten temple : 
 
 ** No; I don't wish you to learn music. Why 
 not paint flowers ? *' 
 
 There was something thin, almost callous, in 
 this latter phrase. Paint flowers! Like the 
 oracle, too, it carried with it the weight of 
 ambiguity. 
 
 What did he mean by it? Why should she 
 paint flowers ? What kind of spiritual substitute 
 was this ? It was like offering a nosegay to a 
 tiger, and the man was dismally aware of it. It 
 was the idle, evasive remark of a prisoner fencing 
 for time. 
 
 Barbara would not paint flowers; she would 
 learn tq sing. 
 
 B 
 
i8 HEARTBEAT 
 
 VI. 
 
 That was four years ago. During those four 
 years she had worked secretly at the piano, and 
 at singing. She was no musical genius, but she 
 had a clear, light soprano voice, a good sense of 
 rhythm, an adequate technique for simple, melo- 
 dious ballads. She could now sing '* La Pauvre 
 Innocente " as well as the girl who inspired her 
 to do it. It had been a great struggle to conceal 
 her little accomplishment from her father. It 
 was such a temptation to sing about the house, 
 such a necessity to sing in the bath-room. But 
 on those occasions, when some phrase escaped 
 her, she had always repented it. He would speak 
 sharply and angrily to her, and to this she was 
 not accustomed. Once he had surprised her in 
 the garden, and exclaimed: 
 
 ** What is that song? Where did you learn 
 it?'* 
 
 She had replied perfunctorily : 
 
 ** Oh, I don't know. I heard someone singing 
 it." 
 
 She was frightened of him, frightened of his 
 silences and the heavy weight of years which lay 
 between them. And something in her had 
 hardened a little. The deception over the sing- 
 ing bred other little deceptions. As she de- 
 veloped, some inner voice kept repeating: '* A 
 girl has got to look after herself. Vm not going 
 to be browbeaten." 
 
 As she could not cope with him directly she 
 employed other methods. She went to concerts 
 
HEARTBEAT 19 
 
 and theatres, and made up lies to account for her 
 absence. She learnt to flirt. It was Billy 
 Hamaton who first initiated her into this 
 intrig-uing- form of pastime; and she enjoyed it 
 enormously, until she found, one day, that Billy 
 Hamaton was no longer flirting. The boy was 
 in dead earnest. It was very disconcerting, and 
 dangerous, and — well, what does a girl do in a 
 case like that ? It was a great pity; it would spoil 
 everything; and yet — there was a grim joy in 
 adventure behind her father's back. 
 
 Once she had been very ill : a fever which 
 lasted several weeks. Her father had been 
 alarmed. She knew this by his restless move- 
 ments and furtive visits. Old Dr. James, the 
 local practitioner, had been in daily attendance. 
 One day he brought another doctor, older than 
 himself, a great specialist from London. She 
 had overheard them whispering together when 
 she was supposed to be sleeping. One had said : 
 
 ''By Jove! yes, she's the spit and image of 
 Kitty.'' 
 
 Did you know her ? " asked the other. 
 Well enough. I don't envy the child her 
 heritage." 
 
 They had moved away, whispering interestedly. 
 
 Oh, so that was it ! Her mother's name was 
 Kitty, and she had left an unhappy heritage. 
 Barbara stored the memory of this incident in her 
 mind. Poor mother! Where was she? What 
 had she done ? Throughout the house there was 
 no portrait of her, no memento, nothing to 
 indictate that a woman had ever been its 
 
 B2 
 
 
20 HEARTBEAT 
 
 mistress. She had been told that her mother 
 died when she herself was a baby, but 
 nothing else had been said at all about her. 
 Sometimes the house appeared a playground of 
 distressing memories — almost insupportable. 
 Well, there it was ! Her secret music absorbed 
 her, and she was not the kind to indulge in 
 maudlin retrospection. The past was dead; 
 young people were calling to her in the sunlit 
 garden. The beautiful secretary was stuffing 
 papers into an attache case, her father was 
 mumbling : 
 
 *' Well, my dear, look after yourself." 
 The great car purred at the door with a noise 
 like the stomach-rumbles of an animal at feeding- 
 time. Mrs. Tollboy was very much in evidence. 
 The last instructions were given. The car de- 
 voured its victims, and with a satisfied toot as it 
 rounded the drive glided away in the silence of 
 repletion. Phew ! what a relief ! A week of 
 freedom, and fun, and . . . music. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Billy Hamaton and the Stradling girls were 
 already there, pink-coloured and bright-eyed, 
 playing an improvised game with a stick and a 
 straw basket on the upper lawn. 
 
 *' You must come and see the pony," she 
 yelled. 
 
 Tarbrush was certainly an engaging little 
 beast, with a shiny mane, a long black tail, and a 
 
HEARTBEAT 21 
 
 great sense of humour. He gave the impression 
 that he was used to children and young people 
 and their ways, and he preferred them genteel 
 and well-dressed. For the stable-boy he showed 
 a profound contempt, but he allowed Barbara to 
 ride him bare-back up and down the yard. He 
 appeared to say: 
 
 " This is quite all right. This is my mistress. 
 She has bought and paid for me, and I was very, 
 very expensive. My pedigree would make you 
 sit up.'* 
 
 He allowed himself to be hugged, and called a 
 darling; he condescended to eat handfuls of crisp 
 white sugar. 
 
 They then went down to the little stream the 
 other side of the coppice, and Billy performed 
 impressive feats of leaping by the aid of a pole. 
 He was agile and neatly-made; he excelled at 
 games that did not require great strength or en- 
 durance. They lunched under the mulberry tree, 
 a joyous meal of pies and fruit and lemonade. 
 The afternoon was devoted to tennis, the only 
 thing they did that day that was conducted with 
 grim earnestness. Then followed tea at the 
 Stradlings', with large iced cakes, endless if not 
 very profound jokes, joyous banalities, and 
 laughter all the time. Oh, it was great fun; the 
 kind of day that brings out the best in one. They 
 were in that humour when everything is out- 
 rageously funny— the angle of a tea-cosy, the 
 colour of Billy's socks, an inane remark about 
 cook's young man — anything and everything. 
 Just when the progression of these pleasantries 
 
22 HEARTBEAT 
 
 might have begun to pall, the position was vital- 
 ised by an unexpected visitor. At the very sight 
 of him the quartette screamed with laughter. It 
 had been one of the assets of George Champneys* 
 career that people laughed directly he came on 
 the stage. At the same time, you could not 
 exactly tell why. He was a man between forty 
 and fifty, with a droll, fat, clean-shaven face. 
 He was not particularly ugly, certainly not 
 grotesque, but he exuded a kind of contagious 
 appreciation of the grotesque. You knew that 
 he knew that you knew how intensely comic some 
 aspect or attitude appeared to him. He had you 
 in his pocket, as it were; and so must it always 
 be with a good comedian. After meeting the 
 outburst of his reception with an appropriate dis- 
 play of facial contortion, he exclaimed dramatic- 
 ally : 
 
 ** This won't do, old boy, you know. It won't 
 do ! It won't do ! It won't do ! " 
 
 Now, why on earth was that funny? Barbara 
 laughed till the tears streamed down her cheeks. 
 He then turned to Cicely and Jean and said quite 
 simply : 
 
 Is the guv'nor out, my dears ? " 
 Yes; he's up in town, George." 
 Barbara whispered to Jean : 
 *' Who is he?" 
 And Jean whispered back : 
 *' Don't you know? It's George Champneys. 
 He's head of the Frolics — awful clever. Sends 
 companies out. You would love him on the 
 stage." 
 
 
HEARTBEAT 23 
 
 In the meantime George was calling Billy ** old 
 boy/' much to the latter's delight. Suddenly he 
 turned to Barbara and said : 
 
 ** Who is our young friend here? " 
 
 ** This is Barbara Powerscourt/' said Jean. 
 
 George took Barbara's hand and held it. Then 
 he searched her face keenly with his protruding 
 grey eyes, and suddenly muttered **Fine!" 
 There was nothing objectionable or over-familiar 
 in the way he did this. Barbara merely felt that 
 she had been approved of by a friendly and critical 
 being, and she blushed accordingly with extreme 
 pleasure. She was excited moreover. She was 
 suddenly in touch with the sentient, moving, for- 
 bidden world. An actor ! — indeed a famous 
 actor, one who made the multitude kneel to him. 
 A real comedian ! What would her father think ? 
 Cicely was exclaiming : 
 
 ** Oh, George, do tell us some stories." 
 
 And Jean was clasping her hands and saying : 
 '' Yes, do, do ! '' 
 
 ** No,*' said George; ** I can't tell you any 
 stories, but I'll give you an imitation of the 
 Lub." 
 
 " Whatever's the Lub?" 
 
 ** Don't you know the Lub ? — the half- 
 brother to the Chunt? They make a noise like 
 this : ' F'rrh ! F'rrh ! ' You feed them on 
 peaches and straw-hat dye. Wonderful old 
 sportsmen. I had one that died of tennis elbow 
 at the age of ninety-seven. Of course, they are 
 not so intelligent as the stoofs — these are sur- 
 prising beasts. As far as I know, there's only 
 
24 HEARTBEAT 
 
 one left, and that belongs to a tram-car .conductor: 
 in Manchester." 
 
 He leaned towards Barbara and said very 
 earnestly : 
 
 ** Do you know that the Stoof can add up eight 
 columns of figures while thinking out the menu 
 for next Monday week's breakfast ? '* 
 
 George Champneys was merely adapting him- 
 self to the atmosphere in which he had happened 
 to drift. Young people were food and wine to 
 him. It was from them he drew the spirit of 
 spontaneous fooling and adapted it to his own 
 ends. But probably those burlesques of his, 
 which were famous throughout the country, 
 would not have been so good had it not been that 
 in the presence of youth he felt not only gaiety, 
 but a deep sense of bitterness, a kind of savage 
 hunger. 
 
 He fooled to some purpose on that afternoon; 
 was extremely droll, high-spirited, in his heart 
 utterly lonely; and was about to make his 
 departure when Jean said : 
 
 ** Let's make Barbara sing." 
 
 The making of Barbara sing was a protracted 
 and keenly-fought struggle, but at length she 
 sat down at the piano, and sang ** La Pauvre 
 Innocente.'* 
 
 Oh, la pauvre innocentef Champneys lay back 
 in the comfortable Chesterfield, and his grey eyes 
 mellowed. There was something clear-cut and 
 incisive about Barbara, her dark hair silhouetted 
 against a malachite damask curtain. Directly 
 she began to sing she became immersed in her 
 
HEARTBEAT 25 
 
 job. She accompanied herself with point and 
 discretion. Her voice was flexible and expres- 
 sive. By Jove ! she had everything except train- 
 ing. George could see exactly what he could 
 make of her. She would make a splendid 
 '' Frolic/' and she was young, young — oh! so 
 wonderfully young. She also sang " Le miracle 
 de Sainte Berthe '* and a little song by Strauss. 
 
 He was solemn when he rose to go. He took 
 her hand and smiled. 
 
 " If ever you want a job, Barbara, you come 
 to me." 
 
 That, of course, was another enormous joke ! 
 What a jolly ripping person was George 
 Champneys ! He lighted his pipe, gave the girls 
 a friendly pat, and ambled away. 
 
 vm. 
 
 The day was beginning to draw in. Long deep 
 shadows crept across the lawns. Bees were 
 working overtime among the lupins. A flock of 
 rooks cawed noisily up in the elms. Everything 
 appeared to become accentuated . . . tense. 
 Oh, how vital and moving was this day of days ! 
 Barbara had never been so happy, never so in 
 touch with the big moving spectacle of life. She, 
 she was the pivot of it all. She saw herself the 
 heroine of breathless movements, quickly chang- 
 ing and developing. The world loved her and 
 wanted her. She would triumph and succeed. 
 They loved her, but they didn't know how much 
 

 26 HEARTBEAT 
 
 she had to give. She was something special; 
 she knew that. Restrictions and Hmitations 
 which appHed to ordinary humanity did not apply 
 to her. Up, and up, and up, the rest worship- 
 ping, and she wanting to be so kind. Ah, yes, 
 she would always be that. That perhaps was the 
 greatest joy of all . . . out of her great 
 powers, to give. 
 
 Billy was looking at her dolefully and saying, 
 
 I shall have to go.*' 
 Oh, no,'* she cried, '* not yet. It's too 
 lovely. Let's climb the mulberry tree in our 
 garden ? " 
 
 '' It makes your flannels so beastly dirty," said 
 Billy. ** Besides, I promised the mater Fd be 
 home at seven." 
 
 '* Coward!" 
 
 ** Fm not a coward. Do you dare me ? " 
 
 ** Yes, I do. ril climb higher than you." 
 
 '* Oh, Barbara, don't be absurd. You'll tear 
 your frock." This from Jean. 
 
 '' I've had enough sports to-day," echoed 
 Cicely. 
 
 But Barbara was already through the gate 
 dividing the gardens. 
 
 ** Come on, Billy; I challenge you." 
 
 Before he had reached the tree, Barbara was 
 swinging on the first branch. It was a very old 
 tree, and not difficult to climb. Up and up she 
 went, and where she went Billy, of course, had 
 to follow. She was there chasing the elf of 
 adventure, and Billy was there to show that he was 
 not going to be beaten by a girl. Indeed, he 
 
HEARTBEAT 2? 
 
 knew he was committed further than that, for 
 when Barbara had reached her Hmit, he must — 
 manhke — go a bit further. They panted and 
 swung and hugged the thick branches. 
 
 *' Now," said Barbara, at last. '' This is my 
 favourite spot. Look; you can't see the ground. 
 One might be miles and miles up in the sky." 
 
 The boy pulled himself up beside her; he was 
 breathless. 
 
 ** I love it like this, when you float in a pattern 
 of leaves and sky, the sun dancing through. You 
 can imagine there is no earth at all, nothing 
 below you, only this going on till you reach 
 Heaven, the birds bringing you messages now 
 and then from the people you love. It's all so 
 near, so near, Billy." 
 
 The sun made patterns on his jolly, freckled 
 face. He put his arm round her. 
 
 "I love you, Barbara." 
 
 '' Do you, Billy ? " 
 
 For a moment she was sustained in an altitude 
 of surrender. If one must be loved, where more 
 appropriate than the top of a tree? There ap- 
 peared to be nothing more to desire. He kissed 
 her cheek. 
 
 ** You'll marry me onie day, Barbara ? " 
 
 She did not answer. Why shatter the spectrum 
 of this supreme illusion? How did she know? 
 How could she tell ? Let us go on up. Suddenly 
 his lips were pressed against hers, and she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 *' Oh, no. Don't do that, Billy. You'll spoil 
 everything." 
 
28 HEARTBEAT 
 
 She was sorry for him then. He looked so 
 foolish and self-conscious as he muttered: 
 
 *' Pm sorry/' 
 
 They sat side by side in an awkward silence. 
 Then Billy roused himself and said : 
 
 *' Come on, then, my flibbertigibbet.*' 
 
 He wriggled upwards towards the next 
 branch. He was out to excel himself, to accom- 
 plish by a gesture what he had failed to do by 
 declamation. By this means have pioneers 
 established great colonies, captains and kings 
 succeeded — or failed. 
 
 She watched his lithe body wriggling along a 
 branch, his brown hair all awry, spotted with 
 little leaves and fronds. They were alone up in 
 this enchanted place. She suddenly felt strangely 
 disturbed, as though the forces of her life had 
 reached a climacteric. 
 
 " It's no good," she thought. " I bejieve I 
 want him; I want Billy for my very own." 
 
 The branches were shaking above her. She 
 could only see his legs, the rubber shoes pressing 
 against the bark. 
 
 "Careful, Billy! " 
 
 Why this sudden cold transition to foreboding ? 
 Why this fear of the unseen ground beneath? 
 She remembered that the tree was very, very 
 old . . . hundreds of years, some people 
 said. 
 
 '^ Billy! Billy! ... not too high! 
 Please ! " 
 
 Then she shrank against the stem, paralysed 
 with horror. She felt it all almost before it had 
 
HEARTBEAT 29 
 
 happened. That sudden snap of a branch like a 
 pistol-shot . . ^ the body hurtling through 
 the leaves, which seemed to whistle as it passed 
 through them ; the thump upon a branch below, a 
 gasp of pain, a thousand years, filled by a scream 
 from Cicely, and then that awful dull thud upon 
 the soil beneath. How she got down she had no 
 recollection. Cicely and Jean, white to the lips, 
 were leaning over the boy. He was curled up 
 sideways and his face appeared quite green. He 
 clutched the grass convulsively with his left hand, 
 but he uttered no sound. 
 
 Cicely kept repeating: " O God, he's hurt! " 
 
 Jean seemed unable to move or think. It was 
 Barbara who raced into the house. Where would 
 everybody be? She wanted eveirybody. Mrs. 
 Tollboy, Miss Ridde, Beaver, her father's man, 
 Mrs. Warner, the cook, Sally, the three house- 
 maids — anybody who could run or do anything. 
 An inspiration flashed upon her as she entered 
 the hall. She snatched up the stick and beat the 
 dinner-gong with the fury of despair. Heads 
 and bodies appeared from various parts of the 
 house. 
 
 **Come! Come quick, all of you. Billy 
 Hamaton's hurt ! *' 
 
 They carried him in and put him upon a bed in 
 a spare room. He was semi-conscious, still 
 groaning, still suffering pain. Beaver rode oflP on 
 a bicycle to fetch the doctor. The three girls 
 stared disconsolately at each other. 
 
 '* I dared him to do it,'' said Barbara, in the 
 toneless accents of dismay. 
 
30 HEARTBEAT 
 
 IX. 
 
 It was exactly a week later, on the day of her 
 father's return, that they told her the truth about 
 Billy. He had been taken away to a hospital on 
 a stretcher. He was alive. He might live for 
 3^ears; he might even live to old age. But he 
 would never, never be able to walk again; neither 
 walk, nor run, nor play tennis, nor climb trees. 
 His spine was damaged. The case was incurable, 
 and there was even the dark menace of insanity. 
 When she heard this, she stared dry-eyed into the 
 garden which to her had once appeared so beauti- 
 ful. She had called him a coward. 
 
 '* Come on, Billy. I challenge you." 
 
 She wandered out into the country. Her primal 
 instinct was to avoid her fellow-creatures, like 
 an animal stricken with disease. She dreaded 
 her father's return. If she could only escape 
 from it all, persuade herself that it had never 
 happened. . . . She heard him arrive in the 
 early evening, and she went to her room and sent 
 word that she had a headache, and didn't require 
 any dinner. But after a time she heard his heavy 
 footsteps on the stairs, followed by three familiar 
 taps upon her door. He entered without her 
 calling out. 
 
 He made a few solicitous enquiries about her 
 assumed illness : an impossible man to deceive. 
 Then he perched himself upon a chair that 
 appeared to be inadequately constructed for such 
 a diversion, and wheezed : 
 
 ** A bad business this about young Hamaton." 
 
HEARTBEAT 31 
 
 " I don't want to talk to him about it/' she kept 
 on thinking; and then quite irrelevantly: '' He 
 looks absurd in that small chair." 
 
 Her father regarded her with his heavy, dog- 
 like scrutiny. 
 
 ** Better eat something, my dear. Will keep 
 you going. Mustn't give way." 
 
 She answered almost crossly : 
 
 ** I don't want anything." 
 
 After he had gone she cried a little, and then 
 lay quite inert, staring at the wall. 
 
 The sun went down. She heard the distant 
 sounds of servants' movements, waiting on her 
 father. The distraction kept breaking across her 
 mobile reflections. 
 
 Now he is having his fish . , . now he is 
 having his grouse, done in that special way he 
 makes so much fuss about . . . now he is 
 telling Beaver to warn cook not to overdo the 
 cayenne pepper in the savoury . . . now he 
 is drinking his one glass of port, smacking his lips 
 and holding the glass up to the light . . . 
 now he is lighting his cigar. 
 
 And all the time Billy is suffering . . . 
 terrible agonies. If he should go mad ! 
 
 Came the night, with its inchoate imaginings, 
 passages of suspended animation, troubled 
 dreams, swift awakenings, an untiring and relent- 
 less progression of self-analysis, whether dream- 
 ing or awake. Upon the question of her respon- 
 sibility for Billy's condition she had no illusions, 
 and it did not help her to know that the world 
 would not agree with her self-imposed sentence. 
 
32 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Young people playing together . . . these 
 things will happen ... no one responsible. 
 Who was to know that the branch was rotten ? 
 These logical conclusions would not satisfy her; 
 they jarred her sensibilities. She wanted to suffer 
 more directly. If only she could be punished, 
 sent to prison, beaten, treated like they used to 
 treat a witch in olden times ! She was a witch. 
 Her witchery had destroyed Billy. Almost his 
 last words were : 
 
 '* I love you, Barbara. '* 
 
 Up and up he had gone, pandering to her witch- 
 craft. And then 
 
 In that pattern of sunlight and leaves she had 
 decided that she loved him, that he was necessary 
 to her. The confession had been trembling upon 
 her lips. She was not committed; at the time she 
 was even a little uncertain. But now the stark 
 reality of the position came home to her. If she 
 were pledged in her heart to Billy at that moment, 
 she was even more pledged to him now. She 
 would have to marry him and nurse him to the 
 end of his days. This was the least she could do, 
 the humblest atonement. The realisation 
 shocked and thrilled her. She was frightened. 
 Marriage in its happiest aspects had terrifying 
 features, but a marriage haunted by the spectres 
 of suffering and remorse was an almost unendur- 
 able thing to contemplate. Her mind became 
 active with a visualisation of all the restrictions 
 and inhibitions, the setting up of different 
 standards, the cleavage from the old order of care- 
 free enjoyment.. Her spirit would be freed and 
 
HEARTBEAT 33 
 
 quickened by the grim consciousness of sacrifice. 
 She would lose everything; at the same time she 
 would gain something which the world could not 
 take from her. But, dear God ! would that it had 
 not happened ! . . . She lay there, trembling, 
 in the darkness. . . . Did she really love 
 Billy so much as all that ? 
 
 X. 
 
 She heard her father go to his room; the usual 
 sounds of the large house closing down for the 
 night. How solemn and distant it all seemed. 
 She felt that she would never be part of it again. 
 After a time she sighed and passed into a gentle 
 sleep. Strange, very, very strange, but her 
 dreams were not about Billy at all. It was very 
 curious . . . everyone was so kind. And 
 there were thousands of them, thousands and 
 thousands, and they were stretching out their 
 hands and smiling at her ; and there were flowers 
 and bouquets, and George Champneys was 
 leaning back in an easy-chair and looking so kind 
 and friendly; and he was saying : 
 
 *' That's right, my dear; sing ' La Pauvre 
 Innocente.* " 
 
 She sang it, but at the second verse she broke 
 down and cried. Oh, dear ! why was she crying ? 
 The crying awakened her to the utter stillness of 
 the house. 
 
 '* It's the least I can do/' she flung into the 
 darkness. 
 
 r 
 
34 HEARTBEAT 
 
 And suddenly her heart was filled with a great 
 pity, not only for Billy, but for herself, her father, 
 the whole world. . . . She ached for human 
 contact. It's all so empty without each other. 
 She thought of her father, lying there alone in the 
 darkness. What anguish and sorrow might he 
 not have endured in his life, so remote from hers. 
 Perhaps at that instant he was lying there, wide- 
 eyed and unhappy, yearning for her mother. 
 . * . The stillness of the house seemed suffo- 
 cating. With a sob she arose, slipped on a 
 dressing-gown, and crept out into the passage. 
 Very gently she turned the handle of her father's 
 door, and whispered : 
 
 '' Daddy." 
 
 The dull reverberation of stentorian breathing 
 greeted her. She called a little louder : 
 
 '' Daddy! Daddy! '' 
 
 The noise only increased in violence, accented 
 by the explosive crises of pornographic snores. 
 She shut the door quickly and withdrew, her heart 
 filled with bitterness. 
 
 '* One gets old, and forgets,'* she thought. 
 The reflection angered her; at the same time she 
 felt that old hardening process working in her 
 spirit. She was, like a creature at bay. ** A girl 
 has got to look after herself." How was it that 
 this phrase sometimes came to her like an 
 admonition from some far-off friend ? She hated 
 her father. *' He's nothing to me; nothing, 
 nothing. I'm hungry," she thought savagely. 
 It was not that she could not have eaten dinner; 
 it was only that she could not watch her father 
 
HEARTBEAT 35 
 
 eat. She went quietly down into the larder. She 
 cut herself a thick slice of ham and bread. She 
 sat on the kitchen table, eating it and swinging 
 her legs. 
 Then she drank a glass of water, and went back 
 
 to bed. 
 
 She felt better now, more contained, more 
 mistress of herself . . . and very, very sleepy. 
 
 *' I don't know what Vm going to do,'' she 
 thought drowsily. '' But Vm not going to make a 
 fool of myself. . . To-morrow Vm going to 
 learn that new song by Roger Quilter. I wonder 
 whether Mr. Champneys would like it.'' 
 
 When the dawn came, and the starling fluttered 
 against the window, her heart responded grate- 
 fully as it did on that morning a week ago, and her 
 slumbering senses quivered with the prescience of 
 delightful coming things. 
 
 XL 
 
 The weeks that followed marked a period of 
 suspense. Her critical faculties were sharpened. 
 The revulsion against her father became accen- 
 tuated in the glow of a rebellious judgment. She 
 began to watch him closely, his goings and com- 
 ings, his remoteness, the complete concentration 
 of his centralised outlook. She no longer 
 accepted him as a passionless fate; he was a crea- 
 ture to be dissected and analysed, like other 
 creatures. Her thoughts darted round him like 
 fireflies trying to illutnin^ some mysterious object 
 
 C2 
 
36 HEARTBEAT 
 
 in the dark. Their light was not powerful, and 
 she observed more by the glimmer of her intui- 
 tions than by the direct light of her observations, 
 above all things she became acutely aware of his 
 inordinate capacity for cruelty. It must be so. 
 Not the ordered cruelty of human passion, but the 
 cruelty which emanates from a complete inability 
 to acknowledge any point of view other than one's 
 own, a kind of perverted egoism. So secure was 
 he in the sanctity of his tradition, in the power of 
 his mental equipment, that he would regard any 
 infringement of the code he represented in the 
 way that he had regarded the interrupter in the 
 House, as a thing of so little consequence that it 
 could hardly be said to exist. How terribly cruel 
 such a man could be ! 
 
 Barbara had always been a facet safely depo- 
 sited within the letter of the code. She took her 
 place, carefully tended and appraised. But if — if 
 she should ever revolt ! The reflection naturally 
 acted as a challenge to her militant self-respect. 
 She had already revolted over the matter of the 
 music. She had revolted in many little ways he 
 knew not of. But was this enough ? The up- 
 heaval of her whole moral and spiritual outlook, 
 caused by the accident to Billy, reacted upon her 
 provocatively. She pranced within a vicious 
 circle of despair. Her training and environment 
 left her unprepared to face a serious disruption — 
 indeed, to face trouble of any kind. She was in 
 the mood to lose her head. The instinct of un- 
 trained people in a struggle is to strike wildly. 
 She could not by any stretch of the imagination 
 
HEARTBEAT 37 
 
 hold her father responsible for Billy's fall, but 
 his aggravating impassiveness appeared to her as 
 the proper target for her blows. It was perhaps 
 a small thing that he snored on the night when 
 Billy was suffering so — after all, why should he 
 care about Billy Hamaton ? — but it was a spark 
 which seemed to her to light many of the dark 
 spaces of his character. Immediately she 
 thought of a thousand other little incidents in her 
 life — things which had not impressed her at the 
 time, but which now seemed charged with signifi- 
 cance. Her mother? . . . What had her 
 mother suffered, when, perhaps, she too revolted 
 against the letter of the code ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 She had seen Billy, and the sight of him had 
 racked her heart. Not that he was suffering now ; 
 he had been gay enough, and had chaffed her for 
 her mournful face. The cruellest thing seemed 
 to her that he did not know. He believed he was 
 soon to be well again, and his naive optimism in- 
 creased her sense of responsibility a hundredfold. 
 She wanted to tell him, to feel the torture of his 
 condemnation ; but she went away with the vision 
 of his eyes filled with love, and longing, and 
 gratitude. 
 
 And yet, as the days went by, another little 
 voice kept repeating : 
 
 " You don't really love Billy. You never did. 
 You Uked him, and you liked him loving you. 
 
38 HEARTBEAT 
 
 You were flattered, elated, in a kind of ecstasy — 
 like a bird up there in that pattern of sunlight and 
 leaves. It was the singing of that song, the 
 approval you got, the glamour of George Champ- 
 neys — all these things excited you. A glorious 
 day, wasn't it ? Oh, you fool ! " 
 
 She hardly dared listen to this voice, so con- 
 sumed was she with the passionate desire for 
 sacrifice, and the craving for revolt. 
 
 One evening her father arrived home very late 
 to dinner. He had been addressing a political 
 meeting in his own constituency. He was tired, 
 a little flustered, and preoccupied. She heard 
 afterwards that he had been severely heckled by 
 some Labour people. She watched him closely 
 as he took his seat at the table. In this duel she 
 meant to have with him she knew that she must 
 seize every advantage of time and position. All 
 the heavy weapons were on her father's side. She 
 had dined earlier in the evening, but she thought 
 it advisable to sit with him, and be patient and 
 amiable. She knew that to question him about 
 the meeting would only anger him. She was 
 allowed no place in his political preoccupations. 
 So she inquired about his health, and talked 
 placidly of local events. His eyes were concen- 
 trated on his plate as he rumbled vague acquies- 
 cences. The succession of dishes nauseated her. 
 She was waiting for Beaver to retire, and to leave 
 the master alone with his decanter of port. Would 
 the meal never end ? She thought : 
 
 '* How awful it is that one gets old, insensible 
 to all the finer shades of feeling ! Is it like that 
 
HEARTBEAT 39 
 
 with all old people — that they become material 
 and crusted and careless, making horrid little 
 noises when they eat . . . fiddling with a 
 toothpick between the courses, because there is 
 no one present but myself ? How revolting it 
 all is ! " 
 
 The inevitable savoury came and went. She 
 watched Beaver remove the last traces of crumb 
 and disruption, place the jardiniere of fruit within 
 reach, also the decanter of port, and the small 
 case of liqueur-bottles (which her father never 
 touched). 
 
 '' Coffee, sir? '^ 
 
 Beaver had asked that question every evening 
 for twelve and a half years — ever since he had 
 been in the service— and he had always met with 
 a refusal, but he still persisted to ask hopefully 
 and to retire apparently crestfallen and dispirited 
 on receiving a negative reply. 
 
 Barbara landed her first blow. 
 
 *' Daddy, I want to marry Billy Hamaton.'* 
 
 Thomas Powerscourt was holding a glass of 
 port up to the light, and regarding it critically. 
 When his daughter said this his face showed no 
 general disposition to change. He seemed more 
 concerned not to spill the port than anything else. 
 His hand was trembling, and he hesitated; then 
 he brought the glass up to his heavy lips, and 
 took a deep sip. He spluttered lightly as he set 
 it down, and blinked across the room at the girl. 
 In spite of the perfect control of his features she 
 could detect the swift reflection of disturbed 
 surprise. He spoke very slowly and languidly : 
 
40 HEARTBEAT 
 
 ** You can't, my dear. His spine . . . Sir 
 Alfred tells me h€ can never recover.'* 
 
 Barbara had got her opening", and she knew 
 that now was the time to strike quickly. Her 
 voice was eager and tearful. 
 
 ** I know. I know all about that, but I can't 
 help it. I owe it to him. I love him, and he loves 
 me. Can't you see ? — it was all my fault that he 
 climbed the tree. He didn't want to. I dared 
 him. I called him a coward. It's all through 
 me he's lying there helpless. I can't desert him 
 just because of this — because he's ill. It would 
 be too mean. I shall have to go to him, nurse 
 him as long as he lives. I will do it — whatever 
 anybody says." 
 
 She was on the verge of tears — her most power- 
 ful weapon. But Thomas Powerscourt had now 
 complete control of himself. He was very gentle, 
 almost sympathetic. 
 
 '* It's very unfortunate, my dear; very regret- 
 table. You take an exae*eerated view of your 
 responsibility. A mere accident — young people 
 playing together. Why, he might have 
 challenged you; the position might have been 
 reversed " 
 
 Barbara was lying in wait for that. She 
 exclaimed fiercely : 
 
 '* If the position had been reversed, do you 
 think Billy wouldn't have married me ? " 
 
 It seemed to take a long time for this to sink 
 in; then he said judicially: 
 
 ** I should say most certainly no. He would 
 not have married you." 
 
HEARTBEAT 41 
 
 Barbara went white with anger. She could 
 hardly gasp : 
 
 ** Then you don't know him. It shows what a 
 low ideal you have '' 
 
 The big man stood up and walked to the fire- 
 place. He too was angry, and this was evident 
 only by the slightly increased clearness of his 
 diction, making his voice sound utterly toneless : 
 
 ^' There is perhaps one aspect of the case you — 
 do not understand.*' 
 
 What was coming ? Why didn't he rage at 
 her ? 
 
 " You probably have not considered, Barbara, 
 or you do not know — if you married young 
 Hamaton, your married life would perforce have 
 to be childless " 
 
 *' Well, that can't be helped. Many women 
 are childless." 
 
 ** M'm, m'm." He purred at her, nodding his 
 head like an imitation Chinese god. For a 
 moment he appeared about to overwhelm her 
 with some cyclonic outburst; then he paused, as 
 though regarding the delicate ground between 
 them. 
 
 '' I am thinking of your good," he said 
 deliberately. *' I want you to be happy and to 
 have children." Quite as an after-thought he 
 added: '* I have no son." 
 
 Barbara rose at him. 
 
 '* Ah, I see ! You have no son, so I am to bear 
 a son for you. He won't carry your name, but 
 the stock will survive, I suppose. You're think- 
 ing of me and my good, and my happiness ! Well, 
 
42 HEARTBEAT 
 
 I'm capable of thinking* of my own happiness, 
 thank you. Tm not always going to do just what 
 you tell me. You wouldn't let me have music, 
 which I crave for; you wouldn't let me go to 
 theatres or concerts, the one kind of thing which 
 appeals to me more than anything else. You 
 give no reason, no excuse. Well, I tell you 
 straight out, I'm going to marry whom T 
 like." 
 
 The surprise upon his face was of peculiar 
 quality. He appeared not greatly moved, not, in- 
 deed, greatlv surprised at what she said, so much 
 as surprised by some inner recollection. It was 
 the face of a man passing through an experience 
 which he is vaguely conscious of having passed 
 through before, and the realisation causes him 
 to doubt his own identity, Barbara and her little 
 affair with Billy seemed far away. He sighed, 
 took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. 
 Then in his normal voice he mumbled : 
 
 '* We are on the eve of a great political crisis. 
 . . . I am very tired, my dear. Let us discuss 
 this some other time." 
 
 XIIL 
 
 Barbara was beaten. As the days passed her 
 forces became diffused; time was against her. 
 Her weakest point was that she did not love 
 Billy enough. If she were really fighting for her 
 own happiness, she knew quite well that to marry 
 him was not the way to attain it. The day would 
 
HEARTBEAT 43 
 
 come when she would bitterly rue it. It angered 
 her to know that her father was right. It doesn't 
 do to give way to a sentimental whim. The 
 shock had unnerved her. Poor Billy ! she could 
 give him her pity, even her love, but — it would be 
 foolish to marry him. She had loved what he 
 represented for her, the life they had passed 
 together. 
 
 She associated him with sunny days and gay, 
 irresponsible fun. Together they had built a little 
 edifice of happy days, buttressed with under- 
 standing, familiar jokes and sympathetic appre- 
 ciation of each other's genius for life. The 
 accident had shattered it, and it would become 
 necessary to reconstruct. But she could not 
 build upon the site of the other. Games and 
 follies would be haunted by the ghost of Billy. 
 She would have to alter the whole tenor of her 
 life. Her protective instinct told her that salva- 
 tion lay in work. She must have something to 
 do that would absorb her. Work ! But what 
 work ? If her father would not let her work at 
 music, what was she to do ? 
 
 Her aunts Jenny and Laura shared a small flat 
 at Ashley Gardens, Westminster. It contained 
 two spare bedrooms, one of which was always 
 reserved for the important brother. He some- 
 times occupied it when the House was sitting late. 
 Barbara had occasionally paid brief visits there, 
 but she did not like it. The rooms seemed 
 cramped, the air was cramped; above all things, 
 the lives of her aunts were cramped. They were 
 timid old ladies, very patriotic and religious, and 
 
44 HEARTBEAT 
 
 their lives seemed one long plaint about what 
 things were coming to. They were like two 
 autumn leaves blown along in a gale. In a shift- 
 less and unstable world nothing seemed secure 
 except their brother, Thomas Powerscourt. 
 Without the solid weight of his intellect and char- 
 acter England would perish; even the other 
 members of the Cabinet he adorned filled them 
 with suspicion. 
 
 It was not an atmosphere, therefore, which 
 Barbara felt would in any way be likely to spell 
 freedom from her father's silent tyranny; never- 
 theless it was the only place she could think of as 
 a temporary refuge. It had the advantage of 
 being in a centre of vivid distractions, and a visit 
 there would not be likely to arouse suspicions. 
 She wrote to her Aunt Jenny, and received a 
 pressing invitation by return of post. Her father 
 fully approved of it, and took her up to town 
 himself. 
 
 '' Tm very busy, Jenny,*' he panted, as he de- 
 posited his daughter in the hall. '' The political 
 situation is serious, very serious indeed. I may 
 have to take advantage of your hospitality quite 
 a bit just now. This Shipping Bill , . . 
 Raynes is trying to fog the issue. Take care of 
 Barbara. She's been — she's had a bit of an 
 upset, I shall probably be in to-night." 
 
 Oh, yes, a capable diplomatist. What a lot he 
 could crowd into a few commonplace sentences. 
 Hinting at the aunts' hospitality, when he was 
 paying all the time. The absorption in the politi- 
 cal situation giving him excuse to be ever on the 
 
HEARTBEAT 45 
 
 watch. The remark about the *' upset " playing 
 upon the sympathies of all concerned, whilst prob- 
 ably on the stairs on the way down he would 
 chuckle inwardly over his victory in the affair of 
 " that young Hamaton/* 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The abrupt cleavage from her normal associa- 
 tions bewildered and stimulated her. She felt 
 like an explorer in a dangerous and untrodden 
 land. The more she suffered from the loss of 
 Cicely and Jean and their environment, the more 
 alert did she become to the flavour of her own 
 independence. There was a fierce joy in missing 
 things and being ever on the watch. The pursuit 
 of what she manfully called work was fraught 
 with difficulties. The mild activities of her aunts, 
 mostly connected with Church charities, did not 
 appeal to her. Reviewing the occupations of her 
 fellow-civilians, she quickly realised her own 
 amazing ignorance and lack of training. There 
 was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do to 
 satisfy her instinct of service. To be a nurse 
 required years of training; clerical or ofHce work 
 demanded a type of mind she had not got; the 
 way of the Arts was long and steep ; science was 
 an unopened book. It seemed strange to think 
 that if she had had to earn her living she would 
 surely have starved. The reflection caused her 
 to nurture a further dull resentment against her 
 father, but, strangely enough, it did not depress 
 
n 
 
 46 HEARTBEAT 
 
 her. It is something to know that one is 
 ignorant. Besides, there was something she 
 could do. She kept cirding round the subject, 
 pretending to herself that she was looking for 
 something else, but in her inmost heart knowing 
 all the time she meant to do it. One morning 
 she told her aunts that she was going to South 
 Kensington Museum. She dressed herself with 
 care and taste, and started forth. She did indeed 
 go to Kensington, but not to the Museum. She 
 turned off into a quiet square near Addison Road: 
 She rang the bell of a corner house; a maid 
 opened the door, and Barbara said : 
 Mr. George Champneys ? '* 
 Yes, miss.'* 
 
 She found the comedian in a large studio at the 
 back. He took her hand, and for a moment she 
 could tell that, although her face appeared 
 familiar, he could not remember who she was. 
 She smiled at his indecision. Then suddenly he 
 gave her hand a little jerk and exclaimed : 
 " Ah ! * La Pauvre Innocente '/ '* 
 They indulged in no further formalities. Bar- 
 bara felt curiously at home with this man. He 
 was entirely different from the kind of people 
 who constituted " the set '* down at High 
 Barrow. She felt she belonged to his world. He 
 said: 
 '' Well, old girl, what can I do for you ? " 
 Barbara leant across the back of a grand piano 
 and poured out her soul. 
 
 " It's like this, Mr. Champneys. I want you to 
 tell me how I can get training. You were awfully 
 
HEARTBEAT 47 
 
 sweet to me when I sang, but I know quite well 
 I really know nothing about the job. The point 
 is, Fve got to do it secret. Daddy objects to my 
 singing at all, let alone anything else, like dancing 
 or acting. But it's no good; I know it's the thing 
 I've ^o^ to do. I'm an awful fool, really. I know 
 nothing; but I have got a bit of a voice, and I feel 
 I could do — well, the kind of thing you go in for. 
 I'm living with two aunts at Westminster, and 
 they mustn't know either. But I could always 
 visit anyone in the daytime — and possibly in the 
 evening. I'm a splendid liar. I'm crazy to begin. 
 Please, dear Mr. Champneys, you must help me." 
 
 " Well, well, well, well ! " 
 
 George Champneys regarded her thoughtfully, 
 then threw back his head and laughed. 
 
 ''A splendid liar, eh? Oh, la pauvre inno- 
 cente t I don't want to get into trouble with 
 your father, though. He'd get an Act of Parlia- 
 ment passed and have me executed in some 
 special, protracted way. Oh, dear ! this is 
 awful!" 
 
 '* Don't let him worry you. I can manage him 
 easily. I can pay fees, too. I've got nearly a 
 hundred and fifty pounds in my own name." 
 
 It appeared to George to be the funniest joke 
 he had ever heard. He could not control his 
 laughter. Dear me, what a child ! But eventu- 
 ally, of course, he agreed. 
 
 His friend, Birtles, the composer, was a very 
 good teacher of singing. Madame Katie Shaw 
 could teach her all there was to know about 
 dancing. As a matter of fact, his own studio was 
 
48 HEARTBEAT 
 
 nearly always in use for rehearsals and experi- 
 ments. She could go there whenever she liked. 
 He would help her in any way he could — even at 
 the risk of his life. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Then followed the happiest period of Barbara's 
 life. It is, perhaps, a regrettable fact that she 
 thought very little about Billy, lying in a nursing- 
 home in the country. Her brief, endearing notes 
 occurred at longer intervals. She never wrote to 
 Cicely or Jean at all. She became absorbed, 
 elated, tremendously excited about herself. She 
 met other girls at George's studio, brilliantly 
 clever, fascinating girls. And Barbara copied 
 their mode of dress, their mannerisms, their point 
 of view. Oh, this was a life indeed ! She felt 
 free, strong in her natural powers. As she said, 
 she was a splendid liar. It was necessary to make 
 up a rather elaborate lie, not only to cover her 
 absences, but to account for her long stay in 
 London. The story she made up was that she 
 was studying old lace. Fortunately, she had 
 always been interested in lace, and she knew a 
 little about it, and there was a magnificent collec- 
 tion in South Kensington Museum. But the idea 
 was prompted by the discovery on a bookstall in 
 the Brompton Road of a sketch-book containing 
 pencil sketches of lace — obviously a student's 
 work. Barbara bought the book and smuggled 
 it home. She tore out the pages and cleaned 
 
HEARTBEAT 49 
 
 them up. Every few days she would produce one 
 of these sheets and show it to her aunts, explain- 
 ing" how she had drawn it herself that afternoon. 
 It was circumstantial evidence of a most convinc- 
 ing kind. Her aunts were greatly impressed by 
 dear Barbara's industry and skill. Besides, it was 
 such ladylike work, and so interesting- and refined. 
 Thomas Powerscourt was also impressed, but the 
 political situation was such that he could not 
 devote much attention to his daughter. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In the early winter this question of a political 
 situation began to force itself on Barbara's mind. 
 For one thing, contact with her professional 
 friends had broadened her outlook; she even took 
 a mild interest in poHtics itself. The government 
 were having trouble with a Shipping Bill. 
 It was an unpopular Bill, but one which would 
 strengthen their hands in dealing with dockyard 
 labour. Important questions of principle were 
 at stake. Thomas Powerscourt had been the 
 framer of that Bill, and he was considered its 
 protagonist. The trouble centred round a certain 
 Clause 37. 
 
 On the surface the minister appeared as im- 
 perturbable as ever, but Barbara knew that he 
 was very worried. He slept badly and his diges- 
 tion was all wrong. She could tell this by his 
 eyes. Sometimes they motored down to High 
 Barrow for the week-end, but Barbara always 
 
 D 
 
50 HEARTBEAT 
 
 returned with him on the Monday. His remote- 
 ness seemed more pronounced that ever. He 
 took little interest in her actions or appearance. 
 He was strangely absent-minded and vague, and 
 inclined to be querulous. Her subterfuge about 
 the lace studies seemed almost superfluous. He 
 asked no questions, and was completely indifferent 
 whether she stayed in the country or came to 
 town. 
 
 This attitude naturally added fuel to the 
 fires of her resentment. They were as the poles 
 apart. She was beginning to fear him no longer. 
 In a perverse mood she thought : '' One of these 
 days ril give him the surprise of his life.'* 
 
 A malicious joy crept through her veins. 
 Flattery went to her head like wine. She had 
 heard George Champneys praising her to a 
 colleague. Madame Katie Shaw had declared 
 her a natural dancer, one of the best pupils she 
 had had for years. 
 
 Meantime, the governing body perspired with 
 the weight of its unfortunate Shipping Bill. A 
 crisis occurred one afternoon in the aunts* fiat. 
 Her father had come in to lunch. He tore at his 
 food savagely — swallowing great quantities of 
 mayonnaise and game-pie. He looked like an old 
 bear that had been worried by dogs. He was 
 sullen and morose. The attitude of the aunts 
 annoyed her more than anything. They spoke in 
 hushed whispers, they hung upon his slightest 
 word, they soothed and coaxed and petted him. 
 The position became unendurable. Barbara had 
 been following the idea of the Bill as well as she 
 
HEARTBEAT 51 
 
 could, and she felt convinced that her father's 
 principles were wrong. Her sympathies were 
 naturally with the dock-people, and she felt their 
 case was being side-tracked. Without any pre- 
 liminary warning she suddenly launched a criti- 
 cism of his pet Clause 37. What she said was 
 neither clever nor penetrating, but it clearly 
 showed that she knew something about it. 
 
 It was an awful moment. Her Aunt Laura 
 exclaimed : 
 
 *' Really, Barbara dear ! " 
 
 She had expected that her father would regard 
 her with his usual sleepy indifference and not 
 deign to reply, but, to her surprise, his eyes 
 glowed with malevolence. He spluttered over 
 his food, and suddenly barked at her : 
 
 '* Leave the room I '* 
 
 The tactics were unfortunate on either side. 
 A few months ago she would have slunk away, 
 gone to her bedroom and wept. But on this occa- 
 sion she did certainly leave the room — she had 
 finished her lunch. She stood up, folded her 
 napkin, walked quietly out. She crossed the 
 passage and entered the drawing-room opposite. 
 Thfire there was an old upright piano. She sat 
 down and opened the lid. She ran her fingers 
 lightly over the keys, and then began to sing 
 ** La Dame Mariee d un Puani.** 
 
 She had completed two verses quite success- 
 fully when she heard the door open and the heavy 
 stamp of her father's feet. His hand came down 
 heavily on her right fore-arm. He pulled her 
 from the stool. 
 
 D2 
 
52 HEARTBEAT 
 
 *' What is this? How is it you sing and play 
 against my instructions ? '* 
 
 Barbara broke away from him, and exclaimed 
 defiantly: 
 
 *' Why won't you let me sing and play ? What 
 is your reason ? " 
 
 " YouVe done it; you've been working at it 
 behind my back ! " 
 
 " Why shouldn't I ? '* 
 
 The aunts were already in the room, hovering 
 agitatedly like birds whose nest has been dis- 
 turbed. Suddenly he put his hand up to his head 
 and complained of dizziness. They led him to 
 the bedroom and he lay down. The telephone 
 went. The Prime Minister's secretary was want- 
 ing to know if he could be at a committee-room 
 at four o'clock. 
 
 '' Yes, yes ! " he shouted from the bedroom. 
 
 But he never got to the House at four o'clock. 
 He fell into a kind of coma, and complained of 
 pains around the heart. A grey-bearded doctor 
 arrived, shook his head, prescribed physic, and a 
 complete rest. 
 
 '' He's very ill," he said sternly to Barbara, as 
 though aware of her responsibility in the matter* 
 
 xvn. 
 
 In the days that followed the flat became a hive 
 of fevered activities. Various important person- 
 ages called. Telegrams and despatches accumu- 
 lated in the hall. The telephone was never silent. 
 It became evident that the Ship of State — or 
 
HEARTBEAT 53 
 
 perhaps it was only the crew — was heading" 
 towards its — or their — doom. Barbara could not 
 help being impressed by these outward mani- 
 festations of her father's importance, neither 
 could she quite understand her own indifference 
 to his welfare. When her Aunt Jenny had said : 
 
 ** Your behaviour, Barbara, has made your 
 father very ill." 
 
 She had replied : 
 
 " Perhaps it was the game-pie." 
 
 Later in the day Aunt Laura had said : 
 
 ** Of course, Barbara, we cannot expect you 
 to leave while your dear father is so ill. You 
 will remain to help to nurse him. But Jenny and 
 I both feel that when he is well again it would 
 be better for you to return to the country. We 
 were both exceedingly surprised that you should 
 have used our fiat in this way — taking secret 
 lessons in singing and playing, against your 
 father's expressed wishes." 
 
 To this she had replied : 
 
 */ All right, Aunt. We'll talk about it later 
 on." 
 
 She began to take an avid interest in the news- 
 papers. Far from subsiding, the excitement over 
 the political situation was becoming more 
 intense. As is so often the case, there was more 
 behind the Government Bill than appeared on the 
 surface. It also became evident that some of the 
 members and newspapers — those in opposition to 
 her father's party — were hinting that Thomas 
 Powerscourt's illness was assumed. They did 
 not believe in it, or him. He was afraid to face 
 
54 HEARTBEAT 
 
 the criticism of his precious Clause 37. The fight 
 went on for days. Mr. Bream, the Under-Secre- 
 tary of State, was howled down. Unpleasant 
 things were hurled across the floor of the House, 
 On the third day, when Mr. Bream was trying to 
 speak, a small body of members kept up a kind 
 of chant : 
 ** Sit down, Bream. We want Powerscourt." 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 In order to give him as much air as possible, some 
 of the furniture had been moved out of his bed- 
 room. Among other things a small chest and a 
 few boxes were placed in Barbara's room. On 
 that night when Mr. Bream had been howled 
 down for the second time, the Prime Minister had 
 called late and had an interview with her father. 
 The excitement in the little flat had been intense. 
 The aunts were dreading that their incomparable 
 brother would be persuaded to get up and go 
 down to the House, whatever condition he was 
 in. Specialists had been called in to endorse the 
 verdict of the other doctors. Barbara could not 
 sleep. She never slept very well in Westminster. 
 The night seemed weighted with congested lives. 
 It's all struggle, and struggle, and struggle 
 . . . even in their sleep the struggle goes on. 
 The struggle for air, food, wealth, love, power. 
 How insignificant we are ! Whether we gain or 
 lose in the struggle, we pass away. Others come, 
 fight for the same things. Do things just exist to 
 
HEARTBEAT 55 
 
 be fought for? A hundred years ago different 
 people were sleeping in these same dark houses 
 and struggling for these identical things. How 
 queer that was ! The things remain to be 
 struggled for, but the people pass on. She 
 peered out of the window and saw the cupola of 
 Westminster Cathedral looking as old and mys- 
 terious in the darkness as the religion which gave 
 it birth. And yet the Cathedral was almost new. 
 So some things pass away, too — buildings, and 
 power, and wealth. What was she thinking of ? 
 What is it that remains ? The idea ? The spirit ? 
 But even before the idea of the Cathedral — there 
 were other ideas. Christianity was not so very 
 old. There had been hundreds of religions before 
 Christianity, hundreds of civilisations before this, 
 hundreds of dead worlds swinging in the sky. 
 Nothing remained, then: neither air, nor food, 
 nor wealth, nor love, nor power. . . , She 
 shivered and turned on the light. 
 
 ** I want something frightfully, and I don^t 
 know what it is,*' she thought. 
 
 She took up a book and began to read, but her 
 eyes were tired. She examined the old chest of 
 her father's. It was stuffed with papers and 
 letters and odds and ends. *' Pve no right to 
 probe into his papers,'' she said to herself, but she 
 continued to do so. At the very bottom of the 
 chest she came across an old play-bill. It was 
 very crinkled and torn. It was dated October 
 24th, but there was no year mentioned. It looked 
 very, very old, so she gazed idly at the announce- 
 ment. It appeared to be of some sort of 
 
56 HEARTBEAT 
 
 vaudeville entertainment at the Royal Theatre, 
 Croydon. There was a sketch called " Mr. Ingles 
 Takes the Town/' A famous clown was starred 
 — the Great Hannifan. Then she came across an 
 announcement which caused her heart to flutter. 
 " Miss Kitty O'Bane, the comedy star from 
 London, in song and dance.*' 
 
 Kitty O'Bane ! A strange thrill went through 
 her being. It was almost as though the old play- 
 bill were an answer to her doubts . . . nothing 
 remains, then ? She found herself sobbing as she 
 turned it over reverentially. Something remains 
 . . . mother, dear! 
 
 She searched the chest again more eagerly. In 
 a corner where the play-bill had lain was a packet 
 of letters. The ink had faded and the writing was 
 not very legible. It was what they would call 
 an uneducated person's writing. 
 
 *' O God! I have no right to read these 
 letters." 
 
 Her heart was beating rapidly. She felt she 
 must read just a few words, a sentence or two. 
 It would mean so much to her. It was the thing 
 she had been wanting so much. She peeped into 
 the envelopes without taking the letters out. 
 Endearing terms and disjointed sentences jumbled 
 before her tear-besmirched vision. '* Your loving 
 Kitty." " My beloved Tom, don't be unkind to 
 me — of course I am bound to do as you wish. 
 You led me to think it would be other- 
 wise. . . ." *' Oh, how lovely it was last 
 night. It seemed cruel you had to go. . . ," 
 *' Tommy, dear, what are we going to do?" 
 
HEARTBEAT 57 
 
 *' We travelled all night by coach to Edinburgh. 
 I looked up at the stars and thought of you. Your 
 little Kitten was very lonely. O, send me some 
 message.*' 
 
 No, no; she couldn't go on. It wasn't fair. 
 Whatever he had done, whatever had happened 
 between those two, the letters were sacred to 
 them. Even she — the child of that union — ^had 
 no right to intrude. 
 
 She put them back and turned out the light. 
 One fact impressed itself upon her disordered 
 mentality. Her father had kept the letters. 
 Whether he was right or wrongs whether he had 
 behaved badly or well, he had kept her mother's 
 letters all these years. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 To Barbara the day that followed was a phantas- 
 magoria, as, indeed, it was to many other people 
 in England. It was November, overcast and cold; 
 a turgid wind moved the fog and heavy moisture 
 up and down the streets as a policeman will move 
 an ugly tramp. In after years she tried to piece 
 together the emotions and experiences of that 
 day, but in vain. She could never be certain as 
 to what she had observed and what she had 
 imagined; as to what part in the story she had 
 taken herself and what part she had pieced to- 
 gether from the records of others. She observed 
 the events of that day, a goddess suspending 
 judgment; strangely alert to the approach of 
 
58 HEARTBEAT 
 
 impending tragedy she felt no great desire to 
 avert. What must be must be. She shrugged 
 her shoulders and prepared to defend her own 
 interests. 
 
 The morning papers reflected the cumulative 
 effect of political pressure. The public was in 
 an ugly mood. The issues involved were too 
 obscure to be closely followed by the layman^ 
 but he was angry with '' the law's delay, the in- 
 solence of office.'' What he wanted was a man, 
 someone to point the way and lead him. In such 
 a mood vast bodies of people will swing from one 
 side to the other, like swallows manoeuvring in 
 the sky. In politics it is the leader's business to 
 anticipate. He pretends to create, but in effect 
 he only interprets. 
 
 Observing this larger drama through the re- 
 flection of her own, Barbara thought: 
 
 '' Is he thinking of the people or of — himself? 
 Is he a vast abstraction existing for the public 
 good ? Or is he a man with follies and tender- 
 ness ? Why does he live at all ? Why don't I 
 know him ? " 
 
 She sat at her window looking into the dim 
 streets. 
 
 The hungry clamour of public importunity 
 began. 
 
 ** If it were not so very urgent, so very, very 
 
 important " A tall, fair young secretary in 
 
 the hall, the younger son of a duke, bowing and 
 apologising. Mr. Bream again: *'Just one 
 word." Another specialist. O, God! that tele- 
 phone I The morning was hustled away. At 
 
HEARTBEAT 59 
 
 one o'clock the doctor returned, accompanied by 
 a man with electric batteries. 
 
 **I know what that means. He's going down 
 to the House. It will kill him.'' 
 
 The aunts were scared, but slightly flushed with 
 the importance of the occasion. Barbara went 
 out for a walk. *' No ' old lace ' to-day for me," 
 she thought ironically. She pushed her way 
 through the drifting fog. People's faces looked 
 pink, rather jolly. O people, people, how lovely 
 you are ! The walk invigorated her. In the years 
 to come she would meet all sorts of people. What 
 people ? Who would come out of the fog to be 
 her friend ? How queer it seemed to think that 
 at that moment, walking about the world, were 
 people who would be very important to her 
 . . . perhaps a lover. Perhaps at that identi- 
 cal moment he was walking down the next street, 
 quite unconscious of the happiness she meant to 
 bring him. O joy I She sang quietly to herself 
 as she passed the railings of Green Park. 
 
 XX. 
 
 It was half-past three when she got back to the 
 flat. A carriage was drawn up outside. Two 
 men in bowler hats were idling about. Just as 
 she was approaching they pulled themselves up 
 and looked up the steps towards the entrance. 
 Barbara followed their gaze and her eyes beheld 
 a strange sight. At the top of the steps, and 
 just about to descend, stood her father. He was 
 
6o HEARTBEAT 
 
 all swathed up in ulsters and shawls, and on his 
 head was perched an ancient top-hat. He looked 
 enormous. On either side of him, and support- 
 ing him, were two other men, one of whom she 
 recognised as Sir John Diehl, Secretary for Home 
 Affairs. The cortege slowly descended, step by 
 step. When they had reached the last step but 
 one Barbara advanced and said timidly: 
 
 " Do you think you ought to go. Daddy? " 
 
 The utter banality — indeed futility — of her 
 appeal struck her before the words were out of 
 her mouth. It was like the mouse saying to 
 the mountain : 
 
 *' Do you think you ought to be here ? " 
 
 She felt utterly insignificant. He did not look 
 at her. She could read the restless concentration 
 in his eyes. Surrounded by his supporters, he 
 seemed to exude an aura of abstract energy. It 
 was as though she were trying to set the puny 
 influence of her personal claims against that of 
 vast blocks of interests. None of the politicians 
 took the slightest notice of her. They were 
 feverishly piloting the vehicle of their herd in- 
 stincts to the place where it would operate most 
 advantageously. Nothing else counted. One of 
 the horses stamped impatiently. The men in the 
 bowler hats were opening and shutting doors. 
 She leant against the railing. The carriage 
 vanished into the fog. 
 
 She stared after it for some minutes and said 
 quite loudly : 
 
 " Oh, all right ! '* 
 
 The inanity of this remark startled her to the 
 
HEARTBEAT 61 
 
 truth of her position. She went upstairs and 
 talked quite rationally to the aunts about domestic 
 arrangements. The afternoon dragged on. They 
 had tea, and she listened to Aunt Jenny tell a 
 long story about a series of illnesses that had 
 occurred to a family that Barbara had never heard 
 of. Lights flickered green in the streets below. 
 It was just after six o'clock that Aunty Laura 
 came into the room and said : 
 
 " Oh, those awful newsboys ! They're calling 
 out something at the back. Murder, I think.'* 
 
 Barbara walked quietly out and opened a 
 window on the staircase. 
 
 *' Oh, don't do that, my dear," whined Aunt 
 Laura. *' You make such a draught." 
 
 Barbara did not answer. She shut the window 
 and came back into the room. Then she walked 
 to the other window and looked down into the 
 street. Suddenly she said in a perfectly rigid 
 voice: 
 
 " Do you know what they are calling out ? " 
 
 ** What, my dear?" 
 
 " Daddy's dead. He dropped down dead in 
 the House." 
 
 XXL 
 
 It was possibly a morbid craving which prompted 
 her in after-years to reconstruct that scene in the 
 House again and again. The enveloping grip 
 which her father had upon her the whole of her 
 life carried her with him into those last fateful 
 
62 HEARTBEAT 
 
 periods. And yet, vivid as the scene appeared, 
 the moral repercussion impressed her more, the 
 curious shifting of values. Dignified and vener- 
 able strangers pressed her hand in profound 
 sympathy. The world was suddenly very kind. 
 All the venom disappeared from the newspapers. 
 The old Shipping Bill appeared no longer a 
 matter of controversy. Whereas before it had 
 been the nerve-centre of conflicting passions, it 
 now appeared an obsolete pound of parchment. 
 A very famous Minister stood up in the House 
 and solemnly declared: 
 
 " We may truly say of Thomas Powerscourt 
 that he gave his life for his country.'* 
 
 Possibly. It certainly killed him, going down 
 to the House that day; but — little sardonic 
 thoughts played around the fringe of her medi- 
 tations. If he hadn't been so fond of game-pie, 
 for instance, he might still be alive. If she hadn't 
 sung *' La Dame Marie e h un Puant ** — but why 
 shouldn't she sing? What was this tyranny he 
 dared to hold above her ? What do these people 
 know of the character of their gods ? They are 
 always seeking the same thing — a drama, a story. 
 They must see life in terms of heroism and action; 
 it must be an epic of triumph or failure. 
 
 The closing episode was dramatic enough — as 
 far as that went. The House seething with ex- 
 citement, the imposing factions conscious of 
 impending crisis, but never deserted by the out- 
 ward flourish of ragging schoolboyishness, un- 
 complimentary epithets being flung across the 
 floor, messengers coming and going, party Whips 
 
HEARTBEAT 63 
 
 feverishly rallying their flocks, the Government 
 idols being knocked over like ninepins; and 
 suddenly Cheyne-Garstin upon his feet. 
 
 Everyone knew Cheyne-Garstin, that formid- 
 able Celtic-looking Yorkshireman. He was the 
 bitterest opponent of the Government, a brilliant 
 dialectician, a dour fighter. He waved a sheaf 
 of notes, and his followers roared hoarsely. In 
 his rich deep burr he began an ironic survey of 
 the whole Government attitude during the pro- 
 gress of the Bill. Then passion began to creep 
 into his voice, and with power and closely- 
 reasoned logic he concentrated on the pretensions 
 of Clause 37. He carried the House with him; 
 even the Government supporters were looking 
 uncertain and slightly moved. It was the moment 
 when the swallows would swing in their flight. 
 He tore Clause 37 to pieces by moving an amend- 
 ment which would leave it unrecognisable. He 
 sat down amidst ringing cheers from his side of 
 the House and cries of *' *Vide ! Vide ! *' 
 
 There was a restless movement of despair 
 around the figure of Mr. Bream. What were the 
 Government going to do ? What was the Speaker 
 whispering about ? Followed a rowdy interval 
 of nervous suspense, when suddenly from behind 
 the Speaker's chair emerged the vast, mufifled 
 form of old Tom Powerscourt, the centre of a 
 small supporting cortege. When the members 
 recognised him a fierce exultant shout went up. 
 All people love a drama, and most people love a 
 fight — here were the elements of both. The 
 Government party roared themselves hoarse, and 
 
64 HEARTBEAT 
 
 the Opposition were equally as excited. One 
 schoolboy of sixty called out : 
 
 " Prop him up and let's shy at him/* 
 
 There was a universal cry of " Powerscourt I 
 Powerscourt 1 '* 
 
 They say he gave no evidence of any concious- 
 ness of the peculiarly dramatic mise en scene in 
 which he found himself the principal actor. He 
 stood by the table, stonily regarding the Speaker. 
 When he spoke his voice was cold, passionless, 
 matter-of-fact. He spoke rather more quickly 
 than he was accustomed to, as though anxious to 
 gain his point within a given time. He simply 
 said : 
 
 ** The honourable member for West Bordesly 
 has miscalculated the economic effect of his amend- 
 ment to Clause 37. The figures he quotes with 
 regard to the sliding-scale of subsidies were 
 founded upon the original estimate made by Lord 
 St. Gyste, and not upon those in the White Paper 
 issued by the Board of Trade last March. . . .'* 
 
 He stopped and fumbled with documents, 
 adjusted his horn spectacles very slowly, then 
 cleared his throat and went on : 
 
 " I shall endeavour to put before you the de- 
 liberate social and economic effects of these two 
 concrete propositions. If the honourable mem- 
 ber for West Bordesly can persuade me that the 
 effect of his proposition will be more beneficial 
 to the community at large, then I shall be happy 
 to accept the amendment and the Government 
 will accept the — consequences." 
 
 He paused a long time, and then one of his 
 
HEARTBEAT 65 
 
 colleagues whispered to him. He bent down and 
 listened intently, and then stared abstractedly at 
 his papers, as though weighing the value of the 
 remark. At last he continued : 
 
 '' It is only too apparent that a principle which 
 may have everything to recommend it in theory 
 may, when passed through the mills of practice, 
 not only not be an excellent thing, but may even 
 be subversive of the very germ of that principle 
 itself. Figures are facts ; the friction of humanity 
 is a fact; and in determining these issues experi- 
 ence must be our loadstar. The Government do 
 
 not intend to lose their grip '' 
 
 It was at this point that another elderly school- 
 boy called out : 
 *' Limpets! *' 
 
 The effect of this ridiculous interruption was 
 startling. The big man looked at the interrupter 
 pathetically. It was obvious that his concentra- 
 tion had gone. Limpets ! He appeared to be 
 turning the word over in his mind and considering 
 it. Limpets ! What is a limpet ? Was he a lim- 
 pet ? Were the Government really limpets ? Was 
 all mankind limpets, creatures blindly clinging 
 to the rock of their desires ? He passed his hand 
 over the back of his skull and mumbled : 
 
 '' I shall endeavour to prove '' 
 
 But no; he was not destined to prove anything. 
 Perhaps we none of us ever do. The papers shook 
 in his hand, and he kept on turning them over 
 helplessly. His lips moved without any sound 
 coming. He glanced round the House, a dumb 
 appeal and fear gleaming in his eyes. He 
 
66 HEARTBEAT 
 
 probably knew then, but he hunched his shoulders 
 together, as though prepared to make a last 
 effort. He groped for his coloured handkerchief 
 and could not find it. The incident annoyed him 
 exceedingly. He was perspiring, and he wanted 
 to wipe his brow. He did so with his bare hand 
 Then he glanced at the mace. The object seemed 
 to fascinate him. He was obviously immersed in 
 considering what a mace was, why it was there, 
 what purpose it served. Very interesting thing, a 
 mace . . . quite historical, almost a limpet. 
 
 Quite suddenly, without any explanation, he 
 began to walk out of the House. His step seemed 
 firm, as though he had a definite mission — per- 
 haps he was going to get his coloured handker- 
 chief ? He had not gone ten paces, however, 
 when he stopped and sank upon his knees. Two 
 members sprang forward to catch him, but h^ 
 crashed heavily on to his face. They picked him 
 up and carried him out; but he died in the 
 lobby within ten minutes, without regaining 
 consciousness. 
 
 XXH. 
 
 On a dreary December morning Barbara found 
 herself seated in Lawyer Bloor's office in Old 
 Burlington Street. She was fully conscious not 
 only of the perfection of her toilette, but of the 
 effect it was having on the three old gentlemen 
 in the room. When a woman is among enemies, 
 or when she has to grope with alien difficulties, 
 
HEARTBEAT 67 
 
 it is an enormous spur to her confidence to know 
 that she is looking her best. While drawers were 
 being unlocked and papers rumpled she took stock 
 of her setting and of the other occupants of the 
 room. It was a little difficult to do this, as the 
 room was nearly dark, and she occupied the 
 swivel-chair facing the light, whilst the three old 
 men were on the other side of the table, with their 
 backs to the light; indeed, one of them was sit- 
 ting in the angle of the fireplace. She knew who 
 he was. He was old Sir Anthony Gyves. He 
 had retired from the law^ but Mr. Bloor, the 
 principal lawyer for the trustees, explained that 
 Sir Anthony had been kind enough to attend, as 
 his presence was necessary for the business 
 affecting the transference of certain title-deeds. 
 He had been Thomas Powerscourt's lawyer in 
 the old days. 
 
 The other old man was Mr. Bloor's head clerk. 
 
 *' I don't mind you," thought Barbara, observ- 
 ing the old clerk rather feebly spreading out 
 parchments before his chief. '' I don't think Mr. 
 Bloor's bad, but I simply hate that old man in 
 the chimney-corner.'* She knew that his eyes 
 were fixed upon her greedily, and he seemed to 
 be maliciously enjoying himself. He was very, 
 very old, a little wheezy, and at the slightest 
 excuse he broke into a shrill *' He, he, he ! " at 
 the same time bending forward and massaging 
 his kneecaps. 
 
 Mr. Bloor was studiously polite, but a little 
 jaded and impatient. He seemed to think that 
 the whole thing was an unnecessary waste of 
 
 E2 
 
68 HEARTBEAT 
 
 time, and if Barbara hadn't looked very pretty, 
 he wouldn't have troubled to attend. He looked 
 up at her once and remarked: 
 
 ** You were indisposed and unable to attend 
 the reading of your father's will ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He obviously did not believe her answer, but 
 he said not unkindly : 
 
 '* Would you like me to read it to you now ? " 
 
 *' It doesn't matter." 
 
 The fact that her father had made a will did 
 not impress her greatly. She knew that he was 
 a very wealthy man, and that she was his 
 only child. He would naturally leave most of his 
 money to her. The aunts would probably get 
 some of it, but — well, she was not unmindful 
 now of the power of money. She had seen 
 something of the great world. One had to have 
 money, crowds of money, to satisfy one's ambi- 
 tions. She had sometimes lain awake at night 
 and thought of all the things she meant to do. 
 Freedom and power, running theatres, helping 
 people, wearing lovely frocks, travelling. There 
 would be no one now to check her activities. Oh, 
 glorious freedom ! Even at that moment little 
 visions of the days to come were dancing before 
 her eyes. It was the voice of old Sir Anthony 
 which broke across these dreams. 
 
 *' She doesn't want to hear all that legal stuff, 
 Bloor. He, he he ! Read out to the girl what 
 affects her." 
 
 Mr. Bloor cleared his throat. " I think I ought 
 to tell you, Miss Powerscourt, that your father 
 
HEARTBEAT 69 
 
 made a new will shortly before his death. Some 
 of the hospitals and the Law Clerks* Orphanage 
 benefit considerably. Um — er — the value of his 
 estate was assessed at £421,000.*' 
 
 What was this all about ? Hospitals and Law 
 Clerks' Orphanage ? What right had her father 
 to give her money away like that ? A cold sense 
 of fear crept around her heart. A new will just 
 before his death ? Ah ! was that because — of that 
 song ? She could bear the suspense no longer. 
 She snapped out : 
 
 " Well, what did he leave me? " 
 
 *' He, he, he ! That's right. Miss Powerscourt. 
 Wake these old lawyer-chaps up. Tell the girl 
 what she's come to hear, Bloor. He, he, he ! " 
 
 ** Under the terms of your father's will, Miss 
 Powerscourt, the trustees are empowered to pay 
 you the interest on certain specific securities. 
 Where is that list, Mr. Green? Ah, yes; here 
 we are. The interest from these securities will 
 amount approximately to four hundred pounds 
 a year, less certain legal dues. We shall require 
 your signature on several of these papers." 
 
 Four hundred a year ! And her father left 
 £421,000. What did it mean? Why had he 
 treated her like this? It couldn't be only just 
 because of that song. There was something else, 
 something deeper, more vicious at the back of 
 it all. She felt the tears swelling in her eyes. 
 She couldn't get her voice. Suddenly the old 
 man in the corner lashed the air with another 
 *' He, he, he ! " The sound steadied her like the 
 whip of conflict. She was alone against these 
 
70 HEARTBEAT 
 
 old men. She drew within herself and the lines 
 around her mouth hardened. She stared at Mr. 
 Bloor and said deliberately : 
 
 '' Can you tell me how this is ? '' 
 
 '' Er — I beg your pardon? How what is, 
 Miss— er— ?'' 
 
 ^' How it is that my father, who was such a 
 very rich man, should leave me, his only child, 
 so little ? '' 
 
 Lawyer Bloor sniffed and looked a little un- 
 comfortable. It was his business to interpret 
 and administer the law, not to indulge in 
 emotional speculations. There was alwpys a 
 danger of losing one's dignity, of committing 
 oneself. He was not prepared for such a leading 
 question; neither was he prepared for the incident 
 which followed. Barbara was suddenly upon her 
 feet, her eyes blazing with anger. She shook her 
 fist at the room. Her voice was shrill and 
 menacing. 
 
 ** If anyone knows, you old men do. Come 
 now, I want to know — what it was about my 
 mother.'' 
 
 Lawyer Bloor looked supplicatingly at Sir 
 Anthony. The clerk lowered his eyes and 
 coughed nervously. Sir Anthony looked at them 
 all, and then hissed an almost inaudible " He, he, 
 he ! " up the chimney. Barbara held the floor. 
 
 *' Why did he never speak to me of Mother? 
 Why did my aunts freeze up when I mentioned 
 her ? Why was there no portrait or memento 
 of her in the house ? Why did he forbid me to 
 learn music or acting or dancing ? Mother was 
 
HEARTBEAT 71 
 
 an actress, I know. What was wrong; with that ? 
 What did she do to him ? *' 
 
 At last Mr. Bloor found the power of reply. 
 He was inwardly ruffled, but the dignity of the 
 law must be upheld. 
 
 *' If you must know, Miss Powerscourt, your 
 Father did not consider that your Mother acted 
 well by him. He treated her with every kindness 
 and consideration, and she — did not reward his 
 generosity *' 
 
 "What's that? Generosity! Isn't a man 
 usually supposed to treat his wife with kindness 
 and consideration ? What do you mean by 
 reward ? What reward ? '' 
 
 In the dead stillness which followed, Barbara's 
 mind was occupied with desperate imaginings 
 of the past. The figure in the chimney-corner 
 was watching her closely. Mr. Bloor suddenly 
 snapped the table-drawer to; then, leaning 
 forward, he said: 
 
 *' In order to elucidate what must appear to 
 you certain dubious aspects of the case, I may 
 as well be perfectly candid, Miss Powerscourt. 
 Your father and mother were never married." 
 
 She had felt this coming, but the shock was 
 none the less unnerving. Nevertheless she would 
 not be unnerved. She had got to cope with these 
 old men. Her father and mother were never 
 married! In other words, her father had prob- 
 ably refused to marry her mother. He came of 
 the governing class; her mother was only a low- 
 grade actress. Of course he wouldn't marry her. 
 But he had been very kind, very generous. They 
 
72 HEARTBEAT 
 
 meant that he had paid her well ; given her every- 
 thing except his good name, and she had treated 
 him badly; she had not '* rewarded his genero- 
 sity." O God! it was horrible. She struck the 
 table with her left hand and hissed at them : 
 
 *' She couldn't have treated him badly if he 
 didn't marry her.'' 
 
 No one replied to this. Man's actions are con- 
 trolled by codes, some acknowledged, some only 
 silently implied. Barbara was stung by a sullen 
 sense of injustice. " I was part of the price," she 
 thought. '' He looked after me, fed and clothed 
 me, tried to make me a lady. Oh, the generous 
 gentleman ! " 
 
 There crept into her face an expression of ugly 
 hatred, into her voice that hard quality which 
 the world calls " common." She raged at 
 them: 
 
 " How could she have wronged him, you 
 damned old men ? You make the laws. You look 
 after each other. A girl has to look after herself. 
 My father was a cad ! " 
 
 There followed a dreary " He, he, he ! " from 
 the chimney corner; then the icy percussion of 
 Mr. Bloor's voice : 
 
 " We are not here to argue about these things, 
 Miss — er — Powerscourt. Your father was a great 
 and distinguished man." 
 
 '' Great and distinguished, eh? Yes, but you 
 can't undo the evil a man does by burying him 
 in Westminster Abbey." 
 
 She picked up her muff and tugged savagely 
 at her furs. 
 
HEARTBEAT 73 
 
 '* Vm going. You can keep your filthy money. 
 Give it to the legal orphans *' 
 
 " Where are you going ? '* 
 
 ** Fm going on the road, like my Mother did 
 before me. I know I can get work. Maybe I'll 
 do well and justify my Mother, after the vile way 
 you all treated her.*' 
 
 Lawyer Bloor looked perturbed. Any scene 
 of human passion disgusted him. He tapped with 
 a pencil upon the table. He fidgeted and began 
 to talk, but he could not marshal his phrases 
 into any definite coherence. 
 
 ** You must understand — you wished us to be 
 candid — we are naturally distressed that you — 
 these — er — unpleasant revelations. You are, of 
 course, entitled to act as you like in the matter. 
 Our business is merely to administer the law. 
 I would advise you — you are overwrought *' 
 
 Barbara had reached the door, and her hand 
 was on the handle. In another moment she would 
 have gone, but just as she was about to open it, 
 the shrill, cruel laughter of old Sir Anthony again 
 broke out. The sound made her pause and look 
 round. It was as though in that instant she saw 
 the face of that heartless world she was about to 
 throw herself into. It wasn't always easy for a 
 girl to look after herself. She looked furtively 
 out of the window and saw the dreary, grey street 
 below. Suddenly she pulled off her glove and 
 went back to the table. 
 
 '* I've changed my mind," she said. *' I might 
 as well have that money. After all, why shouldn't 
 he pay ? " 
 
74 HEARTBEAT 
 
 When she had gone the hilarious screams of 
 old Sir Anthony followed her to the pavement. 
 The old boy was immensely tickled. He kept 
 pinching his knees and nodding his hairless skull. 
 
 ** By God ! Bloor, did you ever see such a little 
 spitfire! He, he, he ! The very spit and image 
 of her mother.'' 
 
 " I only remember her mother vaguely, Sir 
 Anthony. What was she Hke ? " 
 
 '' A damn fine woman, Bloor, a damn fine 
 woman; the spit and image of this girl. He, he, 
 he!'' ' 
 
 " You knew her very well, I suppose? " 
 
 ** I ought to. He, he, he ! She was my mis- 
 tress for some time after Tom Powerscourt threw 
 her over. A damn fine mistress, too. He, he, 
 he!" 
 
 '* Really! You surprise me." 
 
 *' Ay, and this girl will be just the same — the 
 spit and image of her mother. The way she flew 
 out ! Did you notice it ? Gad ! If I was a young 
 man again ! He, he, he ! " 
 
BOOK II.— SYSTOLE 
 
 I. 
 
 Barbara let herself into the flat at Ashley Gar- 
 dens and, with a theatrical flourish, threw her 
 latchkey down on to the hall table. The black 
 fur stole emphasised the square set of her little 
 chin. She held herself erect, and her eyes were 
 bright with the light of battle- 
 Without removing her hat or furs she walked 
 into the drawing-room. The two aunts were 
 busily engaged looking through some papers. 
 Without looking up Aunt Laura murmured : 
 " Well, dear? '' 
 
 Aunt Jenny, the tip of her small tongue moving 
 up and down mechanically between her lips, was 
 adding up a column of figures. Both the old 
 ladies were in deepest mourning. 
 
 " I've put the latch-key down on the hall table,'* 
 Barbara said abruptly. *' I shan't be requiring it 
 any more.*' 
 
 Aunt Laura looked over the top of her spec- 
 tacles uncomprehendingly. Why wouldn't she 
 want a latch-key ? Aunt Jenny exploded feebly : 
 
 75 
 
76 HEARTBEAT 
 
 '' There ! If I start adding up from the top it 
 comes to one thing. If I start adding up from 
 the bottom it comes to another. What's that, 
 dear? '' 
 
 '' I shan't be wanting the latch-key any longer. 
 Tm leaving you. I'm going to live with Isabel 
 Weare." 
 
 It took some moments for the significance of 
 this announcement to sink in, and when it did, 
 Barbara was vaguely amused by the quality of its 
 reception. Both of the old ladies protested 
 weakly. Barbara mustn't do that. She was too 
 young, too inexperienced. Was she unhappy ? 
 Had she thought of her dear father's wishes ? 
 Was there anything they could do ? Would she 
 prefer a different bedroom ? 
 
 *' They're enormously relieved," thought Bar- 
 bara. '' It's just what they wanted." 
 
 *' I've got a cab coming at four o'clock," she 
 said. " Isabel Weare's flat is in Northumberland 
 Street, Baker Street — Saracen Mansions, number 
 twenty-three — in case you want me for anything." 
 
 She pronounced the latter sentence in a 
 patronising way. These two old women were 
 nothing to her, and she was nothing to them. 
 Both sides knew it, and so why pretend ? She 
 understood now why they had never been inti- 
 mate with her, why she had never felt towards 
 them any blood attraction. They had always 
 deplored their dear and brilliant brother's one 
 great lack of judgment. They had tolerated her 
 for his sake. But now — well, they would, if 
 anything, be more Powerscourty than ever. 
 
HEARTBEAT 77 
 
 They would be much richer. They would be able 
 to — what could they do with their money, after 
 all ? Subscribe to more Bible Societies, patronise, 
 pose, rustle about in rigid silks, and try to sus- 
 tain the solemnity of the Powerscourt tradition. 
 And she — she would take up the story from the 
 point where her mother had dropped it. In any 
 case she did not feel towards them any sense of 
 gratitude or pity. The smouldering sense of out- 
 rage had reached a crisis. She rejoiced that the 
 issue had come out into the open. 
 
 Old fools ! She didn't want to be rude to them, 
 they were too old and pitiable. To their protes- 
 tations she made no reply. She walked briskly 
 into her own room and packed Her belongings. 
 At four o'clock the cab came. A man and one 
 of the maids helped her down with her things. 
 When all was ready, she pecked the two aunts 
 lightly on the cheek and said '^ Good-bye.'* 
 
 ** You must come and see us as often as you 
 can, Barbara," said Jenny. 
 
 She said yes in a voice that meant no, looked in 
 the mirror to arrange her hat, jerkily repeated, 
 *' Good-bye," and then walked out. 
 
 When she had gone, Aunt Laura removed her 
 spectacles and wiped them on a faded coloured 
 handkerchief. 
 
 *' She's the spit and image of her mother," she 
 said dispassionately. 
 
 ** Let's hope she doesn't go the same way," 
 answered Jenny. 
 
 " Poor Tom. Ring the bell, dear; we'll have 
 tea." 
 
78 HEARTBEAT 
 
 II. 
 
 Isabel Weare was a girl Barbara had met at 
 George Champneys' studio, and with whom she 
 had formed that kind of adoring friendship which 
 one finds only amongst women of the profes- 
 sional classes. She was eight years older than 
 Barbara, a fairly accomplished singer and 
 actress, with one of those pliable, sympathetic 
 natures of which all the world takes advantage. 
 She was tall and rather over-developed, with a 
 dreamy oval face also inclined to puffiness, masses 
 of light-brown hair, which was always breaking 
 free. She had those appealing, slightly perse- 
 cuted eyes which a woman of that kind often has 
 when experience has made her realise that sex is 
 an ever-present source of danger. She had been 
 made love to so persistently, so dangerously, so 
 cunningly, that she had come to live in a buffer 
 state of suspicion. The eyes seemed to say: ** I 
 can't help being like this. I love everyone. 
 What is it you really want with me ? *' 
 
 Men instinctively made love to her, and she had 
 no faculty for being rude, or cruel, or unkind. 
 With women, too, she was extremely popular. 
 Her simplicity, good-nature and kindness of 
 heart were irresistible. She was also absent- 
 minded and always getting into scrapes. They 
 called her *' Old Is." She was always losing her 
 purse, or her umbrella, forgetting to turn up for 
 appointments, being late at rehearsals, completely 
 misinterpreting meanings; and yet everybody 
 forgave her. Dear " Old Is *' could do no 
 
HEARTBEAT 79 
 
 wrong. It was only when she was actually per- 
 forming that she appeared to be entirely compos 
 mentis, and then she displayed a quite surprising 
 vivacity, and her light mezzo-soprano voice had 
 a rich, moving quality. It is probable that, had 
 it not been for her absent-mindedness and her 
 perfunctory treatment of managers and pro- 
 ducers, she would have climbed higher, instead of 
 interminably walking on or touring with musical 
 comedy parties and pierrot troupes. 
 
 The first time Barbara met her, and heard her 
 speak, and saw her move, she was consumed with 
 a great desire to hug and kiss her. She gradually 
 came to adore her like a lover. She listened for 
 her footsteps, hung upon her words, devoured 
 her with her eyes. Every little thing about Isabel 
 was wonderful — her clothes, her shoes, even the 
 scent she used rather lavishly. Barbara copied 
 her as unobtrusively as possible. She dreamed 
 of being like Isabel. She dreamed of living with 
 Isabel — having her as her dearest friend for ever, 
 and ever, and ever. All the other friendships of 
 her life paled into insignificance. Cicely and 
 Jean appeared like dimly-remembered dolls, Billy 
 Hamaton a disturbing image, a puppet recalling 
 an experience of which she was a little ashamed — 
 poor Billy ! Her father was a forbidding night- 
 mare; all the rest were marionettes, no one 
 mattered, nothing counted at all except — Isabel 
 Weare and herself. She stood out like a statue 
 of Liberty welcoming Barbara to a new world. 
 All its delights, achievements, romance, and 
 mysteries were embodied in Isabel Weare. She 
 
8o HEARTBEAT 
 
 did not talk of her love-affairs, but Barbara knew 
 that they had been many, profound and bitter. 
 She had tasted of the cup of life, and it had not 
 poisoned the simplicity of her outlook. She was 
 only a little more bewildered, more alert to 
 danger, and more tolerant of the faults of others. 
 
 It took Barbara a long- time to establish any 
 special possessive claims over Isabel. She was 
 so kind and affectionate to everyone. At these 
 manifestations to others Barbara would be wildly 
 jealous. She hated these other girls who kissed 
 " Old Is *' and called her darling. She hated 
 the men who flirted with her, held her hand an 
 unnecessarily long time and called her ** my 
 dear.'* At such times she would sulk, drive her 
 nails into her palms, and crave for violence and 
 tears. 
 
 Her insistence and her passion eventually 
 carried the day. She hung round Isabel like a 
 faithful little dog. She followed her about, 
 waited on her, flattered her, gave her little 
 presents. But her position was not finally 
 established till one evening when she followed 
 Isabel to her flat and wept. She wept and wept 
 and hugged her large mothering friend. Isabel 
 was bewildered, and kept whispering : 
 
 ''What is it? What's the trouble, my 
 darling? " 
 
 This occurred before her father's death, before 
 she knew the truth of her own position. She had, 
 indeed, no especial reason to weep. She just felt 
 lonely, desperate, very much in love with Isabel, 
 jealous, neglected, wanting sympathy, wanting 
 
HEARTBEAT 8i 
 
 to know things, shut off from life. The older 
 woman comforted her in the best way she could. 
 She understood women better than men, and 
 perhaps at some time she had passed through 
 similar experiences. 
 
 '* There's nothing the matter — I'm only just 
 silly," was Barbara's constant explanation. So 
 Isabel made some tea, and talked about Mr. 
 Champneys, and Irene Frewin, and Lettice 
 Strangeways, and religion, and love, and frocks. 
 In half-an-hour's time Barbara was laughing and 
 chatting volubly. 
 
 It was a different Barbara who came to her and 
 told her about her father's death and the truth 
 about herself. There were no tears this time; 
 only a kind of ice-cold pugnacity, almost a sense 
 of relief and freedom. 
 
 ** I want to get on," was the outcome of her 
 complex confession. 
 
 ** I'm going to cut myself off from all these 
 associations. The principal feeling I have, 
 Isabel darling, is that I just feel sick. It's funny 
 how any great emotion always affects my tummy 
 first. I'm sure I should be sick on a honey- 
 moon." 
 
 Isabel thought the matter over for some 
 moments ; then she said : 
 
 ** Would you like to come and share my flat ? 
 — if you'll promise not to be sick." 
 
 Barbara stared at her friend with eyes that could 
 not control their amazement and delight. Then 
 she gurgled, " Oo— ooh !— you don't mean it, do 
 you, Isabel? " 
 
 F 
 
82 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Of course Isabel meant it. 
 
 " Can I live on four hundred a year if I don't 
 get any work to do ? '* 
 
 Of course she could live on four hundred a 
 year, and of course she would get work. Mr. 
 Champneys thought a lot of her, and so did all 
 the others. There would be no difficulty at all. 
 They would keep a little maid, so that when one 
 was on tour there would always be someone in 
 the flat. Barbara could not believe her good for- 
 tune. She hugged and kissed her new friend with 
 such an excess of frenzy that she began to feel 
 sick once more. 
 
 '* I must go for a long walk to calm down. I 
 will come in on Thursday, darling." 
 
 And so on that Thursday she gave up her latch- 
 key to the aunts, and drove with all her property 
 to Northumberland Street. 
 
 III. 
 
 Isabel at that time had a small part in a musical 
 comedy at Daly's. She was getting a fairly good 
 salary, and the play had been running for six 
 months and promised to run for years; conse- 
 quently, with Barbara's four hundred a year the 
 two girls were comparatively well off. 
 
 ** You're a lucky child," Isabel said. *' There 
 aren't many girls in our profession with four 
 hundred a year to fall back on. There aren't 
 many with anything at all. But you take my 
 advice, dear, and keep it dark. They don't like 
 
HEARTBEAT 83 
 
 it if they think youVe got money. They look on 
 you as an amateur, taking the bread out of 
 working-girls' mouths/* 
 
 ** If I had four thousand a year — which I 
 ought to — I should still go on the stage, darling/* 
 
 '* Well, you keep it dark, darling." 
 
 The first person Barbara visited was naturally 
 George Champneys, who was very interested and 
 amused at the earnestness of her resolution. 
 Most certainly he would do what he could. He 
 had promised, and he would stick to his promise. 
 He would try to get her on in London as soon 
 as possible. In the meantime she must get some 
 hard, practical experience. In a month's time he 
 was sending a pierrot troupe out on short runs, 
 a week here and there, and then back, another 
 week later on, and so on. Would she care to be 
 in it ? The pay was negligible, but the experience 
 would be good. 
 
 Would she care to be in it ! Barbara glowed 
 with excitement. At the very first bound she was 
 to become a professional actress, with a name 
 and a salary, perhaps Press notices, and bouquets 
 from unknown admirers. 
 
 *' What are you going to call yourself?** 
 George remarked. " I don't think Bar- 
 bara Powerscourt's very good — too long. 
 Besides " 
 
 ** Exactly — besides,'* quoth Barbara, "I 
 want to drop the Powerscourt altogether." 
 
 " Fancy that! " 
 
 " Fancy what? Oh, Mr. Champneys, Fancy's 
 a nice name." 
 
 F2 
 
84 HEARTBEAT 
 
 *' Fancy's a very nice name. Now, what shall 
 it be? Fancy what? " 
 
 '' No, not Fancy Watt.'' 
 
 " I know." 
 
 ''What?" 
 
 ** Fancy Telling." 
 
 *' Oo — oooh ! Yes, that would be rather 
 quaint, wouldn't it? Fancy Telling. I like it." 
 
 " Fancy Telling tops the bill — this week at The 
 Grand, Croydon. Yes, that's very good. 
 George, my boy, I congratulate you. Don't 
 forget. Miss Telling, on the day of judgment, to 
 let them know that I invented your name." 
 
 ''Fancy Telling! " 
 
 " Come in on Monday, and I'll get you to sign 
 a piece of paper, old girl. Carter is handling this 
 company. I expect they'll pay you two pounds 
 or two pounds ten a week. We'll push you on 
 as fast as we can." 
 
 He pressed her hand and patted her shoulders 
 as he showed her out. 
 
 And so Fancy returned to Northumberland 
 Street in a wild state of excitement. The meta- 
 morphosis was complete. She had new friends, 
 a new interest in life, a new job, and a new 
 
 name." 
 
 <i 
 
 You're a lucky little devil," Isabel remarked 
 when she emerged from her friend's embrace. 
 " I never had anyone to help me when I started 
 — not a friend or a bean. I used to traipse round 
 calling on dirty, fat little agents, who used to 
 insist on holding my hand all the time I talked. 
 Some of them used to— oh, they were swine ! " 
 
HEARTBEAT 85 
 
 *' Oh, Isabel, how rotten ! People don't do 
 that sort of thing now, do they, darling ? '* 
 
 " Oh no, my dear, only— pretty frequently. 
 It's lucky you've got me to look after you, and 
 that you struck George Champneys straight 
 away." 
 
 '' He's a dear. I love him." 
 
 '' You've got a very passionate nature, Bar- 
 bara. You must watch out that it doesn't get 
 you into trouble. When you've had men try to 
 maul you about as long as I have you'll quieten 
 down. Let's have lunch; I'm hungry." 
 
 Oh, those glorious days ! — all too short for 
 the wonders and portents which crowded upon 
 her. Everything was coloured by the glamour 
 of discovery and anticipation. She thrilled at the 
 vision of Isabel sitting up in bed, in a dressing- 
 gown, drinking tea. Washing up the breakfast 
 things, because the maid had failed to turn up, 
 was a positive ecstasy. Making toast, cleaning 
 Isabel's shoes, ordering groceries, rearranging 
 the sitting-room, mending some under-linen of 
 Isabel's, darning her own stockings — all these 
 things were pleasures, of which she sometimes 
 felt quite unworthy. And then the adventurous 
 world outside. The busy streets brimming with 
 life, the shops full of things she meant to buy 
 one day — lovely frocks and hats, old furniture, 
 precious stones, jewels, vanity bags — all for 
 Isabel and herself. If only her father . . . 
 
 Then, most important and thrilling of all, meet- 
 ing with Mr. Carter, the producer. Rehearsing, 
 
86 HEARTBEAT 
 
 really rehearsing a proper professional perform- 
 ance, glancing at the other girJs — and men ; trying 
 to appear as though used to it, every day picking 
 up a little more of the slang of the profession, 
 getting familiar with the terms which governed 
 this delightful world — afterwards the streets 
 again, rich women in furs and motor-cars, jolly 
 men walking furtively, looking at her inquiringly, 
 poor old men playing hurdy-gurdies, giving them 
 sixpences and shillings, the tears swelling to her 
 eyes. Tea with Isabel, Isabel looking scrump- 
 tious, rather languid and cosy, in a bright jade- 
 green kimono. Talk, delightful talk, all about 
 people, and the profession, and the things that 
 may happen to two girls with the world before 
 them. The glow of sunset on the wet pavement 
 below. Isabel's chop at six-thirty and a raw egg 
 for Barbara. Then going dow^n to the theatre 
 with Isabel on a motor-bus, getting off at 
 Piccadilly Circus and walking along to the stage- 
 door at Daly's — sometimes being smuggled in. 
 Oh, that was joy indeed ! The narrow stone stair- 
 case and passages, curious people in various 
 stages of make-up. Small boys calling out; 
 
 " Beginners, please! " 
 
 Isabel's dressing-room, with two other real 
 actresses in it, the smell of grease-paint and 
 powder, the bright glow of the mirrors. 
 
 Then out in the street once more, the myriad 
 coloured lights and signs of Leicester Square, 
 the enveloping mystery of early darkness, with 
 its provocative, mysterious appeal. She would 
 hurry back to the little flat then, rather scared, 
 
HEARTBEAT 87 
 
 and eager for escape. The flat seemed melan- 
 choly without Isabel, so she would rush to the 
 upright piano, and with puckered brows and in- 
 tense concentration, practise the songs Mr. 
 Carter had given her to sing for the tour. Then 
 she would curl up in front of the fire and read, or 
 stare at the embers and dream of the great and 
 wonderful worjd awaiting her. It would be 
 nearly twelve before Isabel came in. At the click 
 of the door she would jump up, rush out and kiss 
 her friend, take off her cloak, fetch her slippers 
 and the tray of stout and sandwiches, ensconce 
 her comfortably in the easy chair. Then she 
 would brew herself some cocoa, kneel on the 
 tuffet, ask for news, and hungrily worship her 
 goddess. 
 
 '* The young man who marries you will have 
 a hot time,'' said Isabel on one of these 
 occasions. 
 
 ** I don't like men. I'm never going to marry," 
 answered Barbara. 
 
 " That's right, darling, don't you do it. Will 
 you be an angel and go and fetch me a hanky 
 from my room? " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Just before the tour started there was a dis- 
 quieting irruption in the flat. Isabel developed 
 a persistent lover. He was a dark, heavily-built 
 man, about forty years of age, and the owner of 
 a successful business in Bloomsbury, concerned 
 with trimmings, gimp, buttons and embroidery. 
 
88 HEARTBEAT 
 
 He called at all kinds of inconvenient hours of 
 the day, and beg^an to see Isabel home at night. 
 He spoke very little, and then in a soft, mellow 
 voice. Barbara suspected that he was less silent 
 when she was not present. He had a way of 
 staring at her with an expression of amused con- 
 tempt, thoughtfully tugging at his black mous- 
 tache. His eyes seemed to say : 
 
 '* Can't you see, you little nuisance, that two is 
 company, three's none ? " 
 
 It is needles? to say that Mr. Basil Cleethorpe 
 — for such was his name — roused in Barbara's 
 bosom feelings of violent jealousy. Before a 
 week had passed she could have killed this man 
 who had come between her and Isabel. At first 
 she was polite to him, then curt, and then 
 definitely rude. But she recognised in him one of 
 the strong, silent species, or perhaps not strong 
 and silent so much as thick-skinned and dull. He 
 withstood her attacks with amused indifference. 
 She did not interest him. His quarry was 
 Isabel, and he would take infinite trouble to secure 
 her company, and that alone. 
 
 The alarming aspect of the case was that Isabel 
 seemed not only to tolerate him but positively to 
 like him. She went out to lunches and dinners 
 with him, and left Barbara to shift for herself. 
 And jealousy and suspicion gnawed at her vitals. 
 Isabel didn't love her. Isabel had deceived her. 
 What did she mean that time when she talked 
 about being "mauled about by men?" How 
 loathsome the whole thing was ! 
 
 She Y/ould return from rehearsal and find Isabel 
 
HEARTBEAT 89 
 
 and Basil — awful name ! — sitting side by side on 
 the Chesterfield in the firelight. Isabel would be 
 just as affectionate to her, but she was tortured 
 by the suspicion that her presence was unwel- 
 come. Isabel took to being out more, and some- 
 times returning home at an unearthly hour in the 
 morning. This couldn't last; something would 
 have to be done. 
 
 She waited till three nights before the tour 
 started, and then she determined to have it out. 
 She waited up for Isabel, who arrived home at a 
 quarter past one. Then she followed her into the 
 sitting-room and pulled her down on to the 
 Chesterfield. 
 
 " Where have you been, Isabel darling? " 
 
 Isabel yawned sleepily. 
 
 " Been, my dear ? Oh, Fve been having supper 
 with Basil." 
 
 Barbara's breath came in little gasps. 
 
 *' Are you very fond of him, Isabel? " 
 B. ? Oh, yes, he's a nice boy." 
 Do you love him ? Are you going to marry 
 him? Are you going to leave me, Isabel?" 
 
 The older woman held her away, and looked 
 slightly bewildered. 
 
 '' Love him ! Marry him ! Oh, dear ! what a 
 queer child you are ! Haven't you ever had a 
 boy?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, you get one, my dear. They help 
 to pass the time. You've only got to — look after 
 yourself, not lose your head, if you know what I 
 mean." 
 
 
90 HEARTBEAT 
 
 That phrase again—** A girl has got to look- 
 after herself ! '' Isabel was still speaking in her 
 cosy, enveloping voice. 
 
 *' I'm very, very fond of you, Fancy darling. 
 Don't be silly — allnhis talk about leaving you. 
 There's one thing we must have clear, though. 
 Living like this together, we must each be free to 
 do what we like. I wouldn't be jealous of you, 
 if you had a boy. It's natural." 
 
 '* You're really only playing with him, then ? " 
 
 ** We each know what we're doing, darling. 
 How did the rehearsal go to-day ? " 
 
 So that was it. On her pillow that night little 
 Fancy Telling wept, almost wishing, for the first 
 time since her new departure, that she was once 
 more Barbara Powerscourt. 
 
 V. 
 
 The tour, which opened at Harrogate, was also 
 rather in the nature of a disillusionment. In some 
 respects it was almost a triumph. They played 
 to good houses. The programme was a clever 
 production, the joint work of George Champneys 
 and Mr. Birtles. Her own part in it was by no 
 means negligible, and she carried it through with 
 considerable success — indeed, she was surprised 
 how easily the whole thing came to her, and how 
 the people applauded her. But the company she 
 found anything but companionable. The men 
 were always making vulgar jokes and suggestive 
 remarks, and she resented their over-familiarity. 
 
HEARTBEAT 91 
 
 Between the shows their principal interests 
 appeared to be horse racing, cards and beer. The 
 women erred by applauding and approving the 
 men's behaviour, and by being jealous and catty 
 to each other, and to Barbara. Mr. Carter, the 
 principal, was far less vulgar than the other men, 
 but he was inordinately vain, jealous, and self- 
 centred. On the stage he was an excellent 
 comedian, off it he was self-conscious and 
 awkward. 
 
 The only member of the company with whom 
 Barbara struck up any kind of friendship was 
 Angela Lupin, the accompanist, a solemn, sallows- 
 faced girl, with short black hair, and no sense of 
 humour. She had been a student at the Royal 
 Academy of Music. She confessed to Barbara 
 that the whole pierrot performance bored her to 
 tears. She played the accompaniments because 
 she had to earn money. Her career at the 
 Academy had been cut short by the death of her 
 father, a clever and thriftless journalist, who had 
 left her mother and herself penniless. She was 
 being paid two pounds a week, a goodly portion 
 of which was regularly despatched to her mother. 
 Barbara discovered that Angela's meals consisted 
 almost exclusively of tea and bread-and-butter. 
 It was the first time in her life she had come up 
 against real want, and the spectacle sickened and 
 shook her. Poor sallow-faced child ! How un- 
 fair it all was ! With her four hundred a year 
 and her own small salary, and no one else to 
 spend it on, Barbara realised that she was an 
 enormouslv weaUhv woman. Henceforth she 
 
92 HEARTBEAT 
 
 insisted on standing Angela lunches and teas and 
 dinners. She bought her fruit and eggs and 
 bottles of stout. At the same time she followed 
 Isabel's advice and kept quiet about her own pri- 
 vate income. Sometimes she imagined that 
 Angela regarded her suspiciously, but the child 
 was too hungry to care. 
 
 The party went on to Leeds, Huddersfield, 
 Hull, and Whitby. Added to the nervous dis- 
 comforts of this first tour was the constant worry 
 as to what was happening to Isabel. Barbara 
 was always dreaming of the awful black Basil, 
 grinning at her superciliously. He would be 
 taking advantage of her absence. He would 
 spend half the day in the flat, sitting on her chairs, 
 using her things, perhaps resting on her bed ! 
 Oh, what could Isabel see in him ? A boy, 
 indeed ! Perhaps at that very moment he was 
 *' mauling Isabel about! '' 
 
 Was it natural to have *' boys,*' to be maulea 
 about indiscriminately ? A fierce resentment at 
 the idea stirred within her. Was she different 
 from those other girls ? Certainly all the girls in 
 this company seemed to be boy-mad. They 
 chopped and changed about, squabbled and 
 flirted and made it up quite amicably over tank- 
 ards of beer. She would never be able to do that. 
 She didn't care for '' boys" — not in that sense. 
 Of course there was that one wonderful person 
 somewhere in the world; that would be quite 
 different. A sudden fear seized her. Her mother ? 
 Was she a woman who was boy-mad ? Was her 
 father one of her mother's *' boys," and that 
 
HEARTBEAT 93 
 
 was why he treated her like that ? Oh, no, no — 
 she thought of those letters. They were not the 
 letters of these fly-by-nights. Whatever the true 
 circumstances of the story were, one fact stood 
 out poignantly — her mother had suffered. The 
 capacity for suffering is one of the acid tests of 
 character. It is only profound people who can 
 suffer. Girls like Maisie Jewel, the leading come- 
 dienne, were capable of fits of the blues, of 
 peevishness, jealousy, bad temper, but a little 
 flattery or a pint of beer would w^ash it all away. 
 They could not suffer. 
 
 When the five-weeks' tour was over the com- 
 pany were to return to London, and they were 
 not to go out again for another three weeks. 
 Reacting from the disappointments of her first 
 experience, Barbara determined to make the best 
 of things. 
 
 " I'm Fancy Telling, not Barbara Powers- 
 court," she repeated to herself. " I'm going to 
 get on. Mr. Champneys said it w^ouldn't be 
 much of a show, but would be good experience. 
 I must work and study and find out things." 
 
 At Leeds she had quite a personal success, one 
 of her songs, " The Garden of Regrets," 
 seeming to be the most popular item on the 
 programme. It was very much to her surprise, 
 therefore, that on the last night Mr. Carter took 
 her on one side, and said : 
 
 ** Oh, we're making a few changes at Hudders- 
 field, Miss Telling. We've got some more comic 
 stuff to work in. I'm afraid we shall have to cut 
 out ' The Garden of Regrets.' " 
 
94 HEARTBEAT 
 
 For an instant she was about to protest 
 violently. Then she reflected: ^' What does it 
 matter? Carter's no one. Vm out for bigger 
 game.** 
 
 She contented herself by remarking bitterly : 
 *' I suppose it did go rather well.'* 
 And then she turned away and left him to 
 ponder the insinuation at his leisure. The result 
 made him her enemy for the rest of the tour. 
 
 VI. 
 
 At the end of five weeks the company returned 
 to town, and Barbara to Northumberland Street. 
 There she found that her worst suspicions were 
 to be confirmed. The black Basil was still much 
 in evidence. On the other hand, she could not 
 but be moved by the warmth of Isabel's reception. 
 Isabel was genuinely pleased to see her. She 
 hugged her and cross-examined her about every 
 little detail of the tour. She was a dear old 
 darling — Isabel, too easy-going, almost incom- 
 prehensible. Barbara, like many young people 
 with definite ambitions and indefinite ideals, was 
 beginning to learn that one cannot interpret any- 
 one else's visions through the light of one's own 
 eyes. She had lain awake at night, pitying 
 Isabel, dreaming all kinds of disturbing dreams 
 about her, but when she once more was in her 
 society she found her quite happy and unchanged. 
 She was certainly not being worried by anything. 
 It comforted Barbara, therefore, to conclude that 
 
HEARTBEAT 95 
 
 Basil was only an interlude, in spite of his 
 prehensile grip upon her friend's affections. 
 
 The crust was already hardening-. So long as 
 Isabel loved her it was not her business to inter- 
 fere with her sex adventures. She knew from 
 what Isabel had told her that men were transitory 
 experiences. She busied herself in the flat, 
 revelling in the crumbs of Isabel's society which 
 fell from the rich button-and-gimp man's table. 
 After all, he was not there all day — she had break- 
 fast with Isabel, and all the morning, and very 
 often a good part of the afternoon; and she could 
 still sew and mend for Isabel, and write her letters 
 and run her errands ; she could still hug her, and 
 listen to her deep lazy voice talking familiarly 
 about '' May " — May being no less a person than 
 May Mendelssohn, the leading lady at Daly's. 
 Isabel knew all these people, and always referred 
 to them by their Christian names. It added a 
 piquant thrill to their friendship. To think that 
 she, Barbara — no. Fancy Telling — an ingenue of 
 five weeks' experience, lived with a girl who 
 referred to May Mendelssohn as *' May " ! 
 May, an almost inaccessible goddess, who drove 
 to the theatre in a motor-car, was always having 
 her photograph in the illustrated papers, supped 
 at the Savoy with the scions of the aristocracy, 
 lived in a large house near the park, kept several 
 servants of her own, had been married once, and 
 had divorced her husband when she was twenty- 
 two, and, above all, sang and danced and acted 
 divinely. Would such a destiny ever be the lot 
 of Fancy Telling? 
 
96 HEARTBEAT 
 
 She tried to analyse this fate. She, too, 
 passionately desired to see her photographs in the 
 illustrated papers, to drive to the theatre in a 
 motor-car, to sup at the Savoy, to have a house 
 and servants of her own; more especially did she 
 passionately desire to sing, and dance, and act 
 divinely. But she had no desire to marry and 
 divorce; she had no desire to be ** mauled about 
 by men/' Her erotic impulses were at that time 
 entirely unawakened. 
 
 The day after her return she repaired to George 
 Champneys', and gave him a voluble account of 
 the tour, not excluding the incident about *' The 
 Garden of Regrets.'' 
 
 The large man regarded her quizzically, and 
 nodded his head. 
 
 ^' Tm afraid Carter is like that, my dear. I'm 
 sorry. I'll speak to him about it, but I can't 
 insist. It's in our contract that he has complete 
 control of the programme. Don't you worry. 
 I'll soon have you in something better. How 
 have you been ? " 
 
 *' I wish he would take me seriously," thought 
 Barbara. *' He likes me, but he treats me like 
 a kid." 
 
 Champneys was certainly very paternal and 
 kind, but he was a little preoccupied concerning 
 a big new London production. He did treat her 
 like a kid. But how else can one treat twenty- 
 one ? He himself was forty-five, at the very 
 zenith of his fame, his palate already a little jaded 
 by the flavour of every human experience. He 
 had met many young girls like Barbara, and he 
 
HEARTBEAT 97 
 
 liked them and treated them all kindly. Bless 
 their hearts ! He would like to give them all 
 leads and big salaries, but — even kindness of 
 heart has its physical limitations. A secretary 
 was fidgeting with papers; a telephone-bell went. 
 
 ** Come and see me again soon, la pauvre 
 innocente/' he said o^enially. Barbara thanked 
 him and went. When she got to the street a 
 little lump came in her throat. 
 
 ** It's not going to be so darned easy/' she 
 thought. *' I can't keep on worrying him." 
 
 This intermittent tour of the Pierrot troupe 
 continued for eight months. It was a mixed 
 experience. Mr. Carter had his knife in her, and 
 reduced her part in the performance till it became 
 almost negligible. The other men tried the 
 " mauling " process, but finding that she did not 
 respond, they treated her with contempt. The 
 other girls were jealous of her because they knew 
 she had real ability, and also because it was known 
 that she was a personal friend of the great George 
 Champneys, and was not to be " given the bird." 
 Angela Lupin left. She had been given the bird, 
 because she had not a friend at court, and Mr. 
 Carter wanted to work in a fat girl named Ruby 
 Isaacs for some reason of his own. The tour was 
 a series of disillusionments; nevertheless Fancy 
 Telling managed to survive it. Moreover, she 
 did gain experience. She learnt to broaden her 
 methods, to act with assurance, to come down 
 slick on her cues, to force an encore if she wished 
 to. She learnt to make points by giving just the 
 right pause, to play to the back of the hall, to 
 
 G 
 
98 HEARTBEAT 
 
 judge its acoustics and adapt her voice to its possi- 
 bilities. She learnt to make up to the best 
 advantage, to judge her distances accurately in 
 dancing. She learnt to drink stout and to eat 
 tripe. 
 
 She gradually learnt how to manage the 
 *' maulers '* without eternally offending them. 
 She gradually learnt how to flatter, and cajole, 
 and humour her fellow-artistes as well as the 
 managers and people connected with the hall. 
 During the last week of the tour she was more 
 popular than she had been all through. Several 
 members of the company were coming to the con- 
 clusion that little Fancy Telling was not such a 
 rotter after all. She did not mind this one way 
 or another. She stuffed all this experience away 
 into odd corners of her brain for future use. She 
 had her eye on a larger canvas. 
 
 The third time she returned to London, she 
 found that the black Basil had been superseded 
 by a youth named Walter Podmore, a rather 
 vacuous fair young man who was forever chuck- 
 ling over Isabel's irresistible charms. Her experi- 
 ence had fortified her against the shock of this 
 development. So this was Isabel — darling old 
 Isabel, still loyal, affectionate, and adorable, still 
 talking about *' May,'* still having love-affairs and 
 managing them adroitly. These were the people, 
 and this was the life from which her mother 
 sprang. She envisaged her father's ponderous, 
 judicial figure glowering above her, and her 
 resentment quickened at the thought that he 
 should have sat in judgment on it. 
 
HEARTBEAT 99 
 
 VII. 
 
 During the intervals of this tour she called on 
 George Champneys three times, and on neither 
 occasion did she feel that she made much progress 
 in his good graces. He was always the same, 
 paternal, kindly, and mildly encouraging. At 
 the end of her third visit she became haunted by 
 a disturbing suspicion. Of his sympathy and 
 kindness of heart she had no doubt, but was it 
 quite the same thing flattering and encouraging 
 the daughter of a famous and wealthy Chancellor 
 as flattering and fulfilling promises to an impecu- 
 nious and unknown actress ? She tried to 
 persuade herself that there was nothing in it, that 
 George was quite sincere, that it was only natural 
 that he should send her out on these miserable 
 little tours to gain experience; but the canker of 
 suspicion once being there developed and grew, 
 and moreover bred other suspicions. Was it pos- 
 sible, for instance, that darling Isabel found her 
 — well, rather useful in the flat, with her assured 
 income, and her ingenuity and anxiety to help 
 her? 
 
 Why was it that she had never had a line 
 from Cicely or Jean since her father's death, or 
 even from the aunts? Did Billy Hamaton still 
 love her? Should she sacrifice everything — 
 throw up the stage, seek him out, marry him, and 
 nurse him to the end of her days ? 
 
 She became obsessed by another determination 
 —to break free from George Champneys. She 
 would show him that she could get on by herself. 
 
 G2 
 
100 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Whether she expected that he would give her a 
 leading part in town right off she could not say. 
 She only felt that he was not treating her in quite 
 the way he had led her to expect on that afternoon 
 in the Stradlings' drawing-room when she had 
 sung '' La Pauvre Innocente." Perhaps that day 
 was charged with an indescribable glamour — the 
 kind of day that blinds one to the stern reaHties. 
 On that day she had caused the destruction of her 
 lover, and even that event did not really destroy 
 the enchantment. Life was like that, a lot of 
 drab monotony and disillusion, and then moments 
 almost too wonderful to bear. Moments when 
 one was up in the tree-tops and the earth did not 
 exist. 
 
 One lives on through the dreary business 
 because something in one's heart tells one that 
 such moments will occur again. Perhaps that is 
 how the utterly destitute, the down-trodden, the 
 unhealthy go on living — they have that secret 
 buried well away, a treasure that cannot be 
 shared. Having once beheld '' those trailing 
 clouds of glory,*' the vision sustains us through 
 eternity, and neither adversity, disillusion, nor 
 even our own vicious habits can ever utterly 
 abolish or destroy. 
 
 She told Isabel of her determination, and that 
 lady said : 
 
 '' Oh, my dear, don't you be a ninny. You'll 
 never do better than George. You stick to him. 
 He's becoming ' the big noise,' as the Yanks say. 
 You don't expect him to put you on in town with 
 only eight months' experience, do you? " 
 
HEARTBEAT loi 
 
 Barbara didn't know what she expected. She 
 was hungry for success, and impatient at its 
 uncertain delays. The next morning she set off 
 in her smartest coat and skirt, and a hat of black 
 velour with an emerald paste buckle, and called 
 
 on agents. 
 
 She spent a fortnight calling on agents and 
 trying to see managers, and the result made her 
 weep. She waited for hours in stuffy rooms with 
 crowds of other girls and men. When she even- 
 tually saw the agent the interview invariably 
 followed identical lines. 
 
 " Well, what experience have you had ? What 
 is your line ? All right. I'll let you know if I 
 hear of anything. Good morning." 
 
 She did not have quite such sultry experiences 
 as Isabel had described, but they were sultry 
 enough. Only two of the agents actually tried 
 to hold her hands, and only one tried to kiss her, 
 and then in a rather fearsome, tentative manner. 
 He wanted her to go into an inner office and " see 
 some pictures," but she declined. The general 
 attitude was that the agents were conferring an 
 enormous benefit in seeing her at all, and she 
 ought to appreciate the fact and recognise it suit- 
 ably. They looked her up and down like a farmer 
 judging cattle at a cattle-show. Into the sanctum 
 of a theatrical manager she never managed to 
 penetrate. Mr. So-and-so only saw people by 
 appointment. Would she kindly write about her 
 business ? She wrote to seventeen managers. 
 Three of them replied — in each case a typewritten 
 slip to say that the manager regretted to say that 
 
I02 HEARTBEAT 
 
 he had nothing to offer Miss F. TelHng at the 
 moment. 
 
 At the end of three weeks she put her pride 
 in her pocket and went back to George. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It took her just two years to reach that little 
 niche in George Champneys' autocratic temple 
 which she regarded as the resting-place worthy of 
 a certain glamorous summer day; and the end 
 was attained in the most surprising way. 
 
 Two years of delight and bitterness, hard work, 
 vivid experience, disappointment, moral question- 
 ing, spiritual unrest. The lamp flickered, but at 
 every flicker the light became stronger. She 
 learnt to take care of herself, to adapt every 
 experience to serve her ends. She learnt how to 
 make herself popular, to flirt a little, to overlook 
 the delinquencies of her fellow-artists. She 
 quickly realised that they were far better than she 
 had thought at first, far better than they appeared 
 on the surface. Her own hot-house training had 
 prejudiced her against them, but she discovered 
 that beneath their little vanities and childish 
 jealousies there was a rich streak of real humanity 
 and kindness. They would behave outrageously, 
 and five minutes later they would give their last 
 shilling to help a colleague. They were just 
 children, these people, egotistic, impetuous, 
 wilful, but quick in sympathy, sentimental, and 
 strangely loyal. She began to love them and to 
 
HEARTBEAT 103 
 
 fall into their ways. Physically, the life agreed 
 with her. She found herself getting plump. All 
 the boyishness, with its quick and jerky move- 
 ments, vanished. The lines became rounder and 
 softer, the gestures more deliberate and signifi- 
 cant. She had a genius for dressing, for making 
 the most of her materials, putting a touch of 
 colour in the right place, catching up her rich 
 dark hair in cunning sweeps under her hats. Her 
 rather square pale face was dominated by 
 
 Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs. 
 
 She was a creature ever adjusting her outlook 
 to a shifting panorama. She desired passionately 
 to be a part of this corporate existence which 
 went on round her, but her attitude was always 
 being controlled by some obscure, submerged 
 sense of protest. She had strange moods when 
 she was both buoyant and desperate. The joy 
 of life was in her veins, but not in her mind. She 
 distrusted herself, and therefore humanity. She 
 had read too little and imagined too much. 
 Between her and a frank interpretation of living 
 were little frozen reticences governed by a sub- 
 conscious voice which was already pleading for 
 delay. She felt that in some way her very soul 
 had been outraged, and the outrage was so 
 colossal she had not the wit to understand it — as 
 yet. " You are an instrument of readjustment," 
 the voice would whisper. 
 
 Then she would tremble, and wish it were not 
 so. It was so easy to drift and be jolly. 
 
 George Champneys had an excellent library. 
 
104 HEARTBEAT 
 
 and during the intervals of the various tours she 
 would often call and borrow a book. Even then 
 she didn't know what to read, and how to read it. 
 When she consulted him he said : 
 
 *' My dear, I haven't read a book for years. I 
 never get a minute. What do you want ? When 
 I was young — like you — I read Emerson, and 
 Stuart Mill, and Schopenhauer, and Kant, and all 
 those people. I don't remember a word that any 
 of them said. Why not read some fiction ? You 
 get profit and pleasure at the same time. Now, 
 what about Pickwick ? " 
 
 That was the worst of her world. No one had 
 a minute for reading. Some of them would play 
 cards for four or five hours a day, or spend the 
 morning cutting out a skirt, or the afternoon at 
 a race-meeting, but beyond glancing at a daily 
 paper no one had a minute for reading. So she 
 set out on her lonely pilgrimage of mental 
 improvement, and she struggled through Herbert 
 Spencer and tried to read Darwin's ** Origin of 
 Species." She was so frankly bored that she 
 decided to take George's advice and read fiction 
 — not the kind of thing that Isabel kept under 
 her pillow, lurid novels about high life — but real, 
 elevating fiction : Meredith, Hardy, perhaps Hall 
 Caine. Or wasn't Hall Caine a great writer ? 
 She didn't know. She had heard some of the 
 girls on tour rave about him. She must ask 
 George. And George said, " No; Mr. Caine 
 was all right, but he wasn't ranked as a classic. 
 Why not read ' Diana of the Crossways ' ? " He 
 had not read it — never had time — but the high- 
 
HEARTBEAT 105 
 
 brows spoke well of it. So she read " Diana of 
 the Crossways/' and was bewildered. Were 
 there rich and clever people who really talked 
 like that ? Her father had known many rich and 
 clever people, and they had visited at High 
 Barrow, but she had never heard them talk Hke 
 that. They used to mumble and talk in little 
 jerky sentences about hunting or eating or 
 politics. They were always fairly intelligible, 
 but — Diana ! 
 
 Hardy she found more companionable — he, in 
 any case, dealt with humble people — and the 
 tragedy of Tess moved her more profoundly 
 than any experience in her life. She wanted to 
 get in between the pages of this book and take 
 a part in the unfair struggle. Tess epitomised 
 to her the tragedy of her mother, the tragedy of 
 herself, the tragedy of woman. The whole scheme 
 of life was unfair to woman. But through the 
 tears which blinded her when she put the great 
 novelist's book down she saw a star of hope. 
 Her senses quickened. Fortitude springs fxom 
 trial and adversity. She already beheld in her- 
 self qualities of heart and brain which she had 
 not possessed — and would probably never have 
 possessed — in the shelter of her father's house. 
 Of course, men were like that. It was part of 
 the regime — to keep women sheltered and safe, 
 to divorce them from intellectual realities, to 
 hang them up on a peg behind the door, to be 
 taken down when required. Her father had 
 wanted her to '' paint flowers '* ! People had 
 painted flowers, and painted them very well; 
 
io6 HEARTBEAT 
 
 there was nothing wrong about it, except that 
 it typified her father's attitude towards women. 
 While she was painting flowers she was quiet, 
 out of the way; she couldn't get into mischief, 
 and he knew exactly where she was, so that if he 
 wanted her he could send for her. Flowers were 
 pretty, and women were pretty and soft and 
 clinging, and almost as perishable — admirably 
 adapted to each other. 
 
 In a defensive mood she sought out Billy 
 Hamaton. He was living at his father's house 
 at Epsom. She found him lying on a portable 
 bed by the window of a sunny room overlooking 
 a garden. His face appeared to have lengthened, 
 and the freckles stood out pronouncedly on his 
 hollow cheeks. The eyes were sunken and 
 weary-looking. He was almost unrecognisable 
 until he smiled in his old way. At the very first 
 glance she knew that her half-formed resolution 
 to marry him and nurse him all her days was an 
 ideal impossible to fulfil. She pitied him 
 intensely, and his face would haunt her all her 
 life, but she knew that not only did she not love 
 him, she never had loved him. He was a com- 
 plete stranger to her, and a stranger who pro- 
 duced in her little tremors of a queer physical 
 revulsion. 
 
 He seized her hand and whispered : 
 
 " Barbara — dear Barbara." 
 
 ** He's going to be sentimental," she thought. 
 " I mustn't give way to him. If I do I shall be 
 sick." 
 
 She pressed his hands warmly and said : 
 
HEARTBEAT 107 
 
 " Hullo, Billy. Fve been meaning to come so 
 often. How are you, old boy ? '* 
 
 The " old boy '' was a comforting term from 
 her new world. She never used to call him '* old 
 boy.'' She rattled on inconsequently : 
 
 ** I do hope you'll soon get right, Billy. I feel 
 sure you will. I had an awful journey down: 
 train got held up at Surbiton for some reason 
 or other. What are you reading ? Do you ever 
 hear from Jean or Cicely ? What a glorious day, 
 isn't it! " 
 
 She hemmed him in with a stream of banalities. 
 He never got a chance to be sentimental, or to 
 say all the things he had been saving up to say. 
 She told him about her tours and her work, and 
 about George Champneys and Isabel, and a 
 score of people in whom Billy could not possibly 
 have been interested. They had hardly had tea 
 together before she found that she must rush to 
 catch her train back. She patted his hands 
 perfunctorily and exclaimed : 
 
 '* Well, good luck, old boy! I'll come and 
 see you again soon." 
 
 On the way to the station she muttered : 
 
 '* Oh, Barbara, you're a brute — a horrid, 
 selfish little brute ! " 
 
 Well, doesn't one have to be selfish? she 
 argued. Wasn't her father selfish, and even 
 Isabel, and probably Shakespeare and Thomas 
 Hardy? One has to be selfish to protect one- 
 self. A person who doesn't protect oneself is a 
 sentimental fool. 
 
 She dined that night with Isabel in Soho, and 
 
 
io8 HEARTBEAT 
 
 they drank red wine with their dinner. She was 
 flushed and excited. George had sent word that 
 he wished to see her at '' The FrivoHty " between 
 the acts. 
 
 She was shown into the Master-Pierrot's 
 dressing-room, and she found him talking to a 
 gentleman in his shirt-sleeves, with a bowler hat 
 tilted at a dangerous angle over his left ear. 
 They were drinking whisky - and - soda. He 
 nodded to her casually and said : 
 
 '' Hullo, Fancy. Wait two minutes. I want 
 to see you.*' 
 
 He went on talking to the man in the bowler 
 hat about floats for some minutes, and then dis- 
 missed him. When he had gone, George said in 
 his thick, comfortable voice : 
 
 ** Now, look here, my dear, it's like this. Miss 
 Roland, who has been understudying Rosie, is 
 ill. She has got to go to a hospital and have an 
 operation. How would you like to take her 
 place ? '•* 
 
 Made ! She was made ! In that wild moment 
 Barbara saw her whole career in a tumultuous 
 flash. Miss Roland would go to the hospital 
 (and probably die). Next week Rosie Ventnor, 
 the leading comedienne in the London Frivolity 
 company, would also be taken ill. (She might 
 also die.) She, Barbara, would step into her 
 place. She would make an instantaneous hit. 
 There would be headlines in the newspaper : 
 *' Brilliant Debut of Young Actress." There 
 would be her portrait in all the illustrated papers. 
 There would be cheers, and bouquets, fame, and 
 
HEARTBEAT 109 
 
 a house with servants near the Park. London 
 would kneel at her feet. 
 
 She blushed, smiled at George demurely, and 
 in a timid voice said: 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Champneys, I should like it 
 very much." 
 
 ** All right, then; there's a call at eleven in the 
 morning. You'll have to work hard, because she 
 may have to go off at any time. Go round to the 
 front and find Mr. Stiles' office. He'll give you 
 the script and the songs. Have a drink ? No, 
 of course not; you're too young. So long, old 
 girl, I've got to get ready." 
 
 Oh, George, George, what a splendid person 
 you are ! As she walked dazedly through the 
 streets on the way back to the flat, he seemed to 
 hover above her like some vast benignant destiny. 
 II In a shifting and unstable world he, and he alone, 
 appeared a creature charged with kindliness and 
 real affection. The mere thought of him made 
 her quiver with gratitude. From that day when 
 he had first heard her sing ** La Pauvre Inno- 
 cente " a new joy and sense of freedom had 
 enveloped her. He was so vast, competent, reli- 
 able and successful. She hated herself for having 
 once doubted him. She was a wretch to have 
 thought of deserting him. Didn't he say 
 that he would push her on as quickly 
 as possible ? Didn't he promise solemnly ? 
 And everyone affirmed that George was 
 a man of his word. How clear it all was 
 now, this careful planning of her three years' 
 experience ? She adored him : he was like a 
 
no HEARTBEAT 
 
 father, a brother,, a protector. She knew that 
 during all that time, if she had been in any kind 
 of trouble, he would have helped her. No, it 
 wasn't necessary to be selfish to protect oneself; 
 it was necessary to be unselfish. Isabel might be 
 selfish — and even Shakespeare or Hardy — but in 
 this glowing, thrilling world, one man stood out 
 as a supreme example of the opposite — George 
 Champneys. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The position of an understudy is somewhat 
 similar to that of a poor man at a rich uncle's bed- 
 side. His solicitude for the other's welfare is 
 apt to be double-faced. 
 
 Barbara's interest in Rosie Ventnor's health 
 was an enveloping obsession. She hung about 
 the stage-door all on edge for her arrival. When 
 Rosie did arrive, she glanced eagerly at her face 
 to detect any signs of indisposition. She watched 
 her from the wings; she watched her at the back. 
 She listened to find evidence of a cold or crack 
 in the voice. She tried so hard not to want Rosie 
 to catch cold or fall down and sprain her ankle, 
 but it was impossible. She even endured night- 
 mareish temptations to do her some hurt surrep- 
 titiously, trip her up, or put something into the 
 water in her dressing-room which would make 
 her just a little ill for a few days. Her malicious 
 impulses were the more to be condemned in that 
 Rosie was a very nice girl, and was perfectly 
 charming to her. If only she were not so 
 
HEARTBEAT 1 1 1 
 
 disgustingly healthy ! The nights passed, and 
 the weeks, and even the months, and still Rosie 
 Ventnor came bouncing through the stage-door, 
 smiling, and showing her splendid teeth, which 
 had already served a sound commercial purpose 
 in advertising a well-known dentifrice. Even 
 this advertisement embittered Barbara. With a 
 little luck, she might have appeared on the back 
 page of the Star above the statement: ** Miss 
 Fancy Telling, the famous actress, says, * I 
 always use Blogg's Dentifrice. I find it admir- 
 able in every way. It keeps the teeth splendidly 
 white, and is refreshing and pleasant to the 
 palate.* '* Apart from her resentment at Rosie^s 
 splendid health and teeth, she was very happy. 
 
 In the first place she felt that she was on the 
 eve of recognition. She had an engagement in 
 town, and at one of its most successful produc- 
 tions. Ge-orge would not run the risk of allowing 
 her the possibility of playing a leading part unless 
 he thought highly of her. She thought she had 
 done well at the rehearsals, and Mr. Lamb, who 
 was himself an understudy of the great producer, 
 Julius Banstead, had openly praised her perform- 
 ance. In the second place, the company were far 
 more companionable than any of the companies 
 she had been with on tour. George's genial 
 spirit seemed to permeate them all. There were 
 all kinds of little social gatherings in various 
 dressing-rooms, all kinds of jokes, discussions 
 and stories. Even the stage hands were pleasant, 
 uncommon people, with queer characteristics and 
 friendly manners. There was Sydney Ebbway, 
 
112 HEARTBEAT 
 
 a rather ugly, lantern-faced man, very thin; he 
 acted as a foil to George on the stage. He had a 
 deep, lugubrious voice, and a massive sense of 
 humour. He would sometimes take her on one 
 side and tell her about his three children or his 
 garden at Chiswick. From that he would get on 
 to social questions, and then religion and God. 
 He talked above her head, and she was never quite 
 certain how serious he was, but the steady grey 
 twinkly eyes were irresistible, and after a time 
 she had to shake her head and laugh. Then he 
 would seize her by the shoulders and say : 
 
 " Why do I waste my eloquence on a baby like 
 you?^' 
 
 And she would answer : 
 '' I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Ebbway.'' 
 On one of these occasions he looked at her 
 eyes thoughtfully for a long time ; then he said : 
 '' I know why it is — you've got it all.*' 
 He turned away and left her to ponder his 
 meaning. 
 
 For some reason or other the phrase excited 
 her tremendously, and in an obscure way she felt 
 that it was true. She had got it all ! What ?— she 
 didn't know, but she knew she had got something. 
 It must be something enormously important, be- 
 cause the sentence implied that it was almost 
 unique to '' have it all." Some of these other 
 girls. . . . Oh, yes, it was a glorious life. 
 It made Mr. Ebbway melancholy to reflect that 
 she had it all. He had sighed dismally. It was 
 evident that she had something which he had not, 
 and she was only an understudy. 
 
HEARTBEAT 113 
 
 Days and nights and weeks passed in varying 
 moods of delight and misgiving. If only Rosie 
 would get ill ! The production was still playing to 
 packed houses, but it couldn't go on for ever. 
 She was kept very busy, because George was 
 always introducing new skits, and gags, and 
 songs ; and she had to keep up to date with every- 
 thing. 
 
 One night she arrived home very late and found 
 Isabel lying on the Chesterfield, sobbing. She 
 rushed and threw her arms around her. 
 
 ''What is it, darling? What's the matter?*' 
 
 Isabel cried and cried, and could not get her 
 voice. At last she said: 
 
 " Oh, God !— the fool, the fool ! '' 
 
 "What is it, darling?'' 
 
 Isabel seemed angry and a little unresponsive. 
 
 " Oh, you can't help me. Kiddy. I'm all right. 
 I didn't mean you to — see me." 
 
 " There must be something. Oh, tell me, what 
 is it, darling Isabel? I must help you." 
 
 " No, no — go away. I shall be all right." 
 
 She could get nothing further out of her friend, 
 and retired to bed in a state of dubious anxiety. 
 
 Two days later Isabel came to her. There were 
 dark rings round her eyes, and her lips were pale. 
 Without looking at Barbara, she said : 
 
 " I want you to do me a favour, darlinp-." 
 
 ** Of course, Isabel." 
 
 " I want you to go away and stay somewhere 
 else for a week." 
 
 Barbara was aghast. Something awful and 
 tragic was afoot, and an inner voice told her that 
 
 H 
 
.■u 
 
 114 HEARTBEAT 
 
 she had better not inquire. She was not to be in 
 this at all. She replied in a whisper: 
 
 '' All right, darling. '' 
 
 She was frankly scared. Somehow the chilling 
 fears which crept around her heart were less fears 
 for Isabel than the uncomfortable sense that she 
 was dealing with the unknown. It was obvious 
 that Isabel was frightened and desperate. It was 
 also obvious that she was terribly anxious not to 
 impart her trouble to Barbara, but to get rid of 
 her as quickly as possible. She immediately went 
 over to a private hotel at Paddington, where she 
 knew that one of the girls from the Frivolity 
 stayed, and booked a room. Then she went back 
 and packed her trunk. 
 
 Isabel hovered like a spectre in the background. 
 
 ** Take everything you may want, Kiddy. I 
 want you to promise me you won*t come back, or 
 call, for a week.** 
 
 *' All right, Isabel — I promise." 
 
 More mysteries ! She was frightened of her 
 own emotion when she kissed her friend good- 
 bye. She pecked her cheek perfunctorily, and 
 steadied her voice to say : 
 
 ** So long, darling.'* 
 
 In the cab her heart beat violently. 
 
 ** I shall never see her again ** was the purport 
 of its beat. 
 
 Everything was slipping away from her. Her 
 friends ? If Isabel died — and of course she would 
 — who else was there to cling to ? Only her 
 career, her career and the dole flung to her by her 
 father. George ? Yes, George was a dear good 
 
HEARTBEAT 115 
 
 friend, but she did not regard him in that way. 
 She felt no desire to cling to George. And that 
 is the trouble. It isn't sufficient to have friends, 
 and fame, and money; when we get down to the 
 raw stuff of our being, we demand someone to 
 cling to — both physically and spiritually. Upon 
 this impulse rests the survival of God and 
 humanity. 
 
 That night she hovered in the wings like a little 
 scared ghost. For the first time she dreaded that 
 Rosie might fall ill. If she had done so, Barbara 
 felt certain that she could not have gone on to 
 take her place. Her nerves were all unstrung. 
 In one of the waits George came across her. He 
 regarded her critically under the light of the 
 floats, and said: 
 
 *' What's the matter. Fancy. You look ill." 
 
 Tears sprang to her eyes. If anyone started 
 being sympathetic she would break down. She 
 shook her head and looked away. 
 
 ** It's nothing, Mr. Champneys. I'm a little 
 worried about something." 
 
 For a moment he appeared to be about to turn 
 away. Then he stopped and looked at her again, 
 and a most queer expression came over his face. 
 It was as though after looking at her for three 
 years he had suddenly seen her for the first time ; 
 or as though some entirely novel aspect regarding 
 her had presented itself abruptly. He spoke 
 kindly. 
 
 ** Come round to my room after the show. I 
 want to speak to you." 
 
 She wished he had not asked her. She was 
 
 H2 
 
ii6 HEARTBEAT 
 
 tired, jaded, and in no mood for any emotional 
 experience. She went to one of the dressing- 
 rooms and tried to read a book till the final cur- 
 tain, but the words danced before her eyes 
 meaninglessly. Would the performance, with its 
 interminable encores, never end? When at last 
 it really did come to a stop, she followed the chief 
 to his door. She waited till he had gone in, and 
 then tapped timidly. The dresser opened it, and 
 admitted her. 
 
 George was already smearing cocoa-butter on 
 his face. He said: 
 
 *' Come in. Fancy. Sit down. I won't be a 
 minute.** 
 
 He cleaned up his face and dismissed the 
 dresser. Then he turned to her. 
 
 " Now, youVe got to tell me what's the matter, 
 Fancy.'* 
 
 She had determined not to give way. She tried 
 to speak brightly and cheerfully. 
 
 '' It's really nothing, Mr. Champneys; nothing 
 at all. I'm only a little out of sorts." 
 
 *' You said you were worried about 
 something." 
 
 ** Yes. No, it's nothing, nothing of any 
 importance — really." 
 
 He searched her face and did not speak for 
 some moments, and when he did his voice had a 
 strange, appealing ring : 
 
 " You haven't been getting into trouble ? " 
 
 '' Getting into trouble?" 
 
 Oh, la pauvre innocente f It was difficult to 
 know how to talk to the child. He mixed him- 
 
ft 
 
 HEARTBEAT 117 
 
 self a whisky-and-soda — a stiff one. Then he sat 
 back in a paternally judicial attitude. 
 
 ** You don't — you're not one of those people 
 who go about much with boys, are you ? " 
 
 She was offended, offended and yet at the same 
 time fiercely grateful. He was hurting her in 
 the way she desired to be hurt. She would rather 
 quarrel than anything. She replied brusquely : 
 No, Tm not.'* 
 
 Did you know why Miss Roland had to leave 
 the theatre? " 
 
 *' No — not exactly, except that she was ill." 
 
 She cowered against the wall, a ruffled kitten. 
 Yes, yes — it was perfectly true. She was an 
 extremely pretty girl and — completely innocent. 
 He looked away, slightly confused, and said 
 rapidly : 
 
 " Tm sorry. Fancy. I didn't want to offend 
 you, my dear. I only wanted to say that you 
 must always tell me. If ever you are in trouble 
 of any sort, come and tell me at once." 
 
 Thank you very much, Mr. Champneys." 
 That's all. Good-night, Fancy." 
 
 ** Good-night, Mr. Champneys." 
 
 X. 
 
 In the days that followed she found it impossible 
 to evade the realisation of the metamorphosis 
 taking place in George Champneys, or to gauge 
 rightly the effect reacting upon herself. It was 
 as though through the glance of an eye she had 
 jumped several years' experience. The need for 
 
 
ii8 HEARTBEAT 
 
 considering and understanding these readjust- 
 ments was urgent. Even the affair of Isabel 
 became of secondary importance. 
 
 It was not that he spoke much to her, or acted 
 towards her with any manifest difference. 
 It was just the way his eye dwelt upon her with 
 a far-away, hang-dog appeal, and when he did 
 speak to her she noticed that the timbre of his 
 voice warmed perceptibly. Her intuitions told 
 her that he desired her intensely. 
 
 The immediate outcome of this realisation was 
 a consuming sense of pride. She examined her- 
 self in the mirror at various angles. She sub- 
 jected her natural charms to a searching analysis, 
 and came out of the ordeal with flying colours. 
 She was, indeed, a pretty woman, a woman of the 
 world, a woman sought after, a person of con- 
 siderable importance, and only the previous week 
 the mirror had told her nothing about all this. 
 She was all aglow and aquiver with a novel sense 
 of assurance and delight. She read the yearning 
 and the pathos in his eyes, and her heart went out 
 to him. How tragic it seemed that a man like 
 he, a darling of the people, a man whom every- 
 one regarded as the personification of success and 
 fun, should carry this secret sorrow in his heart. 
 She visualised the wild nights of triumph, the 
 shouts and cheers: ^'George! George! Bravo 
 George ! '' and then — the utter loneliness and 
 melancholy of his home. Poor George ! Why 
 hadn't he married years ago ? He must be — 
 forty-six? forty-seven? and she was twenty-two. 
 Of course, the whole idea was ridiculous. She 
 
HEARTBEAT 119 
 
 could never marry him, but oh ! there was some- 
 thing very wonderful in being- loved. There was 
 something very wonderful in realising the power 
 of love. Love. Power ! The connection could 
 not be idly disregarded. The Billy Hamaton 
 affair was an episode, an incident. If George 
 loved her she would have to face the potentiali- 
 ties of dynamic action. George was not a person 
 to be dismissed or passed over lightly. The day 
 would come rapidly when she would have to show 
 her hand. 
 
 Of course, he was not the knight of her dreams, 
 but does a girl ever meet the knight of her 
 dreams ? Besides — is she always certain to 
 recognise him ? Does anything ever happen as 
 we expect it ? He was so good, so kind, the 
 i dearest friend she had in the world. When the 
 test came she would have not only to have the 
 measure of her own emotions and desires, but to 
 face the cleavage of two very definite material 
 I positions. On the one hand — dismissal, drifting 
 away into obscurity, possibly touring with third- 
 rate companies, being out of work for months on 
 end, calling on those objectionable agents, being 
 insulted and *' mauled about.*' On the other 
 hand, the certainty of a '^ lead '* in one of the 
 most popular theatres in London, fame, con- 
 siderable wealth — Power. Oh, yes, there was 
 certainly something very wonderful in the power 
 of love ! 
 
 One morning, whilst dwelling on these disturb- 
 ing reflections, there came a telegram from 
 Isabel : 
 
120 HEARTBEAT 
 
 " Come and see me. Am all right. Isabel." 
 
 She was at the flat within half-an-hour. She 
 found Isabel in bed, in charge of a queer middle- 
 aged woman, who said : 
 
 *' You must keep quiet and not mug her about. 
 Don't shake the bed. She's all right, but she's 
 got to stay there weeks yet." 
 
 Isabel looked very ill, and she wept a little when 
 Barbara kissed her. Of the nature of her illness 
 she would say nothing except : 
 
 " Thank God that's over, kiddy." 
 
 Barbara felt embarrassed. Such a lot had 
 happened that week, and she and Isabel each had 
 secrets they could not share. Never mind. 
 Dear old Isabel ! She would soon be her dear, 
 sloppy, kind-hearted self again. 
 
 ** Can I come back? " Barbara asked. 
 
 '' Yes. Do come back, dear. I'm lonely. 
 That hateful old woman. . . . You must be 
 very quiet, though, and not make me cry." 
 
 Barbara promised, and that same afternoon 
 found her re-established in the flat. Before she 
 left for the theatre she went in to see Isabel again. 
 She seemed feverish and worried. Barbara 
 remembered her promise not to make her cry, so 
 she said in a matter-of-fact voice : 
 
 '' Is there anything else I can do, darling? " 
 She did not know why that innocent question 
 should make Isabel cry again, but it did. At last, 
 with their cheeks pressed together, Isabel 
 whispered : 
 " Do you still love me. Fancy? " 
 " Of course I do, darling! " 
 
HEARTBEAT 121 
 
 *' There's no one else, is there ? You look 
 different, kiddy — brighter and prettier.'* 
 
 Barbara did not know how to reply, and Isabel 
 suddenly added: 
 
 *' It's like this, dear: I've no money, and that 
 awful old woman wants ten quid by to-morrow 
 morning.'* 
 
 " I'll pay it," said Barbara eagerly. ** And 
 any more that you want." 
 
 She left Isabel weeping with relief. 
 
 XI. 
 
 At the theatre that night her sense of importance 
 increased. She glanced at the other artistes and 
 
 ij the stage-hands to see if she could detect any 
 signs of knowledge of the situation on their part. 
 She peeped through the curtain and surveyed the 
 
 , packed house. What a lot of money it must 
 hold ! Rows and rows of people who had paid 
 
 i| ten-and-sixpence for a seat. She had never 
 thought about it that way before. Her mind was 
 subtly intrigued by the image of proprietorship. 
 And all these other people — the '' lights," the 
 scene-shifters, the assistant stage-manager — how 
 
 ft different their attitude would be if they knew, or 
 even suspected. She mustn't let them know or 
 suspect, because, of course, the whole idea was 
 ridiculous. One of the girls was short with her 
 because she got in her way at an exit. 
 
 ** I could put you in your place, my dear," she 
 thought. 
 George was there early, watching out for her. 
 
122 HEARTBEAT 
 
 She could tell that by the expression of his face, 
 a little preoccupied, and then lighting up with 
 pleasure, almost with relief, at sight of her. He 
 smiled and regarded her wistfully across a group 
 of people, but there was no opportunity to speak. 
 Between the acts she avoided him intentionally, 
 and before the show was over she left. This 
 silent communion went on for several weeks, and 
 the commitment was no less definite for not 
 being outwardly expressed. She observed the 
 struggle going on in him, the lines of desire 
 deepen about his eyes and mouth. Occasionally 
 he would make excuses for touching her when 
 they were waiting in the wings. On these occa- 
 sions she would feel the deliberate message of 
 the contact. He would look at her hungrily, and 
 whisper, so that the others could not hear: 
 
 '* Barbara, Barbara." 
 
 She knew that the position could not remain 
 long so, and when one night he said : '' Barbara, 
 I want you to come out to my place and lunch 
 with me to-morrow," she felt relieved, although 
 still utterly unprepared for action. 
 
 The lunch was a curiously constrained enter- 
 tainment. They were waited on by an elderly 
 housekeeper, who did most of the talking. The 
 great comedian for once had lost his touch. He 
 was sombre and ill at ease. She felt that the 
 positions had been reversed. She was no longer 
 a child. He was the child, and she a grown 
 woman. She mothered him into a state of sub- 
 jection, and when the old woman had retired it 
 was she who suggested that they should adjourn 
 
I 
 
 HEARTBEAT 123 
 
 to the studio. Once there, she managed to get 
 him ensconced in the big easy chair by the fire- 
 place, while she sat some way off, and chatted 
 indifferently about the affairs of the theatre. She 
 tried manfully to plug up the gaps and reticences 
 with gossip and mirth, till she became painfully 
 aware that her measures were but a temporary 
 shift. Her defensive chatter was like attacking 
 an elephant with a pea-shooter. He was occupied 
 avidly with his eyes, and with his ears not at all. 
 
 At last he rose, and stood with his legs wide 
 apart and his back to the fire. Steadying his 
 voice, he said with quiet emphasis : 
 
 '* Do you know that Rosie Ventnor's contract 
 expires next month? '' 
 
 What was the significance of that ? What was 
 he implying ? Surely not that she . . . She 
 snapped out breezily : 
 
 ''Really? Well, you'll renew it, of course. 
 She surely won't be leaving ? ** 
 
 He held her in an inquisitorial glance as he 
 murmured : 
 
 '* It all depends.'' 
 
 She knew then that the issue was joined. 
 George was coming out into the open. She must 
 gather together her scattered, unprepared forces. 
 She repeated mechanically : 
 It all depends ? " 
 Yes. On you." 
 
 Having delivered his message, he advanced 
 slowly upon her, before the flavour of this 
 glittering implication had had time to dissipate. 
 She was, indeed, held by it, his own propinquity 
 
 
124 HEARTBEAT 
 
 for the moment disregarded. She . . . the 
 star of the Frivolities ! As in a dream she was 
 aware of being picked out of her chair and 
 crushed in his arms. From a long way off she 
 seemed to hear the low, vibrant notes of his 
 voice. 
 
 ** Oh, Barbara, Barbara. You know I love 
 you, don't you ? Give me your lips. I want you. 
 Barbara, Barbara! " 
 
 The effort appeared to wind him. His breath 
 came in short stabs. 
 
 She hung rigid in his arms, her eyes closed. 
 He kissed her lips, but she did not respond. 
 Somewhere in the house someone was practising 
 a scale. The sound took hold of her. All her 
 physical, mental, and moral being was in a state 
 of suspense. She could neither think nor focus. 
 He was hurting her as he puffily sought to make 
 her respond to his embraces. 
 
 She cried out limply: 
 
 " Oh — oh, Mr. Champneys — no, please! " 
 
 " Barbara, I love you. Can't you? — can't 
 you?" 
 
 At last he withdrew his arms and lips, stung to 
 reaction by her lack of reciprocity. He had found 
 out the answer to the query which had been tor- 
 turing him for weeks. She did not respond. She 
 did not love him. He held no physical attraction 
 for her. Fool ! what could he expect ? The posi- 
 tion was not without hope, though. He had 
 failed to c^rry the ramparts by storm, but other 
 methods could be tried. He meandered help- 
 lessly to the fireplace, and buried his face in his 
 
HEARTBEAT 125 
 
 hands. He looked a pathetic figure standing" 
 there, a large, unhappy child. She pitied him, 
 and desired intensely to envelop him with 
 maternal tenderness. 
 
 '' I'm so sorry, Mr. Champneys. Oh, you have 
 been so kind to me. You are one of the few dear 
 friends I have. My dear, Fm so sorry. It's only 
 that somehow I . . .*' 
 
 She could not express herself. He shrugged 
 his shoulders and spoke in a low, husky tone : 
 
 *' I know, I know, old girl. I know I had no 
 right to ask you. I wanted to ask you to marry 
 me, but I know it's all — utterly absurd. I'm 
 twenty-three years older than you, Barbara. I'm 
 battered, shop-worn. I've played ducks-and- 
 drakes with all the ten commandments. You're 
 only a kid." 
 
 *' I wouldn't care about all that side of it," she 
 flashed out, trying to relieve him. 
 
 He regarded her thoughtfully. 
 
 ** No, you wouldn't care about that side of it, 
 only that you feel it. Your intuitions, eh ? I 
 revolt you " 
 
 ^'No, no, no! " 
 
 Suddenly he turned away, and cried out 
 desperately : 
 
 *' There's one thing I won't have — your pity. 
 If you can't love me, we must cut it out. But I 
 can't stand you pitying me, Barbara. See ? You 
 can't think how that would torture me. When a 
 man asks for love and only gets pity, my God ! 
 H's apt to drive him mad. I should think of you 
 almost laughing at me " 
 
126 HEARTBEAT 
 
 ( ( 
 
 Oh, my dear, I'm too fond of you for that.** 
 No, no, but it might come. There would 
 always be the ugly dread. I believe I could make 
 you love me, Barbara. To a girl like you — you 
 don't understand — love would come afterwards. 
 It's better for you to be loved than to love. God ! 
 I would be good and loyal to you. I would sur- 
 round you with everything you wish. I would be 
 tender. I would never do anything you did not 
 approve of. I would make you famous, if you 
 desire it — rich." 
 
 Yes, the material issues were clear enough. 
 She had no illusions on that score. Their very 
 definiteness augmented her sense of an outrage 
 on her Hberty — her freedom to decide, her free- 
 dom to develop on her own lines. She spoke in 
 a voice under complete control for the first time 
 during the interview. 
 
 '' What did you mean, George, when you said 
 it all depends ? " 
 
 He looked puzzled. 
 
 ''What did I mean? What do you mean, 
 Barbara? " 
 
 *' I was thinking of — the alternative." 
 
 He snatched at her meaning, and shook his 
 large head almost angrily. 
 
 ** Oh, I wasn't meaning to blackmail you, Bar- 
 bara. I don't want to tempt you like that. It's 
 only that — well, if you won't have me, I — simply 
 couldn't have you in the theatre. I couldn't stand 
 it, you see? I wouldn't let you down. I would 
 get you a good tour, or a part somewhere else. 
 I'd pay you. I'd do anything you like, only I 
 
HEARTBEAT 127 
 
 couldn't bear having you so near me, torturing me 
 to distraction. If you'd have me, well, it's 
 natural £or a man to do everything for his wife's 
 career, if she wants to have a career. And it isn't 
 as though I should be foisting inferior goods on 
 the public for personal reasons. I should be 
 proud of you. You'd soon be as clever and 
 popular as Rosie Ventnor." 
 
 George made this statement quite simply and 
 sincerely, little suspecting what a big influence it 
 would have upon his case. He saw her face flush 
 with eagerness, her troubled brow clear with re- 
 lief. Not so hopeless, after all. She's a little 
 unstrung. Leave her alone. Give her time to 
 reflect. 
 
 He smiled at her in his old friendly way and 
 held out his hand. 
 
 *' I'm worrying you, old girl. I didn't mean 
 to do that. Now, you trot along home and think 
 about it. Only don't keep me in this state of 
 torment long." 
 
 At the door she kissed him rather primly on the 
 cheek, and said: 
 
 ** You're a dear nice person." 
 
 XII. 
 
 She did not tell Isabel about her affair till two 
 days later. She was impatient with her friend's 
 illness. She would have liked to have dined out 
 with her at some gay restaurant, and over a bottle 
 of red wine lain bare her soul. Isabel was still 
 
128 HEARTBEAT 
 
 flaccid and entirely concentrated on her own 
 troubles. She had irretrievably lost her place at 
 Daly's, and she would probably be unable to work 
 for months. She had no money, and appeared to 
 have contracted various inexplicable debts. Poor 
 old Isabel ! Barbara did not mind that. Her 
 money was Isabel's money, so far as it went. But 
 it was beginning to dawn upon her that in a short 
 while it would hardly go far enough. Bills came 
 in for all kinds of luxuries the girls had indulged 
 in before Isabel's illness. Isabel had been hope- 
 lessly vague in money matters, and Barbara had 
 been careless. Now she realised that all her 
 available capital was gone, and that they were 
 depending entirely on her own small salary and 
 the cheque for £33 los. which the lawyers sent 
 her every month. This was a sheet-anchor, and 
 she felt that whilst there was that to rely on, she 
 could go on borrowing and running up bills inde- 
 finitely. These were trivial considerations, if 
 only Isabel would be her old self. She was burst- 
 ing to discuss George's proposal with someone, 
 and so on the second day she went out and bought 
 a bottle of port. After lunch she poured out two 
 glasses, ope for Isabel and one for herself, then, 
 to her annoyance, found that Isabel had been for- 
 bidden to drink anything alcoholic for some 
 weeks. So she drank her own glass, and, still 
 lacking the encouragement of her friend's re- 
 sponse, she began on the other. Then she talked. 
 " You know I lunched with George Champneys 
 the day before yesterday, darling ? Well, I 
 haven't told you — he proposed to me." 
 
HEARTBEAT 129 
 
 Isabel sat up in bed, her eyes vividly awake at 
 last. 
 
 '' He proposed to you ! What— marriage ? '* 
 
 '' Yes, of course." 
 
 '' My God! " 
 
 *' What do you think, Isabel ? " 
 
 '' You lucky little devil ! " 
 
 ** Would you marry him? " 
 
 " Marry him! Of course you'll marry him. 
 You are the luckiest little devil I've ever struck.'' 
 
 '* But, listen, darling. That's what I want to 
 talk to you about. You see, I'm very fond of 
 him, very fond of him indeed — he's a perfect dear 
 — but I don't love him, you know — not really. I 
 don't feel I want him. I don't love him as much 
 as I do you, darling." 
 
 " My Lord! do you realise what this means? 
 It means ' lead ' for you for ever, and you can 
 wangle all your pals into fat parts. It means — 
 you're made. George is rich. You'll have a big 
 house, and a car, and dine at the Savoy and the 
 Carlton. You'll get into all the papers. You'll 
 be another May Mendelssohn without having to 
 push for it like she's had to. Oh, you lucky little 
 wretch ! " 
 
 *' Yes, darling, I know all that, but do you 
 think you could be happy with a man you don't 
 really love ? " 
 
 '' Love ! You'd soon get to love him. He's 
 a white man, George, a good chap. He'll play 
 the game by you." 
 
 '' That's what I want to know. He said — it 
 was almost a promise — that love would come 
 
 I 
 
130 HEARTBEAT 
 
 after. Is it possible? Does it ever come 
 after? '' 
 
 '' Of course it does. It would with you. You 
 can be taught to love in the same way that you 
 can be taught to sing and dance, if you have a 
 natural talent for it. And if anybody has, you 
 have. You're a passionate little devil. A man 
 would have a good time with you. Excuse my 
 crudeness, but you know what I mean." 
 
 The port-wine had gone to Barbara's head. 
 She regarded Isabel's statement without disgust. 
 She wanted to know the truth of things. She 
 ruminated. 
 
 '' When he kissed me, I didn't mind it. I 
 wasn't revolted, as he suggested. I only felt 
 that I didn't want to kiss him in reply." 
 
 ** You wait till you've been kissed properly a 
 few times; you'll soon want to reply." 
 
 '* Isabel darling, all this ' mauling about ' you 
 speak of, what does it mean ? " 
 
 *' It means that when you've been kissed 
 properly it gets into your blood. You can't do 
 without it. That's why I'm — no, I can't tell you 
 anything. You're an innocent lamb. But I'll 
 tell you this. You could soon get to love George 
 in that particular way, if you like him very much 
 in the other way." 
 
 ** Isn't there a kind of combination, when you 
 love a man in every way? " 
 
 *' Yes, in novels and plays, not in real life, 
 except perhaps one in ten thousand. Don't you 
 be a fool. You're on a good thing. If George 
 \vas rich and influential, and a blackguard, I'd 
 
HEARTBEAT 131 
 
 say no, cut it out. But he isn't; everybody in 
 the profession knows that George is all right/' 
 
 Barbara finished up her second glass of port 
 and kissed Isabel more passionately than the 
 occasion seemed to demand. 
 
 *' YouVe a darling old thing/* she said. '' I 
 suppose it means I shall do it.'* 
 
 Her decision, however, swung backwards and 
 forwards like the pendulum of a clock. When 
 the effects of the port had worked off she decided 
 not to do it. On a walk just after tea she decided 
 to do it. On her way to the theatre she said 
 ** No.'* While the orchestra was tuning up she 
 thought ^' Yes." When she went to bed at night 
 she murmured, " No, no, no; a thousand times 
 
 no. 
 
 The following evening, just after dinner, she 
 promised George Champneys to marry him. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The announcement of her engagement to George 
 created a thrill beyond her wildest expectations. 
 As she anticipated, the attitude of everyone at 
 the theatre changed electrically. Rosie Ventnor 
 and the other girls embraced her as though she 
 was, and always had been, their dearest friend. 
 Sydney Ebbway and his male colleagues treated 
 her as a person of consequence, and not an insig- 
 nificant little understudy. Stage-hands who had 
 hitherto ignored her touched their hats and said : 
 Good evening, miss." The assistant stage- 
 
 12 
 
 (( 
 
 •I 
 
132 HEARTBEAT 
 
 manager, who had often been rude and abrupt 
 with her, cringed with civiHty. Moreover, her 
 name appeared instantaneously in nearly every 
 daily paper. '' Hearty con,8fratulations to George 
 Champneys ! We have the pleasure to announce 
 that the famous comedian is engaged to Miss 
 Fancy Telling, a promising young actress at 
 present understudying at the Frivolity. The 
 wedding is to take place shortly." 
 
 ** At present *' had a thrill of its own. Three 
 weekly illustrated papers published her portrait. 
 Seven photographers wrote begging to be 
 allowed to take her photograph free of charge. 
 The leaves were already whispering in the winds 
 of triumph. 
 
 The decision being taken, she was determined 
 to give no hostages to fortune, to indulge in no 
 regrets or fears. George was a person worthy 
 of her love, and she would love him to the very 
 best of her ability. She had no standard by which 
 to judge the nature of her affection. That she 
 was fond of him she knew. She admired his 
 genius, his strength, his simplicity. She felt 
 happy and proud in his society. She desired to 
 have charge of him, to minister to his wants, to 
 mother his weaknesses. And of that other love, 
 had not Isabel said it could be learnt ? Had not 
 George said — nay, promised — that it would come 
 afterwards ? In the meantime the days and nights 
 were crowded with a thousand anticipations and 
 delights. Amidst their welter one thought came 
 quickly to the fore. Once married to George, 
 she would reject the dole her father had flung 
 
HEARTBEAT 133 
 
 her. She would free herself of the Powerscourt 
 taint. The price had been paid. In marrying 
 George she would perhaps reconnect the chain 
 which her mother's misjudgment had snapped. 
 Where her mother had failed she would succeed. 
 She would justify her mother. She would carry 
 on her story to a happier and worthier climax. 
 
 George's days were very occupied, and there 
 was little time for dalliance. He gave her a 
 wonderful diamond and emerald engagement 
 ring, and having placed it on her finger he patted 
 her hand, smiling in an expansive and possessive 
 manner, as much as to say : 
 
 ''There, my dear, that's that." 
 
 When they were alone he was tenderness itself, 
 a little humble and sentimental. She observed 
 that, although he kissed her, he very seldom 
 " kissed her properly," to quote Isabel's phrase. 
 He seemed terrified of shocking or frightening 
 her. She had never realised before how pliable 
 a strong man may become. She could do any- 
 thing with him she liked; he was her slave. This 
 sense of power, although it intoxicated her, 
 fortified some of her saner resolutions. In the 
 first place, she decreed that Rosie Ventnor was 
 not to be dismissed so summarily. The action 
 would appear, and be, crude and venomous. She 
 suggested that at first she should play a minor 
 part in the revue, and then, if she made good and 
 the London public liked her, she should eventually 
 take a lead in a later production. George readily 
 acquiesced, and he was pleased with her for sug- 
 gesting this. In the first place, Rosie Ventnor 
 
134 HEARTBEAT 
 
 was a popular favourite, a draw, and Fancy 
 Telling was quite unknown. In the second place, 
 he was not fully persuaded that she was endowed 
 with sufficient sense of comedy to fill a niche 
 evacuated by the popular Rosie. Barbara was a 
 better singer and a better dancer, but she lacked 
 the gift of burlesque. She was always herself; 
 she had no power of imitation. She had the joy 
 of life, and she was not without humour, but it 
 was the humour of high spirits and good health. 
 Her humour was never acid, or mordant, or 
 particularly subtle. 
 
 In his present mood he would have sacked Rosie 
 at a moment's notice to please Barbara, but his 
 managerial acumen applauded her decision. Not 
 only was she a dear, warm-hearted, passionate, 
 entirely innocent little thing, but she was sensible. 
 During his life George had found that beauty and 
 sense were seldom bed-fellows. 
 
 He bestirred himself to please her in other 
 ways. His bachelor house at South Kensington 
 would have to be renovated and brought up to 
 date. The thought of it made him shudder. He 
 had an excellent housekeeper, an excellent cook, 
 a reliable valet, who also acted as a dresser, and 
 several other servants who had been with him for 
 years. How would they welcome the invasion of 
 a mistress ? The establishment had got into a 
 bit of a groove, perhaps, but how smoothly and 
 perfectly it worked ! George was of opinion that 
 anyone doing his kind of work must have all his 
 creature comforts liberally bestowed. At home 
 he wore a shabby old suit and carpet slippers, but 
 
HEARTBEAT 135 
 
 everything in the household was ideally arranged. 
 In the morning when he awoke he pressed a bell 
 which set the domestic machinery in motion. Tea 
 was brought him on a tray"; his bath was turned 
 on with the water regulated to exactly the right 
 temperature; clean linen and clothes were put out 
 for him; when he arrived in the breakfast-room 
 the silver entree-dish was awaiting him and the 
 tea made, his letters in a neat pile, with a silver 
 cutter by their side, and the daily papers in an 
 orderly array on the other side of the table; after 
 breakfast the fire would be glowing in the library, 
 some two dozen beloved pipes in a rack by the 
 sideboard, probably his secretary awaiting him 
 with a report of last night's returns. He was a 
 chubby-faced young man, and he would call out : 
 " Good morning, guv'nor.^' 
 
 Then the day's work would begin. And the 
 domestic arrangements dovetailed themselves 
 with silent perfection into the demands of the 
 day's work. He did not even say whether he 
 would be in to meals. A man in his position 
 can't commit himself to such trivialities. Any- 
 thing might happen. He might say yes, and then 
 the telephone would go, and he would have to 
 rush down to the theatre, or to lunch with a 
 syndicate or a colleague. And so these perfectly 
 cooked meals were always there if he required 
 them, and if he brought three or four people in 
 unexpectedly it seemed to make no difference. 
 Furniture was polished, curtains cleaned, clothes 
 repaired, breakages replaced, coal stored for the 
 winter, rooms vacuum-cleaned, the garden kept 
 
136 HEARTBEAT 
 
 in order, enormous quantities of food and drink 
 stowed away in cellars, and then either cooked, 
 eaten, drunk, wasted or destroyed 
 
 And from all these details George kept care- 
 fully aloof. He did not even pay the bills. 
 Every week this competent and masterful house- 
 keeper, whose name was Mrs. Piddinghoe, had 
 an interview with the competent and masterly 
 secretary, Mr. Toller, in the library. She pre- 
 sented all the bills, and he gave her cheques for 
 some and cash for others. If you had asked 
 George whether cheese was as expensive as York 
 ham, or whether thirty shillings a week for a 
 bachelor's laundry was rather a lot, he would not 
 have known the answer. The theatre was play- 
 ing to capacity, and whether his household 
 expenses came to forty pounds a month or one 
 hundred and forty did not seem of much 
 importance. 
 
 Neither had he ever known the shifts and 
 struggles of most successful actors. He had 
 always been rich. His father made a large for- 
 tune with a dye-works in Lancashire, and it had 
 all been divided between George and his brother, 
 who was a shipbroker in Liverpool. After going 
 to Rugby he had spent two years at Owen's 
 College, Manchester, and from there had entered 
 his father's dye-works with a view to taking an 
 active part in the business. He showed, how- 
 ever, little aptitude for it, and office life cramped 
 him. His fine baritone voice and droll sense of 
 fun delighted his friends but annoyed his father, 
 who was a hard-headed Primitive Methodist. At 
 
HEARTBEAT 137 
 
 the end of three years they quarrelled, and 
 George was threatened with the risk of learning 
 by experience the relative values of ham and 
 cheese, when his father died suddenly from blood- 
 poisoning as the result of a trivial accident in his 
 own works. No will was found, and so the 
 estate — which was assessed at one hundred and 
 forty-five thousand pounds — was divided between 
 the two brothers. The mother had died when 
 they were at school. 
 
 George then packed up his traps and came to 
 London. He had not at first any idea of the stage 
 or of the theatrical enterprise. He was young 
 and rich, and he desired to see the world. He 
 stayed at a club in Jermyn Street, and there he 
 made friends, entertained, and went to concerts 
 and theatres. The only thing in the nature of 
 work which he indulged in was to have singing 
 lessons from a well-known professor. After a 
 dozen or so lessons the professor became irritated 
 with him. He said : 
 
 " I can't make you out, Champneys. You've 
 got a good voice, but I can't make you do any- 
 thing with it. It's just as though you're laughing 
 at yourself all the time." 
 
 George sighed, and reflected deeply upon this 
 criticism. He began to realise that it was true. 
 He could sing a parody of an Italian opera, or a 
 German opera, with a richness and fullness of 
 voice that would have done credit to some of the 
 leading opera singers themselves, but when he 
 attempted to sing seriously it never came off. 
 Well, perhaps the professor was right. He didn't 
 
138 HEARTBEAT 
 
 take himself seriously. Why should he, after 
 all ? He would see what experience the Conti- 
 nent had to offer him. 
 
 He went to Paris, Vienna, and Buda-Pesth, 
 and indulged in the normal dissipations of those 
 cities. Then he went on to Milan, Venice, and 
 Florence, and at Fiesole he experienced the first 
 great love affair of his life. She was a pretty 
 woman, the wife of an American who was com- 
 fortably ensconced in his own country. The 
 intrigue was unquestionably sordid, but wrapped 
 up in the romantic glamour of ilex groves, 
 Renaissance temples, and the perfume of white 
 flowers by moonlight. She was staying alone at 
 the hotel, but was known by many people. They 
 had to be circumspect, and therefore sordid. So 
 great, however, became the call of their mutual 
 passion that they sneaked away, and lived 
 together for six weeks at Rapallo. That was the 
 golden era of George's Hfe. When afterwards 
 he dreamed of love, when afterwards he had 
 other experiences, that pervading vision would 
 haunt him — the yellow sands of the little bay, the 
 villa entangled with flowers against the dark 
 trees, Maisie leaning over the balcony, holding 
 out her arms. In that vision dwelt the flavour 
 of perpetuity. 
 
 She got frightened at last— frightened of her 
 friends, of her fate, of her husband. He tried to 
 persuade her to stay with him for ever, but her 
 nerves were all unstrung. She must go away. 
 Oh yes, at once— to-day. Maisie was like that- 
 impetuous darling ! 
 
HEARTBEAT 139 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He never saw her again. He wrote innumerable 
 letters, but they were never answered. He 
 wandered disconsolately back to Paris. He had 
 a vague idea of continuing singing and perfect- 
 ing his French. To this end he stayed at a quiet 
 hotel in Etoile and sought a new professor. For 
 a time he worked stolidly, avoiding the normal 
 distractions of the Gay City. He went to 
 theatres, but more with the idea of studying 
 French and French acting than of enjoying him- 
 self. The Attic spirit of French comedy and 
 satire intrigued him. He got introduced to a 
 famous comedian, with whom he made friends, 
 and it was in his house that he met Licette 
 Rameau, a fair-haired, vivacious young actress, 
 at that time playing an insignificant part at the 
 Odeon. Mutual attraction quickly ripened into a 
 passionate attachment. Eight months after the 
 disappearance of Maisie he was keeping Licette 
 in a little flat near the Quai d'Orsay. He became 
 absorbed into Parisian theatrical life, where 
 many distinguished men kept their mistresses 
 and were a little proud of the achievement, and 
 not infrequently took them about with their 
 wives. During that time George learnt a lot 
 about the technique of the French theatre, as 
 well as about the technique of love and the order- 
 ing of a good dinner. It cannot be said that 
 Licette treated him very well. At the end of a 
 year he discovered that she was getting commis- 
 sions from tradespeople for the goods he was 
 
140 HEARTBEAT 
 
 supplying her ! And when, a few weeks later, 
 he happened to come in unexpectedly one even- 
 ing and found a fair-haired minor poet hiding 
 in the bathroom, he decided that the time had 
 come to part. 
 
 It was at about that time that he met Miles 
 Ronnie. He was a theatrical manager who had 
 gone to Paris to see whether there was anything 
 worth adapting. In George he found the very 
 man he was looking for. George knew every- 
 thing that was on, was a shrewd judge, and 
 spoke French fluently. The outcome of their few 
 days* acquaintanceship was that George agreed 
 to translate and adapt a French farce. He arrived 
 in London a few weeks later with the farce nicely 
 trimmed up and Bowdlerised for the English 
 stage. Miles Ronnie was very pleased with it, 
 and decided to send it on tour; but what most 
 impressed him was the value of George at 
 rehearsals. He was a born comedian. 
 
 *' Why in God's name don't you come into the 
 business?" he asked one day. 
 
 George laughed. Why should he go into the 
 business ? Nevertheless he found himself rest- 
 less and bored when not doing something 
 connected with the theatre. One day he had a 
 bright idea. He would write a revue on the pat- 
 tern of the French revue. He would write the 
 libretto and some of the lyrics, and get hold of 
 some rising young composer to do the score. 
 The farce had gone on tour and was being a rea- 
 sonable success. Miles Ronnie was enthusiastic 
 at the idea of the revue, so he settled down to 
 
HEARTBEAT 141 
 
 work. And then one evening at Ronnie's house 
 he found himself gazing into the eyes of Peggy 
 Alcester. They were deep grey, wistful eyes, 
 with just sufficient maliciousness to keep them 
 from being sentimental. George said to himself : 
 
 '* George, old boy, it's time you settled down." 
 
 He spent an inspiriting summer, writing and 
 producing the revue, and making love to Peggy, 
 In July the revue was produced, and failed. In 
 August he proposed to Peggy and was accepted. 
 Of the revue Ronnie said: 
 
 *' It's a damn good revue, Champneys, only 
 too close to the French model. You can't expect 
 to get our people to act it." 
 
 The failure of the revue annoyed George 
 intensely. He felt that he had done good work, 
 but that he had been misunderstood and misinter- 
 preted. Peggy went down to 'Cornwall with some 
 friends, and in spite of the temptation to follow 
 her he decided to reconsider some of the revue, 
 rehearse it again, and play the leading comedian's 
 part himself, just to see whether it couldn't be 
 made a success. Ronnie had laid out a lot of 
 money on it, and George felt that he had rather 
 let him down. The marriage was arranged for 
 October. 
 
 The revue was put into rehearsal again, and 
 George was an enormous success as a fat show- 
 man. A seasoned company could hardly get 
 through rehearsals for laughing at him. The 
 night for the new edition was announced. 
 
 Going down to the stage for the dress rehearsal 
 he met a telegraph-boy, who handed him a 
 
142 HEARTBEAT 
 
 telegram. When he read it he groaned, and 
 collapsed in the stone passage. Peggy had been 
 drowned bathing at Trevagissy. 
 
 After that he sulked from the stage, he sulked 
 from life. In a state of extreme depression he 
 went to stay with his brother in Liverpool, and 
 made a tentative survey of ship-broking, finance, 
 and religion. Something within him hardened 
 and crystallised. He felt that he had been badly 
 treated by life. He wallowed in self-pity. He 
 almost decided to become religious, to marry 
 some decent girl, whether he liked her or not, 
 have children, go into business, deal with the 
 world on its own terms. But the women he met 
 in his brother's circle bored him to a frenzy. He 
 knew nothing of their world, and they knew no- 
 thing of his. High finance gave him a headache. 
 In a short while he found himself sneaking away 
 alone to theatres or music-halls, and creeping into 
 the bars of obscure pubs in search of, congenial 
 society. 
 
 One day he met a man shortly leaving for New 
 York. An impulsive desire came over him to 
 visit the New World. He managed to secure a 
 berth on the outgoing liner. On the voyage he 
 had an affair with a French widow; it was highly 
 distracting, but did not touch him very 
 profoundly. At Hoboken they swore eternal 
 fidelity, and never saw each other again. In New 
 York George found society after his own heart in 
 various clubs — the Lambs, the Lotus and the 
 Players. It was April, and the atmosphere of 
 New York acted like wine. His vitality had never 
 
HEARTBEAT 143 
 
 been so high. His previous experiences paled 
 before this blast of American hospitality. This 
 was indeed a new world. He was always in 
 demand for his songs, his droll stories, his genial 
 personality. He became tremendously excited 
 by the warmth of his reception. He would be up 
 half the night, and yet not be tired the next day. 
 And then he met James Byron Eberfeld, who was 
 taking a star company of top-notchers to tour the 
 middle Western States, and James proposed that 
 he should accompany them. The idea fitted in 
 with his mood, and so he made his first profes- 
 sional appearance in Colombus, Ohio. He little 
 suspected on that opening night in Colombus that 
 he was destined to climb to the top of the tree. 
 They were away five months, and although the 
 tour was a great success, George was not con- 
 spicuously successful. They enjoyed his singing, 
 but he was handicapped by his ignorance of the 
 vernacular. His humour was a little too English 
 in diction and French in method, and at the same 
 time he had actually had very little experience, 
 and his face and figure had not filled out to that 
 expansive condition which later on invited a laugh 
 in itself. They were a congenial, good-tempered 
 company, and he learned to play poker, and eat 
 clams and hashed beef and squash pie, and by the 
 end of the tour his knowledge of cocktails was 
 not to be despised. 
 
 Returning to New York at the beginning of 
 September, he plunged into a wild and unaccount- 
 able mood of dissipation. He had probably 
 arrived at the apex of his physical powers, and his 
 
144 HEARTBEAT 
 
 moral powers offered little resistance. He was 
 drunk with the partial success of his own theatri- 
 cal experiences. The wine of glamour and 
 publicity had gone to his head. Backed by his 
 own considerable fortune he foresaw the possi- 
 bilities of achieving a great success. In any case 
 he had found out what he was fitted for, and the 
 realisation gave him a sense of freedom. The 
 stage was his destiny, and he would worry about 
 women and domestic happiness no longer. 
 Women ? Yes, but not as co-mates or companions. 
 Nothing should stand between him and the 
 flattery of the crowd, the augmentation of his 
 individuality. He was astute enough to see that 
 he would have to go back home. In America 
 there were many and excellent comedians working 
 in their own particular ^enre; he would not be 
 able to compete with them; but in London or 
 Paris he would be in his normal environment. 
 Although the vision dazzled him, he could not 
 make up his mind to leave New York. He had 
 drifted into a dubious company of underworld 
 spirits. He began to drink and carouse and eat 
 into the capital of his conscience. He lived in a 
 flat in Twenty-Sixth Street with Betty Saskewan, 
 a woman with the record of a degenerate, who 
 still retained certain opulent charms. They gave 
 parties which could only be described as orgies. 
 This unaccountable wave of depravity lasted 
 eight months. George's figure grew fat and 
 puffy, his face flabby and lax, his eyes dull and 
 heavily lined. And then one day he was seized 
 with a serious illness. He was sent to a nursing;- 
 
HEARTBEAT 145 
 
 home and had to undergo an internal operation. 
 He hovered between life and death, and Betty 
 vanished into the Ewigkeit. He was in the 
 nursing-home two months, and then went up to 
 the Adirondacks to recuperate. One day he 
 looked at himself in the mirror, and he said : 
 
 " This won't do, old boy, this won't do. Cut it 
 out, old boy, cut it out ! " 
 
 He pulled himself together and obeyed the 
 doctor. He reviewed this period of abysmal folly 
 through a blurred mirror of introspection. He 
 was not fundamentally a depraved and vicious 
 man. Truly he liked good things, and he had the 
 material means and the physical abundance to 
 obtain and enjoy them. He was a spiritual 
 opportunist, a little abnormal and weak. He had 
 been spoilt by good fortune, a strong frame, and 
 a complete lack of incentive. He was just carried 
 along by the riches of his vitality. But now his 
 vitality was a little broken, his fortune consider- 
 ably impaired, and he was lonely. That was it; 
 he became convinced that the basic cause of his 
 unwarranted outbreak was the condition of utter 
 loneliness. 
 
 If only Maisie — or Peggy — if he had only 
 met Maisie or Peggy when he was quite a 
 young man, how different he might be now ! He 
 had wandered the earth seeking love, and he had 
 found only entertainment. And soon he would 
 be reaching that stage when he could no longer 
 compel love — the thought horrified him. 
 Women would pity him; they would throw 
 crumbs of pity to his hungry heart. He had 
 
 K 
 
146 HEARTBEAT 
 
 never been good-looking, and now he was already 
 getting a little passe, shop-worn. 
 
 When well enough, he went shamefacedly back 
 to New York, and took the next boat to England. 
 After his New York experiences the more staid 
 atmosphere of London fitted in with his contrite 
 mood. He went back to his old club in Jermyn 
 Street and sought out some of his old theatrical 
 friends. He met a man named Morgan Menges 
 and they started a Pierrot entertainment of six, 
 three men and three girls, at an obscure concert- 
 hall at Notting Hill. The entertainment was a 
 complete failure. George was unknown, and he 
 had got rather out of touch with the topical feeling 
 of London at that time. Moreover, people at 
 Notting Hill don't go to Pierrot entertainments. 
 They lost several hundred pounds, and the part- 
 nership broke up. 
 
 George was not unduly discouraged. Although 
 he had squandered a good part of his fortune he 
 was still a comparatively wealthy man; he could 
 afford to start again. He was now middle-aged, 
 but he knew that he was at the zenith of his 
 powers. He engaged a company of his own and 
 took the lease of a small hall in Great Portland 
 Street. He advertised the entertainment exten- 
 sively. It took London three years to recognise 
 that in George Champneys it had a comedian 
 quite out of the common. Then he began to 
 come into his own. That three years* hard work 
 cost him several thousand pounds, but it made his 
 name. He received innumerable offers from 
 theatrical managers. Whilst hesitating about his 
 
HEARTBEAT 147 
 
 next move an aunt in Scotland died and left him 
 an estate consisting of a large bleak house 
 in Fifeshire and many thousand acres of 
 land in varying stages of cultivation. He 
 went up and inspected it, with a vague 
 idea of " settling down/' He spent one 
 night there, and awoke to the horror of his lone- 
 liness. It was winter-time and the place was 
 buried in a thick white mist. Dripping cattle 
 glared menacingly at him on the moors. The 
 natives appeared frigid and unresponsive. 
 
 " Oh, no, old boy,** he said, as he drove back 
 to the station; " youVe still got a sense ot 
 humour. Don't kill it." 
 
 He eventually sold the whole estate for twenty 
 thousand pounds. On his return to London the 
 great opportunity arose. By a great deal of 
 wangling behind the scenes he obtained a four- 
 teen years* lease of the Frivolity Theatre. He 
 engaged some of the best artists of the day, 
 Hbrettists, composers, conductors and actors. He 
 welded the ideas of a dozen people into a gigantic 
 Pierrot entertainment, fortified by rather elab- 
 orate scenery and properties. He played the 
 principal part himself, but he was careful to see 
 that the rest of the company were not only good 
 artists but that they had names. The thing began 
 reasonably well, and its success increased like a 
 snowball being rolled down a hill. Within a 
 year it was the one big attraction of the town. 
 George worked hard, and spent money lavishly. 
 New material was constantly introduced, new 
 ideas, songs, gags, scenes, properties purchased 
 
 K2 
 
148 HEARTBEAT 
 
 regardless of cost. Surprisingly ignorant on 
 matters of business and finance, he nevertheless 
 had the knack of picking the right man for the 
 job. He had clever managers, and secretaries 
 and producers — men who had been in it all their 
 lives. 
 
 The effect of this sudden leap to fame and 
 success reacted upon him rather surprisingly. 
 It made him swollen-headed and egotistical, but 
 in a manner that it was easy to conceal. Generally 
 speaking, it mellowed him. He became essen- 
 tially calmer, more considerate of others, gentler 
 and kinder. Everyone connected with the 
 theatre adored him. Perhaps under the circum- 
 stances it was not difficult to be generous and 
 kind; but the quality of consideration for others 
 is always rare. It was as though the emotional 
 experiences of his life had disillusioned him in the 
 search for personal gratification; he had become 
 simply the medium for the entertainment of his 
 fellow-man. He regarded himself detachedly, 
 but with a comfortable sense of complacency. 
 Spiritually, perhaps, he had settled down. 
 
 As the years went on this aspect of him became 
 more accentuated. If the loneliness were there 
 it was warmed by the glow of service and accom- 
 plishment. Emotional dreams were destroyed 
 by the friction of physical realities. *' Put it all 
 by, old boy, put it all by.'' 
 
 He was quite happy ; too busy to be otherwise. 
 Erotic desires were captive to the bow and spear 
 of youth. Heigho ! a man who ceases to desire 
 cannot be said to resist temptation. The star of 
 
HEARTBEAT 149 
 
 his moral abstractions was becoming fixed. His 
 pulses beat to the steady rhythm of ordered 
 life. 
 
 And then one day he beheld Barbara — whom 
 he had known for three years — and he realised 
 that he was seeing- her for the first time. Her 
 hair was ruffled, her eyes troubled, tears swim- 
 ming in their mystic depths. She was unhappy, 
 wanting something terribly, hungry for — the 
 thing he had missed. The desire to touch her 
 was almost irresistible — la pauvre innocente! 
 
 XV. 
 
 The wedding was as quiet as it is possible for a 
 theatrical wedding to be. That is to say, that it 
 was understood that only intimate friends of the 
 bride and bridegroom were to be invited, but 
 many people got wind of it, and the little church 
 at Kensington was fairly crowded when these 
 two went through a service which neither of them 
 believed in, and when Barbara promised to love, 
 honour and obey the greatest comedian of his 
 time. 
 
 It took place in August, between the run of 
 two productions, so that they were able to get 
 away for two weeks' honeymoon. All the com- 
 pany were there, and George was in very good 
 spirits. Barbara was solemn and wide-eyed, and 
 Isabel wept abundantly. They went to St. 
 Mawes, the little fishing village opposite Fal- 
 mouth, and Barbara persuaded herself that she 
 
I50 HEARTBEAT 
 
 had met the idol of her dreams. She was, indeed, 
 deliriously happy. The weather was glorious, in 
 spite of the heat. They bathed, lolled, and 
 basked in the sun. George seemed to revert 
 suddenly to boyhood. He was a child, whim- 
 sical, passionate, rather sentimental. He could 
 not bear her out of his sight. He anticipated all 
 her desires, waited on her, smothered her with 
 kindness, presents, flowers, surprises. He 
 sustained the fantastic mood that he had been in 
 on that summer's afternoon when he found the 
 three girls in the Stradlings* drawing-room and 
 talked about the weird animals. He treated her 
 alternately like a child and like a mother. That 
 which he had vaguely yearned for all through life 
 he found in the mere contact of her presence, the 
 mere knowledge that she was there near him, 
 needing him, relying on him. 
 
 Oh ! but he would be good and tender with her. 
 
 In the darkness of the night some of the ugly 
 
 memories of the past would torture him. Was it 
 
 too late ? Was he justified in doing this thing ? 
 
 He had wealth, position, a name; but was that 
 
 any recompense for what she was giving him ? 
 
 He would listen to her gentle breathing, and place 
 
 his fat face against the strands of her hair 
 
 scattered between the two pillows. He loved the 
 
 perfume of her hair; it had the tang of vital 
 
 essences. Maisie ? Peggie ? — yes, but those other 
 
 women ! Oh, he would give Barbara everything ; 
 
 he would make up to her in passionate solicitude, 
 
 tenderness, self-sacrifice. Would she in time 
 
 give him that love he so avidly desired ? Barbara 
 
HEARTBEAT 151 
 
 was fond of him, but he had at present no physical 
 attraction for her. She was a Httle bewildered, 
 frightened, almost disgusted — and he had 
 promised her that ^' love would come after." 
 Well, why not? How horribly hot the nights 
 were ! George was not his best in the hot 
 weather. 
 
 His mind ran on the arrangements he would 
 make in town. He would be anxious not to take 
 advantage of his position, not to trespass upon 
 her freedom unduly, not to worry her. They 
 would have separate beds in the same room. She 
 would like that better. She should have a 
 dressing-room of her own, and a boudoir, and a 
 maid. She should have the best parts, the best 
 songs in the revues. And then, one day perhaps, 
 she would have a child — he passionately desired 
 a child. It must be a girl, an infant Barbara. 
 
 Barbara lived in a dreamland in which anticipa- 
 tion was perhaps a more imminent factor than 
 realisation. The sun shone on the dancing 
 waters of the bay. Fishing-boats crept lazily 
 hither and thither. The people in this old-world 
 village were friendly and good to look upon. On 
 the other side of the Carrick Roads the low line 
 of the Cornish hills forms a broad vista of 
 enchanting beauty, in which the details were 
 invisible and mysterious, like that bold vision of 
 the life which was before her. 
 
 George was a dear. She had done something 
 big in marrying him, and her heart rejoiced. 
 Back in London, she would be a person of import- 
 ance — a power. She would help people — Isabel, 
 
152 HEARTBEAT 
 
 that little girl-accompanist she had met on tour, 
 odd, pathetic characters who had drifted across 
 her life. She would look after George's house, 
 make him happier and more comfortable. She 
 had learnt profoundly how '* to look after her- 
 self." On tour she had learnt how to cook, and 
 sew, and mend. She knew the value of things, 
 and how to economise, get the best out of the 
 domestic equation. She should suggest that 
 they had separate beds. George was restless, 
 humid and noisy in bed — perhaps one day she 
 would be able to get a separate bedroom, and a 
 dressing-room, and a maid. She would try and 
 not interfere with him and his mode of life. She 
 would not take advantage of her position as his 
 wife. Then perhaps one day she would have a 
 child. She passionately desired a child. It must 
 be a boy, and his name — well, there was time to 
 discuss that later. 
 
 You seCj, they agreed about practically every- 
 thing. They had great fun writing to the lawyer 
 about Barbara's sacrifice of her father's legacy. 
 George had no objection at all. He was very 
 amused, and said he would like her to write the 
 letter herself, and let him see how cleverly she 
 worded it. And this is what Barbara wrote : 
 
 Dear Sir^ 
 
 Re Thomas Powerscourt Estate. 
 I beg to say that re the above I shall not require my 
 allowance any longer, neither do 1 wish to have any say 
 in the disposition of it. The money is just to go back into 
 the pool. You can do what you like with it. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 Barbara (Powerscourt). 
 
HEARTBEAT 153 
 
 When Georg-e read this letter he slapped his 
 leg and the tears rolled down his cheeks with 
 laughter. 
 
 " You're a perfect little lawyer/' he cried. 
 " Oh, dear! that's lovely! — 'You can do what 
 you like with it ' — and then the brackets round 
 ' Powerscourt ' ! O Fancy, Fancy, come here 
 and let me kiss you.*' 
 
 They motored all the way back from Fal- 
 mouth, stopping, a night at Exeter, a night at 
 Winchester, and a night at Oxford. It was all 
 very thrilling and beautiful, but the most thrilling 
 moment to Barbara was when the car glided over 
 Westminster Bridge and she beheld the House of 
 Commons, and Big Ben, and the dim profile of 
 the Abbey, like official portents welcoming her 
 to the city she meant to conquer. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 During their absence the house in South Ken- 
 sington had been redecorated, and to Barbara's 
 delight she found a little white-panelled boudoir 
 upholstered in powder-blue silk. It was for her 
 very own. 
 
 ''Oh, George, how clever of you! " she 
 exclaimed. " You have chosen my favourite 
 colour ! " 
 
 " Is it? Well, now, that's lucky," he answered. 
 Then he suddenly gripped her from behind and, 
 pressing his cheek against hers, he whispered 
 hoarsely : 
 
154 HEARTBEAT 
 
 " Do you think I didn't know your favourite 
 colour?'' 
 
 She thrilled with delight as she yielded to his 
 embrace. He was a thoughtful dear. 
 
 The eificient housekeeper, Mrs. Piddinghoe, 
 was early in evidence. The house was spotless 
 and in perfect order. Discreet maids appeared. 
 Her things were unpacked and put away in 
 drawers. Fresh flowers were in all the rooms 
 The mellow sound of a gong announced the pre- 
 lude to a dinner, which she had not even had the 
 onus of selecting. 
 
 " I don't want you to be bothered about any 
 of these domestic things, old girl," George 
 explained. Well, she was not particularly inter- 
 ested in domestic things. In her father's house 
 she had been unconscious of them. On tour, and 
 when living with Isabel, she had been brought 
 into abrupt contact with them, and she had mas- 
 tered them fairly successfully, but they did not 
 give her any particular joy. She did not want to 
 meddle in domestic things. 
 
 If during the course of the next few days she 
 sometimes felt a slight jar upon her proprietary 
 sense, in the idea that she was living in an hotel, 
 or rather that she was living in George's house 
 as an honoured guest, she consoled herself with 
 the reflection that — well, George liked to arrange 
 things like that, and, after all, it was the theatre 
 which mattered, her art, her career. 
 
 Even if she had wished it, there was indeed little 
 time to worry about domestic affairs. Rehear- 
 sals of the new revue started at once. They spent 
 
HEARTBEAT 155 
 
 nearly all day at the theatre. George would 
 lunch at the club with some important man, whilst 
 she went out with some of the girls to a res- 
 taurant. Before they left in the morning and 
 after they got home at night the telephone would 
 be ringing, all kinds of people calling with mes- 
 sages, and scores, and contracts, and estimates, 
 and songs to be tried, and dialogue to be read 
 over. So great was the rush and strain that she 
 quickly realised how valuable was this smoothly 
 working domestic machine. 
 
 It was the action of this other machine — the 
 theatrical one — which absorbed her attention at 
 the moment. As Mrs. George Champneys she 
 inspired interest and respect from everyone; 
 moreover all the members of the company liked 
 her. But when the machine began to get into 
 operation she found that Fancy Telling was not 
 such an impressive proposition as she had 
 imagined. George was nominally the producer, 
 but actually the producer was a young man with 
 raven-black hair and eyes like an eagle, whose 
 name was Julius Banstead. He was a live wire, 
 and he positively frightened her. Incredibly 
 quick and clever, he cared not a jot for any man 
 or woman. He would even bully George, and 
 George would take it like a lamb, knowing that 
 Banstead was supreme at his job. The broad out- 
 line of the entertainment was but sketchily con- 
 ceived. They had a mass of material which they 
 welded together, ruthlessly discarding some, 
 extemporising some. The thing was built up 
 gradually. The stage seemed to be crowded by 
 
156 HEARTBEAT 
 
 a bewildering collection of authors, composers, 
 managers, engineers, choreographers, to say no- 
 thing of actors, all trying to assert their own 
 individual claims. And in the midst of it all 
 Julius Banstead darted hither and thither, exer- 
 cising an autocratic sw^ay. By his side was an 
 assistant stage-manager with the book, and 
 Banstead would frequently turn to him and say : 
 
 '' We'll have all that out, Thomson.'' 
 
 There appeared to be no appeal ; a stylographic 
 pen destroyed the fair anticipations of more 
 artistes than Fancy Telling. Her own part, 
 which at first promised to be voluminous, was 
 whittled down and whittled down. A scene in 
 which she was to play a Dutch girl was cut out. 
 He did not like her parody of a forlorn heroine 
 in a costume play, and gave the part to another 
 girl. He cut out her song about " An Afternoon 
 in Tennessee," and reduced a skit concerned with 
 an hotel lift, in which she played the part of a 
 country girl up for the day, to a three-minutes 
 turn, whereas it was originally intended to 
 occupy twelve. When the final rehearsals were 
 reached she found that this was all that was left 
 to her, with the exception of two rather senti- 
 mental songs, one of which concerned a Venetian 
 night and the other a '' Lullaby Among the 
 Reeds." 
 
 Rather disconsolately she appealed to George 
 about this. The great man said: '' Never mind, 
 old girl; we'll work it up big later. Better to 
 start slow. Banstead knows what's best." 
 
 His own part had expanded rather than 
 
HEARTBEAT 157 
 
 diminished. But then George was the show. 
 The people paid to come and see George, and 
 they expected him to be on the stage nearly all 
 the time. Banstead knew what was best. 
 
 Another disappointment was that not by any 
 means could she persuade George or Banstead 
 to engage Isabel. Her old friend was now well 
 again, but out of work and very hard up. The 
 only thing Barbara succeeded in doing was to 
 get money out of George to send her. She sent 
 her fifty pounds. When she spoke to George 
 about engaging her he said : 
 
 " It's all fixed up, old girl. We'll try another 
 time.'' 
 Banstead said : 
 
 " Isabel Weare ? No, she's slow in the uptake, 
 Mrs. Champneys. Not enough pep for this 
 show." 
 
 She realised the truth of this. The whole thing 
 was a wonderful sample of " pep." There were 
 no waste spaces or holes. Nothing was sacrificed 
 to sentimentality of association. Everything was 
 fined down, worked at, polished till there was not 
 a phrase or a note that would not tell. She 
 sometimes wondered whether she herself was not 
 the only '^ sacrifice to sentimentality of associa- 
 tion." Certainly if she had not been George's 
 wife she would not have secured this part. 
 
 The position reminded her of that day when 
 she had met her father being smuggled off to the 
 House of Commons, and when she tried to stop 
 him, and she had felt that she was opposing her 
 will to the will of vast blocks of interests. 
 
iS8 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Georg-e and Banstead were somewhat the same. 
 They represented a tradition, a machine. They 
 were the agents of a stern popular demand. 
 
 She felt a little envious of the other three girls, 
 Rosie Ventnor, Polly Ravasol, and Gine Sterne. 
 They were so finished, so self-confident, so pro- 
 fessional. Between this standard of entertain- 
 ment and the tours she had been used to there 
 was a great gulf fixed. Well, there it was. She 
 would make the best of her small chances, and 
 perhaps one day she would excel them all. It 
 was something to be on at a leading London 
 show and to be the wife of a leading London 
 showman. 
 
 One Sunday night George took her to the 
 Savoy to supper. She tasted for the first time 
 the glamour of publicity. Opulent-looking 
 gentlemen and gorgeously dressed girls glanced 
 at their table and whispered. She knew what 
 they were saying : 
 
 '* That*s George Champneys. And that's 
 Fancy Telling, the young actress he has just 
 married.** 
 
 They drank champagne and her eyes sparkled 
 with the gaiety of this new adventure. When 
 they had reached the Peche Melba stage a tall, 
 well-dressed societyish girl came up to their table 
 and said : 
 
 '' Excuse me, isn't it — Barbara? " 
 
 Barbara looked hard at her and exclaimed : 
 
 '' Why, it's— Cicely! Oh, Cicely, what ages! 
 How are you, darling ? " 
 
 Dear her ! How Cicely had altered. A 
 
HEARTBEAT 159 
 
 formal, slightly supercilious smile played round 
 the corners of her pretty mouth. She held out 
 her hand primly, as though afraid that Barbara 
 might embrace her. 
 
 '' Yes, it's Cicely, Barbara.*' 
 
 ** Oh, how ripping ! This is my husband — 
 George Champneys. Oh, of course you know 
 him ! This is Cicely Stradling, George. Don't 
 you remember? We met at her house." 
 
 The two shook hands. George had forgotten 
 her, and Cicely said quickly : 
 
 " I'm here with my husband, too- — Colonel 
 Huskisson. We are sitting over by the wall. 
 Shall we have coffee together, and then we can 
 exchange news ? " 
 
 The husbands were formally introduced, and 
 they all took coffee together. 
 
 Yes, Cicely had changed. The lines about her 
 mouth and eyes had hardened. She spoke with 
 a slight drawl. Gone was all the girlish aban- 
 donment of that summer day. Her husband was 
 a thin, sunburnt man with a grey moustache ; he 
 must have been a good ten or fifteen years old^r 
 than Cicely. He appeared a little disconcerted 
 at meeting the large comedian — a little uncertain 
 as to whether it was quite the thing to be seen in 
 the company of theatrical people. Barbara 
 eagerly pumped her friend for news. 
 Where is Jean, Cicely ? " 
 Oh, Jean is married, too, my dear. She is in 
 India. Her husband is a Government assessor. 
 He travels a good deal; Jean lives mostly at 
 Simla." 
 
 
i6o HEARTBEAT 
 
 " Is she happy ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, she Hkes the life. She gets crowds 
 of parties, and picnics, and riding." 
 
 Jean ! jolly little chubby-faced Jean ! What a 
 long way off she seemed ! not only physically, but 
 — what sort of life was this : parties and picnics 
 and riding in Anglo-Indian society ? She had 
 lost them both, these two girls. In our youth we 
 dream of perpetual friendships ; and then we drift 
 apart, and when we meet again there lies between 
 us the heavy barrier of unfamiliar experiences. 
 It sounded so jolly — parties and picnics and riding 
 — but who knew what tragedy might lie behind it ? 
 And Cicely, with her formal graciousness and 
 her perfectly-coiflfured hair — no, she didn't look 
 happy. Only she, Barbara, was happy. She 
 was already a few rungs up the ladder of fame. 
 She was married to a dear and famous man. She 
 was rich and popular, and living in a world con- 
 genial to her. This society life inhabited by 
 Jean and Cicely was alien, frigid and unattrac- 
 tive. How they had drifted apart, indeed ! The 
 champagne had gone a little to her head, and she 
 sparkled and chatted to Cicely, telling her many 
 details of her new life, of the thrill of experience, 
 of the fame and generosity of her husband. Two 
 young men at the next table were devouring her 
 with their eyes, and their attention added an 
 elfish glamour to the narrative of triumph. 
 
 It was getting late when Cicely suddenly 
 remarked : 
 
 '' Sad about poor Billy Hamaton, wasn't it? " 
 Barbara felt a strange contraction of her heart. 
 
HEARTBEAT i6i 
 
 So absorbed had she been in the record of her 
 vital experiences she had not even talked about 
 Billy. She had forgotten Billy and the days 
 when they four were all children together. And 
 here was Cicely saying in the same chilling voice 
 she employed for every remark: ** Sad about 
 poor Billy Hamaton.*' What did she mean? 
 Barbara puckered her brows and could not frame 
 the question. 
 
 Cicely continued in the same tones : 
 
 " Haven't you heard? He died three months 
 ago.'' 
 
 '' What! " 
 
 She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry out 
 to all these well-dressed people : 
 
 *' Leave off eating, and drinking, and flirting; 
 oh, leave off ! Billy is dead — he died three 
 months ago, and I was the cause of his death. 
 And I never even asked about him. I was cruel 
 and utterly callous. If the branch of that tree 
 had not broken he would now be my husband — 
 not George. I can see his young, jolly, freckled 
 face right up in the leaves against the sky, his 
 brown hair all awry. I can hear his laughing 
 voice: ' Come on, then, my flibbertigibbet.* 
 And then he sat by my side on the branch, and 
 there seemed to be no earth beneath, only this 
 green fairway leading to the heavens, and he 
 said, * I love you, Barbara.* And then . . . 
 and then. . . . Oh, God ! ** 
 
 She looked round stonily at the festive scene. 
 One of the young men at the next table openly 
 smiled at her, challenging her with his eyes. 
 
 L 
 
1 62 HEARTBEAT 
 
 George was smoking a cigar, and saying in deep 
 actor's voice : 
 
 " I tell you where you can get the best 
 Napoleon brandy in the world — at Fleuret's. 
 It's in a little street just off the Faubourg St. 
 Honore; I can't remember the name. I used to 
 know old Fleuret very well. He won't part with 
 it unless he likes your face, and then he charges 
 twelve francs for a nip " 
 
 She rose and touched his shoulder. 
 
 '' We must be going, George. I want to go." 
 
 He regarded her sleepily. 
 
 '* All right, old girl. We won't be five 
 minutes." 
 
 She shrank back in her chair, her impulses held 
 in check by the heavy pressure of her environ- 
 ment. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 The revue was called '' Black and White " — a 
 title justified (the programme explained) by the 
 connection of the costumes of the Pierrot troupe 
 with the spirit of the age — and it proved to be 
 one of the most successful of the Frivolity pro- 
 ductions. With various additions, excisions, and 
 slight alterations it ran for a year. Barbara's 
 two songs went better than she had expected, and 
 ** The Lullaby Among the Reeds " was encored 
 nightly, and made its appearance on barrel-organs 
 and in the vocal exploits of ambitious young 
 ladies in suburban drawing-rooms. She sang 
 
HEARTBEAT 163 
 
 both songs extremely well, and in an alluring 
 black-and-white silk frock and ruffles she made 
 a figure not unworthy of this distinguished group. 
 She was disappointed that nearly all the Press 
 reviews spoke only of George and Rosie Ventnor 
 and the droll Mr. Ebbway, and that the best 
 notice of herself only said : 
 
 '' A song likely to catch on is * The Lullaby 
 Among the Reeds.' It was charmingly rendered 
 by Miss Fancy Telling (now Mrs. George 
 Champneys), who promises to be a useful 
 addition to the clever company.'' 
 
 Nevertheless she felt that on the whole she had 
 no cause for complaint. She had been tested and 
 not found wanting. All the company were 
 charming to her. George was so excited on the 
 night that he kissed her every time she came off, 
 and, not to seem too partial, he kissed all the 
 other girls at least once. The novelty of this 
 first-night excitement and enthusiasm thrilled 
 her. But perhaps her ^proudest moment was 
 when Mr. Banstead, the great Julius Banstead 
 himself, came up afterwards and, gripping her 
 hand, said : 
 
 '* Fine, Miss Telling ! Fine ! You did 
 splendidly." 
 
 And in the days that followed her cup of happi- 
 ness was very full. The novelty of the situation 
 kept her awake at night with nervous excitement. 
 For a time rehearsals were over, and she had the 
 leisure to put her world in order, to rearrange her 
 rooms, to buy additional furniture, and to go 
 shopping in George's new car. And then the 
 
 L2 
 
1 64 HEARTBEAT 
 
 French maid arrived. Was there ever anything 
 so luxurious as a maid all to oneself ? And being 
 French added a queer piquancy to the luxury. 
 Oh, the great day when Isabel came to tea in the 
 powder-blue boudoir ! And Barbara in a wonder- 
 ful rest-gown of a similar colour presided over a 
 glittering silver tray. And the dark-eyed, pretty 
 Annette, smartly attired in fawn and white, 
 darted in at her bidding, and at every request 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Mais Old, madam e.'' " Parfaitement, 
 madame/' " Je le fais tout de suite, madamc.'* 
 
 Barbara hardly knew any French, but to be 
 addressed like that raised her spirits heavenwards. 
 And then the cosy chat with Isabel, recounting 
 old times, discussing mutual friends, a dash of 
 scandal, Barbara unable to resist a boast or two 
 about her furs and their cost, her Sheraton 
 writing-table, the dinner at the Savoy, the run on 
 the car last Sunday down to Burford Bridge, and 
 the lunch at the inn; George's genius, what the 
 Press said of him, how the company loved him, 
 the parts she was going to play in the future. 
 
 Poor Isabel ! She was still pretty and adorable. 
 Certainly adorable, perhaps not quite so pretty 
 as she had been; the little wrinkles were creeping 
 round her eyes, her figure becoming a little 
 sloppier, her movements slower. Well-dressed, 
 of course, in a *' managed " kind of way. She 
 looked worried. A woman who relies on her 
 talents, on her beauty, on her body, can't help 
 worrying sometimes. Barbara w^as still helping 
 her with money; there was vague talk of a tour 
 
HEARTBEAT 165 
 
 in two months' time. She examined all Barbara's 
 things with interest, and loyally tried not to dis- 
 play jealousy. 
 
 " Does George make you an allowance? ** she 
 asked at one point. Barbara laughed. 
 
 ** An allowance? Oh, no. Why should he? 
 He gives me everything I want. I just order 
 things, and the account is sent in to him. He 
 always gives me any money I want. He has 
 often said that everything of his is equally 
 mine." 
 
 '* H'm, that's all very well," commented Isabel. 
 " Don't you be a fool. You stick out for a 
 settlement. He'd give it to you at the moment, 
 later on — well, you never know. Don't you see, 
 while he talks like that, and treats you like that, 
 he's got a hold over you all the time ? " 
 
 * Oh, but, Isabel darling — George ! He woiJd 
 never dream ... I couldn't think of 
 asking anything like that. It sounds so mer- 
 cenary, so distrustful." 
 
 Isabel shook her head. 
 
 "I know it sounds so, but you haven't been 
 round so many corners as I have. You haven't 
 had so many pals married as I have. You never 
 know. There was Meggie Farino married 
 Reuben Jaikes — like a couple of turtle-doves they 
 were — and then something went wrong one day. 
 Meggie got mixed up with a boy at the Grand 
 Hotel at Dieppe. Reuben had never made a 
 settlement, and he chucked her out without a 
 penny." 
 
 Barbara was highly amused. 
 
i66 HEARTBEAT 
 
 ** Then it*s me you don't trust, Isabel, not 
 George ? '' 
 
 *^ You never know, I say. It's always as well 
 to keep on the safe side in a theatrical marriage. 
 Look at Polly Patterson at the Gaiety, who got 
 spliced with Lord Underwick. She got a settle- 
 ment of fifty thousand quid, and when he went 
 fooling round with that little Spanish dancer, 
 after they'd been married a year, she just snapped 
 her fingers at him. What did she care? She'd 
 got the title and fifty thousand." 
 
 '* You've got a nasty cynical mind, Isabel; I 
 refuse to discuss the matter with you. Have 
 another crumpet." 
 
 Barbara was not at all affected by Isabel's 
 sinister warnings. Nothing could be securer or 
 more roseate than her lot. As the months went 
 by she adjusted herself more completely to her 
 position. The physical aspect of marriage ceased 
 to have any terrors for her. This was partly due 
 to the greater freedom and the greater considera- 
 tion George allowed her. His devotion in- 
 creased. Although his time was so occupied, he 
 snatched every moment that could be spared to 
 pass in her company. He appeared never so 
 happy as when they were alone. He trusted her 
 implicitly, and she gradually became to him more 
 the mother than the child. His health was not 
 always of the best, and at times when he became 
 sorry for himself he loved to have her fussing 
 over him. His large eyes would become moist 
 with sentimental adoration. He would regard 
 her pathetically, like a large dog regarding an 
 
HEARTBEAT 167 
 
 intangible mistress. During the stress of his 
 profession he was a little inclined to overlook 
 her — he seldom consulted her about the details of 
 his productions, and even then in a rather pre- 
 occupied manner — but when it was over and they 
 were alone in the cosy security of their bedroom, 
 and he was tired and worn out with the strain 
 and triumph of the day, he would hungrily bury 
 his face in her bosom and murmur endearments 
 and appeals. 
 
 At such moments her heart would bleed for 
 him, and she would suppress those little physical 
 aversions to the contact of his embrace. In the 
 morning there would always be about him a 
 slight tang of yesterday's whiskv and this morn- 
 ing's tobacco; in the evening the aroma of whisky 
 dominated everything. George was not a 
 drunkard, but for twenty years he had been in 
 the habit of steadily imbibing, and he could not 
 do without it. He seldom drank anything in the 
 day-time, but he would have a whisky-and-soda 
 before the show at night, another half-way 
 through, and then several nightcaps when it was 
 over. This was the one serious trouble she had 
 to cope with. She detested the taste and smell 
 of whisky. On one or two occasions she pro- 
 tested, but he was so upset by her reproval that 
 she decided to say no more. She was astute 
 enough to know that it was probably an ingrained 
 habit, and that if he promised to give it up he 
 would most likely break his promise. 
 
 " I suppose I must be thankful,*' she thought, 
 '' that he never drinks too much." 
 
i68 HEARTBEAT 
 
 She eventually found a partial and not very 
 satisfactory solution in having a tiny drop herself 
 after the show. The taste was not so bad as the 
 smell, and when she had had some she did not 
 notice George so much. 
 
 As time went on and her ambitions were held in 
 leash, she became vaguely conscious of a little 
 slackening of moral fibre. It was a life of ease, 
 and luxury, facile success, constant flattery and 
 accumulating temptations. It was so easy and 
 pleasant to lie in bed in the morning till twelve 
 o'clock, reading a novel and smoking cigarettes, 
 whilst the wxll-ordered household functioned 
 below; and then to be dressed and coaxed and 
 flattered by Annette; to drive down town and 
 lunch with friends at a club she had joined in St. 
 James' Square; afterwards to do a little shopping 
 and join a tea-party at Rosie Ventnor's flat, and 
 then back home for a light dinner before the 
 theatre. It was so cosy and jolly in her own well- 
 upholstered dressing-room at the theatre, and the 
 other girls would come in and laugh and joke and 
 tell *' the very latest." And then the show, the 
 consciousness of singing to a packed house and 
 knowing that you have " got them." Dim, 
 mysterious faces above shirt fronts, their eyes 
 glued upon her. The applause, the thrill, the 
 easy intimacy of her fellow-artists, where kisses 
 meant little more than benedictions; and always 
 the excitement of new friends, new faces, new 
 people, movement and life. Afterwards — home, 
 the fire crackling in the oak-panelled dining- 
 room; sandwiches, a siphon and tantalus on the 
 
HEARTBEAT 169 
 
 table. George, sleepily communicative, still a 
 little dazed by success. The bedroom, another 
 fire glowing, rose-coloured electric-light shades, 
 the two beds with the corners turned down, her 
 creamy nightdress and George's pyjamas spread 
 out invitingly. George, humid and adoring, 
 asking to be mothered. An easy, luxurious, 
 rather demoralising life. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 ** Black and White '* ran for a year, and was 
 quickly followed by another revue called '' Fool's 
 Cap." This new revue was to be Barbara's great 
 chance. Rosie Ventnor was leaving, and she was 
 to take her place. She arrived at the first rehear- 
 sals in a state of trepidation. Julius Banstead 
 was again in charge. At first everything seemed 
 to promise auspiciously. Her songs— and she 
 had a number — were safe and tuneful. The 
 parodies and skits were roughed out, and she had 
 a principal part in nearly all of them. She rather 
 fancied herself in the skits : little ideas, intona- 
 tions, inflexions, and gestures occurred to her in 
 bed and whilst walking along the street. But as 
 the rehearsals progressed Mr. Banstead began to 
 pull her up, and drill her at every line. Anyone 
 who has not experienced it can have no idea of the 
 degree of wretchedness to which a producer can 
 reduce an actor or actress in this way. At first 
 she struggled gamely, and tried to do exactly as 
 he told her. Then she protested; but Julius 
 
I70 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Banstead was not a man you could argue with. 
 He reduced her to tears, and one day there was a 
 scene. It suddenly flashed through her mind that 
 after all this was George's theatre; he had said 
 that everything of his was equally hers. Ban- 
 stead was only an employe. She turned on him 
 angrily : 
 
 " I wish you'd let me do it my own way, Mr. 
 Banstead. You don't know everything." 
 
 And Banstead quickly replied : 
 
 '' My dear girl, it's my job to see that you do 
 it right." 
 
 *' I can't do it right if you keep on stopping 
 me. I have my own. ideas about it, thank 
 you." 
 
 Then the tears started to her eyes. Banstead 
 shrugged his shoulders and turned appealingly 
 to George. The rest of the company shuffled 
 and looked uncomfortable. George scratched his 
 ear and said : 
 
 "Well, well, don't let's have any upset." 
 
 Then he turned to Barbara and called out : 
 
 " Don't worry. Fancy. We'll try again this 
 afternoon." 
 
 She knew she had made a fool of herself. All 
 the company and the stage-hands and the com- 
 poser and the librettist were looking on. The 
 story would get around. Of course George 
 couldn't openly take her side in a case like this; 
 besides, he probably agreed with Banstead. 
 Everybody agreed with Banstead; his position 
 was impregnable. If she went to extremes she 
 knew she could force George to get rid of Ban- 
 

 HEARTBEAT 171 
 
 stead. And then — suppose the revue failed? 
 What kind of fool would she look ? It would be 
 the talk of the town. Many well-known actors 
 damage their careers marrying incompetent wives 
 who insist on playing leads. Oh, yes, it was quite 
 true, she supposed, she was incompetent. And 
 she had builded all her hopes on this revue. It 
 was to be the turning-point in her career. She 
 dashed out of the theatre and drove home. In 
 the sanctity of her blue boudoir she had a good 
 cry. 
 
 Two hours later came George, looking 
 distressed and flustered. He stood in the middle 
 of the room, like a ruffled bear facing an unknown 
 situation. He thrust out his large hands 
 helplessly. 
 
 " I say, Fancy, old darling, Fm awful sorry. 
 I'd no idea you'd let Banstead upset you like that. 
 Don't you let him worry you. We'll make it all 
 right." 
 
 Barbara only cried the more, and he snuggled 
 his face against her damp cheek and mumbled 
 consolations. Getting no response, he cried out 
 desperately : 
 
 '' Don't do it, old girl. I can't stand it. We'll 
 get rid of the beast." 
 
 Then she got her voice at last. 
 
 ** No, no, no, it's not that. You don't under- 
 stand. You can't get rid of him. It's because 
 I know he was right, that I'm making a fool of 
 myself. I thought I could act, and I can't. It's 
 all right, George dear, don't worry; I'll be all 
 right soon." 
 
172 HEARTBEAT 
 
 ** Sensible little darling/' thought George. 
 Out loud he said : 
 
 "Of course you can act. What nonsense! 
 There are only one or two points, Banstead 
 thinks, and so does Paisley and — some of the 
 others — one or two points could be improved. 
 It's difficult for me. I — don't know what to do 
 about it." 
 
 ** I know what to do. I'll try once more, and 
 if it's no good you must get Rosie Ventnor 
 back." 
 
 Well, was there ever such a reasonable, 
 sensible little angel ? Was there ever a child so 
 fascinating in its wrath ? He hugged her tight 
 and buried his face in her hair. 
 
 ** Fancy, you know I love you, darling? I'll 
 do anything — anything you ask me." 
 
 Was there ever a large man so gentle and so 
 pliable ? He coaxed her into a good humour, 
 and in half-an-hour's time she was laughing 
 again. 
 
 She attended the rehearsal the next day and 
 tried again; but the rehearsal had not been in 
 progress long before she realised that the great 
 Banstead had altered his tactics. He was going 
 through a process of freezing her out. He did 
 not pull her up once; he just left her alone. He 
 checked the others, but she was ignored. She 
 went through the part like an unattached auto- 
 maton; she had no criterion of its worth. Never 
 theless, as time went on she began to be conscious 
 of the telepathic waves of failure. In scenes 
 that were meant to be comic no response came 
 
HEARTBEAT 173 
 
 back from her fellow artistes — not even George. 
 In being frozen out she was freezing the others 
 out. The thing went fiat; George looked 
 bewildered, the others uncomfortable, and 
 Banstead chillingly indifferent. 
 
 At the end of the rehearsal she bit her lip and 
 walked up to Banstead and George, who were 
 talking together. She thrust out the typescript 
 of her part and said: 
 
 " I can't do this part; Fve no sense of humour. 
 You must get someone else.*' 
 
 Banstead almost snatched the part, but he 
 looked a little contrite and surprised. George 
 stared at her pleadingly. What was he to do ? 
 The masterful Banstead was the first to speak. 
 He took her arm. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Champneys, Fm afraid Fve 
 been rude to you. Please understand there was 
 nothing personal meant, anyway. We shouldn't 
 get anywhere if we weren't candid in this profes- 
 sion. Quite honestly, I think you're wise. The 
 part wants a more experienced comedienne. But 
 look here, my dear, we'll fix you up with a good 
 singing part. You shall have a good show, I 
 promise you." 
 
 Two days later Rosie Ventnor was back, 
 rehearsing the lead. Barbara continued to sing 
 coon songs and lullabies and to join in the 
 choruses. 
 
 She forgave her judges, but the incident 
 affected her detrimentally. It was the first 
 complete disillusionment she had experienced. 
 The rich banquet was prepared for her and she 
 
174 HEARTBEAT 
 
 could not eat it. Never, never, never would she 
 be a great star. She had talent but not genius; 
 she lacked just that elusive something which 
 spells it. She sang charmingly — indeed, almost 
 too charmingly and subtly for a production like 
 ** Fool's Cap ''; at the same time she had not 
 the range of voice or the musical intelligence 
 requisite for grand opera. She fell between the 
 two stools. She realised all this very quickly, and 
 with an alert, protective instinct she decided how 
 to act. She must keep her grip on George. As 
 Fancy Telling she was of no account; as Mrs. 
 George Champneys she was a person to look up 
 to and respect. It was she who persuaded him 
 to wire for Rosie Ventnor; it was she who took 
 the rebuff philosophically. George was so upset 
 at the time he seemed inclined to lose his head. 
 Oh yes, she was a wise, sensible, philosophical 
 little thing. 
 
 But when the reaction came it found her drift- 
 ing down the old channels of easy living. If the 
 Muses would not reward her with bay leaves she 
 would seek satisfaction elsewhere — in the vine- 
 yards of Bacchus, for instance, or in the groves 
 of Arcadia, listening to the pipes of Pan. In 
 the months that followed she ministered to the 
 wants of George. She was affectionate and 
 tender, but their lives began to be lived apart. 
 She discovered new aspects of him. His pre- 
 occupations were overwhelming, his conser- 
 vatism impregnable. It was like being married 
 to a confirmed bachelor. His adoration had 
 certain defined limits. He w*'\nted her hungrily 
 
HEARTBEAT 175 
 
 at special moments, but for his work-a-day life 
 he preferred the society of men. In spite of his 
 sentimental protestations, he was never able to 
 conceal a kind of indolent contempt for her 
 mentality. 
 
 He lived in a groove, a large, cultivated, 
 well-ordered groove. The fact that she had 
 been admitted into it didn't make it any 
 less a groove. He had passed the a^e when he 
 could convert it into a sunlit meadow. In their 
 association the comedian appeared a pathetic, 
 almost a tragic figure, always appealing to her 
 for the crumbs of passion she never felt disposed 
 to give. 
 
 And so they g'radually began to live their own 
 lives. Frequently they would not meet all day. 
 George would be working, rehearsing, lunching 
 at his club, talking to the innumerable ^' old 
 boys ** who pass their lives round about Covent 
 Garden and Garrick Street. And Barbara built 
 up her circle of friends, too, mostly women; but 
 she was not above mixing with the other sex 
 also, and even lunching or teaing alone with one 
 of the young " boys '* so frequently referred to 
 by Isabel. George gave her a small car of her 
 own, and she flitted hither and thither, buying 
 expensive frocks and fal-lals, dining at expensive 
 restaurants and drinking expensive wines. And 
 by these means she fortified herself against his 
 caresses and endearments. He begrudged her 
 nothing. He demanded nothing more from her 
 — only that she should not pity him. He even 
 consented eventually to separate bedrooms. 
 
 ^' 
 
176 HEARTBEAT 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The whispers of Eros were always about her ears, 
 neither could she be unmindful of Isabel's 
 prophetic warning : 
 
 " If youVe ever been kissed properly it gets 
 into your blood, and you can't do without it." 
 
 Within three months after the production of 
 '* Fool's Cap " she had been kissed twice 
 '* properly," and though in neither case were the 
 wells of her inner being profoundly stirred, the 
 experience left upon her the imprint of a bitter- 
 sweet exultation. 
 
 The first occasion was with the great Julius 
 Banstead himself. In the same way that George 
 suddenly discovered her after knowing her for 
 years, Julius fell to an identical obsession. He 
 observed her one day in the wings, and in the 
 depths of those masterful, restless eyes there 
 flashed an insolent, savage desire. She was 
 aware of him ever after that, following her with 
 his eyes, prowling in her wake. She had no 
 great love for Julius Banstead. She feared and 
 almost hated him. And yet her heart beat 
 flurriedly to know that the strong man desired 
 her. It was insolent and characteristic of him to 
 make love to the wife of his employer, to the wife 
 of his great friend, to a girl he had been rude to. 
 He spoke to her very little, but when near her he 
 hummed under his breath phrases of impassioned 
 song. He mesmerised her with his fierce 
 assumption of indiscretion. In spite of her dis- 
 like she succumbed to the luxuriant image of his 
 
HEARTBEAT 177 
 
 mastery. She would like this man to hurt her, 
 to throw her on the floor and kick her. 
 
 She thrust the strange temptation back. She 
 dismissed it altogether when he was not present, 
 but when he came near her she w^as disturbingly- 
 conscious of him without looking at him. 
 
 Arriving at the theatre early one evening she 
 met him going in. He said: 
 
 '* Come up to my room for a moment. I want 
 to show you something which may interest you.'* 
 
 She was fully conscious of the insolence of the 
 command and the something which might interest 
 her being a blind. The penetration of his glance 
 had only one meaning, and she knew it was a 
 meaning which should have lashed her to a fury 
 of revolt; and yet without a word she followed 
 him to a room upstairs where the offices were 
 situated. He walked ahead, and her eyes were 
 glued upon the movement of that thick forceful 
 back. She entered the room after him, and he 
 shut the door and threw his hat on to a peg. She 
 stood perfectly immobile in front of a gas stove, 
 which was popping irritably. Without a word 
 he came up and took her in his arms. She knew 
 all this was going to happen before it did; her 
 volitions were experimenting. She found herself 
 enveloped in a fury of desires. She felt the thrust 
 of his vibrant body as he crushed her to him, the 
 lips upon her cheek and eyes; then suddenly his 
 tongue between her lips. It was awful. She 
 should have screamed and kicked, and not hung 
 idly there, with closed eyes and a surrendered 
 will. Instead of that, for some timeless period 
 
 M 
 
lyS HEARTBEAT 
 
 she was lost in a world of passionate response. 
 When she escaped from that raging eternity she 
 should have struck him and fled from the room. 
 Instead of that she said in a drugged voice : 
 
 '' Don't be a fool, Julius." 
 
 Banstead was not the man to fritter away an 
 opportunity. He had succeeded already far 
 beyond his wildest hopes. His voice came 
 huskily and pleadingly : 
 
 *' Darling, will you? — will you? '* 
 
 She was surprised at her own coolness. Her 
 voice was attuned to his, 
 
 '' Will I what? " 
 
 *' It's you that's being a fool now. You know 
 — you know. O Fancy darling, I love you. I 
 want you. Will you? " 
 
 Oh, no, Mr. Banstead, the game can be carried 
 too far. She pushed him away, rearranged 
 her hair, and, looking down at the stove, 
 remarked : 
 
 *' Your gas-stove Wants regulating." 
 
 '* Damn the gas-stove ! " 
 
 She raised her voice to a note of passion for 
 the first time : 
 
 ** I hate that popping noise. It gets on my 
 nerves ! '* 
 
 With a growl Julius bent down to readjust the 
 screw. Like a flash she was at the door and 
 through it. She never went into Julius Banstead's 
 room again; neither did she ever report her 
 experience to George or to any of her girl-friends. 
 When people afterwards asked her what she 
 thought of him, she said : 
 
I 
 
 HEARTBEAT 179 
 
 '* Julius ? Oh, he's a queer fish.'* 
 
 Sometimes at night she would lie with head on 
 pillow, her body curled up like a little ball, and 
 reflect : 
 
 "Crikey! George never kissed me like 
 that ! '' 
 
 The second occasion was an aristocratic diver- 
 sion. It occurred with the son of a lord. 
 Geoffrey Vallance was the son of Lord Trcmayne. 
 He was a slim, elegant boy, just down from 
 Oxford, with round Plantagenet eyes and an 
 expression which clearly betokened : '* For good- 
 ness' sake, don't say anything serious ! " 
 
 She met him at a luncheon-party at Rosie 
 Ventnor's, and he informed her within the space 
 of the first five minutes that he had been to 
 '* Fool's Cap " twenty-three times, that he 
 thought she was devilish clever and pretty, that 
 he thought the whole show was top-hole, that 
 George was a scream, that Rosie was topping, 
 that all the girls in it were simply ripping, that 
 his father wanted him to read for the Bar — not 
 much ! 
 
 The only bar he aspired to was that at the 
 Trocadero ! Ha, ha, ha ! He told her that he 
 liked all shell-fish except mussels, and that he 
 never drank port after champagne. He played 
 games, but they bored him. He only did it to 
 keep fit. He liked squash rackets best, because 
 it was so concentrated. '* You sweat like a pig 
 in five minutes." 
 
 The elegance of his outward and visible form 
 was not enriched by any particular spark of inner 
 
 M2 
 
i8o HEARTBEAT 
 
 and spiritual grace, and yet there was about him 
 something rather charming. Perhaps because 
 he was so young and fresh, so redolent of a world 
 novel to her. She longed to tell him that her 
 father was the great Thomas Powerscourt, the 
 Chancellor, just to see what the effect would be 
 upon him. But she wisely forbore and 
 exchanged inanities instead. When he offered to 
 drive her down to Pangbourne in his side-car on 
 the following Sunday she accepted. They 
 lunched at an hotel, and afterwards went on the 
 river. He behaved quite nicely, and delivered her 
 safely to her door at Kensington in time for 
 dinner. 
 
 Afterwards they met quite frequently, and 
 flirted in a childish, playful manner. Sometimes 
 she reflected: '' It must be rather nice to be 
 married to someone young and fresh like that. 
 He thinks he's a dog, but he really knows 
 nothing." 
 
 The kiss was the direct result of drinking too 
 much wine. They had lunched together alone at 
 the house; George was up west, as usual. Some 
 rather heavy Burgundy had been served, and 
 Barbara realised that it had suddenly gone to her 
 head. 
 
 The interplay of fustian emotions became 
 accelerated. His face appeared lighted up with 
 ail added glow. He was really rather good- 
 looking; he was really rather a dear. She could 
 see the line of firm white little teeth between his 
 red lips as he laughed. His face had the milky 
 pinkness of a baby; all eagerness and expectancy. 
 
HEARTBEAT i8i 
 
 Upon his upper lip was a thin down of golden 
 hair. Abruptly she thought : 
 
 '* I'm going to kiss this boy." 
 
 A laggard reflection tempered her resolution. 
 *• It can't make the slightest difference to 
 George," 
 
 She stood up and said : 
 
 ** Come and see my powder-blue room." 
 
 The consciousness of bespoken guilt merely 
 quickened her impulse. What did it matter ? 
 Even the form of that mistress of discretion, 
 Annette, vanishing down dim corridors, did 
 nothing to distract her movements. Again she 
 stood immobile before a fire, which in this case 
 was not lighted, for the day was hot. He 
 approached her from behind. " Let him kiss 
 me; what does it matter? One can kiss better 
 standing up." 
 
 He was less deliberate in his methods than 
 Julius had been. He took her hand and pressed 
 it gently. Then he doubled it up in his and kissed 
 it. After pausing, as though expecting a rebuff, 
 he put his arm around her waist. The pressure 
 increased; he moved nearer and kissed the back 
 of her neck, her ear, her cheek. Then she slowly 
 turned and held him from her, looking deeply 
 into his eyes. With a sudden firm movement 
 she raised her arm and, placing it round his neck, 
 she drew his lips to hers. They kissed properly, 
 with the blood-inflamed, wine-inflamed. Aphro- 
 disiac intensity which only youth experiences 
 when it first breaks through the barrier of 
 physical reserve. When it was over she could 
 
1 82 HEARTBEAT 
 
 just see his flushed, almost bewildered face. He 
 was trembling. She hid her eyes with a hand- 
 kerchief, and said : 
 
 ** Damn that Burgundy! It's gone to my 
 head.'' 
 
 He laughed self-consciously, and tried to 
 approach her again, but she warded him off : 
 
 '' Don't be a fool, Geoffrey." 
 
 It was obvious that the boy was in a dilemma. 
 The thing seemed so confoundedly serious, don't 
 you know. He had probably never been kissed 
 so seriously before, and the experience almost 
 unnerved him. He desired amusement, but he 
 didn't want to be a cad, and all that kind of thing, 
 old girl. She could see him thinking that. Yes, 
 he was rather a dear, and she had made him kiss 
 her. He again laughed nervously, in the manner 
 of a man who has committed an awful crime. 
 
 ** You must go now, Geoff," she said. 
 
 He was contrition itself, but devoured by 
 disappointment. Thank God he said nothing 
 about loving her; neither did he make overt sug- 
 gestions. There was something of the gentle- 
 man about him in spite of his devotion to inanities. 
 There was something of the gentleman about him 
 when he kissed her hand at the door, with a 
 gesture which implied : 
 
 ** Please don't think I have any disrespect for 
 you on account of this. I assure you, it was all 
 my fault, and all that sort of thing, don't you 
 know." 
 
 She met Geoffrey Vallance on many future 
 occasions after that, but never alone. The kiss 
 
HEARTBEAT 183 
 
 was not repeated. After these two experiences 
 she withdrew a little within herself, like a cat 
 licking- its wounds after battle, conscious that the 
 wounds hurt, but fully alive to the fact that they 
 are not incurable. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Barbara had been married nearly three years. 
 ** Fool's Cap " had been replaced by a new revue 
 called '* Laugh and Grow Fat " — in which she 
 still sustained an inconspicuous part — when a 
 disruption came to disturb the equanimity of the 
 well-ordered house in Kensington. The affair 
 concerned the competent Mrs. Piddinghoe. 
 
 In the luxury of being free from domestic 
 worries Barbara had devoted herself to a life of 
 comfortable ease and a ladylike disregard of the 
 claims of household duties. But as time went on, 
 and the theatre demanded less attention, she 
 began to think more about her home. She began 
 to take more interest in the details of its work- 
 ing. One afternoon she happened to be in one 
 of the spare bedrooms at the back, which over- 
 looked the passage leading to the tradesmen's 
 entrance, and, looking out, she saw a boy stand- 
 ing at the back door with a large basket. She 
 naturally imagined that he was delivering some 
 goods. In an idle mood she watched him. Mrs. 
 Piddinghoe appeared, and they whispered 
 together. She retired, and in a few moments 
 returned with a lot of parcels under her arm. 
 They were wrapped up in newspapers, but sticking 
 
i84 HEARTBEAT 
 
 out of one she could distinctly see the frill of a 
 ham. 
 
 " That's very queer/* she thought. ** I 
 suppose Mrs. Piddinghoe is sending some things 
 back.'' 
 
 And then suspicion began to work. She had 
 never liked Mrs. Piddinghoe. She was alto- 
 gether too plausible, too perfect, and too efficient. 
 
 For a moment an impulse came to the mistress 
 of the house to go down and make direct 
 enquiries as to the reason why this young man 
 was taking these things away, and then a sense 
 of caution prevailed. She would be further on 
 the watch. A few days later she observed the 
 same operation. She waited then till the follow- 
 ing Saturday morning, when Mr. Toller, the 
 secretary, was in the habit of making the weeklv 
 settlement with Mrs. Piddinghoe. When this 
 was completed she went in to him and said : 
 
 *' Excuse me, Mr. Toller, would you mind 
 telling me what our household expenses came to 
 last week? I should be interested to know." 
 
 Samuel Toller looked very surprised, but he 
 smiled pleasantly and said : 
 
 " Certainly, Mrs. Champneys.*' He undid an 
 attache-case and took out some papers. " Here 
 we are. Fourteen pounds seven and threepence." 
 
 "What! " 
 
 " That's the amount, Mrs. Champneys. I have 
 the details here." 
 
 Barbara glanced at the figures and the items. 
 Then she remarked quietly : 
 
 " I was home to lunch twice last week and 
 
HEARTBEAT 185 
 
 George once. I dined here three times, and I 
 think George did three times. On Thursday we 
 had four people to lunch; there's been no more 
 entertaining. There are four servants. Doesn't 
 it strike you as being rather a lot ? " 
 
 Toller blushed. He had often thought so him- 
 self, but it was not his business to enquire. He 
 was a busy man, and the business of the, theatre 
 occupied most of his time. He said : 
 
 '' Is that so? I didn't know. I thought you 
 entertained a lot. Mrs. Piddinghoe said you did." 
 
 "Can you tell me — is Mrs. Piddinghoe 
 married ? " 
 
 '' Yes. She has a husband and a grown-up 
 son. I think they keep a little shop somewhere." 
 Then he added lamely: '* She's very fond of 
 George — I mean Mr. Champneys. She's been 
 with him ten years." 
 
 " I see. Thank you very much. Do you mind 
 leaving the details with me? " 
 
 *' Certainly, Mrs. Champneys." 
 
 That same afternoon the young man again 
 appeared at the back door. Barbara walked 
 deliberately down. Mrs. Piddinghoe was hand- 
 ing him a box full of eggs. 
 
 '' What is this, Mrs. Piddinghoe? " she asked. 
 
 The efficient housekeeper looked flustered. 
 
 '' Oh," she remarked perfunctorily, '* we're 
 sending some eggs back. They're not good 
 
 ones." 
 
 Barbara opened the box. 
 ** They look excellent ones to me. And are you 
 sending back a shoulder of mutton to the same 
 
1 86 HEARTBEAT 
 
 person ? I thought one got mutton at a butcher's 
 and eggs at a grocer's/' 
 
 Mrs. Piddinghoe became dark with menace. 
 
 '* If you please, Mrs. Champneys, I'm not in 
 the 'abit of being cross-examined. I've done for 
 Mr. Champneys for ten years, and there has 
 never been no complaint." 
 
 " I'm not complaining — yet. This is your son, 
 isn't it ? " 
 
 *' He does errands for me." 
 
 ** All right, only I should put those things back 
 in the larder if I were you." 
 
 The following morning — a Sunday — after her 
 bath, she went into George's room. He was 
 sitting up in bed, with a dishevelled breakfast 
 tray by his side, a cigarette in his mouth, and a 
 copy of the Referee in hand. She sat on the edge 
 of his bed and said: 
 
 " George, I want to speak seriously to you." 
 
 He put down the paper and blinked at her 
 questioningly. 
 
 " Seriously ? So early in the morning ? Come 
 and give me a kiss first. You look a little darling 
 just out of the bath and your hair all wet " 
 
 She allowed a reasonable amount of '' maul- 
 ing about," then she said abruptly: 
 
 *' George, do you think we ate five and a-half 
 dozen eggs and seven pounds of butter this 
 week? " 
 
 *' Five and a-half dozen eggs and seven pounds 
 of butter? Who? You and I? " 
 
 '' No. I mean in this house? " 
 
 '* In the house? O Lord! I don't know. 
 

 HEARTBEAT 187 
 
 There are a good many of us. Is it a lot ? 
 Why?'^ 
 
 '* Do you remember having a duck and two 
 fowls? " 
 
 '* My dear, what are you talking about? I 
 can't remember what I ate last week." 
 
 '* Do you remember having chicken at home 
 at all ? *' 
 
 I can't say I do. What are you getting at ? '* 
 I'm getting at the fact that the Piddinghoe is 
 an old thief and a swindler." 
 
 George's eyes opened wide, and an expression 
 of troubled dread crept into them. He seemed to 
 detect in his Fancy's attitude an outflanking 
 attack upon his comfort and repose. If there was 
 one thing he hated it was any kind of domestic 
 upheaval. He laughed nervously and fell back 
 on the same line of defence as that used by Samuel 
 Toller. 
 
 ''Piddinghoe! Nonsense, my dear. She's 
 been with me ten years." 
 
 " Yes, and I suspect that for ten years she has 
 been systematically robbing you. She has a hus- 
 band who runs a little shop, and a grown-up son. 
 The son calls here nearly every afternoon and 
 carries off the loot for his father to sell. I should 
 think between them they steal four or five pounds 
 worth of stuff a week. I can prove they've stolen 
 a lot this week." 
 
 Now, George ought to have been very grateful 
 to his Fancy for this information; he ought to 
 have recognised that she was rendering him a 
 great service; but curiously enough he was not 
 
i88 HEARTBEAT 
 
 at all grateful. He was distressed; he wished 
 profoundly she hadn't done it. His voice was 
 almost angry as he replied : 
 
 '' Oh, no, I don't believe it. You've made a 
 mistake." 
 
 There are some people whose nerves are always 
 jagged early in the morning. Barbara's had not 
 always been, but she was reaching that stage 
 of development when they usually were. From 
 her dressing-gown pocket she produced a bundle 
 of tradesmen's bills. She struck them with her 
 fist and her eyes blazed. 
 
 *' If you like to come down with me to the 
 kitchen and the larder, I can prove it. We've 
 paid for all kinds of things which we've never 
 had. Look here — three tins of tongue. We 
 never have tinned tongue, and there's none in the 
 house " 
 
 George became peevish. He picked up the 
 Referee. 
 
 *' My dear, I really don't desire to go down to 
 the larder and hunt for tins of tongue. It's Mrs. 
 Piddinghoe's business -'* 
 
 Then Barbara became really angry. 
 
 *' You — men! It's the kind of thing you do. 
 You go on encouraging people to be immoral — 
 anything rather than disturb your comfort and 
 peace of mind — 
 
 >» 
 
 >> 
 
 "Well, I— after all— 
 
 ** If you won't do anything about it, I will. I 
 won't have a thief in the place." 
 
 ** Barbara, don't— don't — be in a hurry. Let's 
 think " 
 
HEARTBEAT 189 
 
 But Barbara was already at the door, George 
 got out of bed and tumbled after her. He stood 
 at the open door, frightened and helpless. In a 
 few minutes' time he heard such a hullabaloo 
 going on downstairs as had never before shat- 
 tered the placid serenity of that well-ordered 
 house. Two women's voices raised in shrill alter- 
 cation, shouting each other down, and in each 
 there was that note of commonness which 
 invariably colours a primitive emotion breaking 
 loose. The din went on for nearly twenty 
 minutes. 
 
 At the end of that time Barbara returned, still 
 ablaze with fury, still unapproachable, but just a 
 shade triumphant. 
 
 *' She's going," she said icily, and passed 
 through to her own room and shut the door. 
 
 George groaned. This was a nice thing to 
 happen ! The Piddinghoe ! The loyal and 
 efficient Piddinghoe, who had served him all these 
 years. What the devil did Fancy want to butt in 
 for ? He knew — or in any case he had often 
 shrewdly suspected that Mrs. Piddinghoe took a 
 few things. But what did it matter ? It was the 
 recognised perquisite of her class. While the 
 theatre was making a clear profit of five or six 
 hundred pounds a week, and all his interests and 
 energies were wrapped up in it, what did it matter 
 if Mrs. Piddinghoe did take a few eggs or a tin 
 of tongue, so long as she did her work efficiently 
 and freed him from domestic worry ? Women 
 were impossible. He would like to explain to 
 Fancy that one had to look at these things in a 
 
1 90 HEARTBEAT 
 
 broad way. His experience told him that all the 
 best and most competent servants were either 
 thieves or drunkards. You allowed a margin for 
 it. And what was going to happen now ? 
 
 Barbara was unapproachable. She was 
 aggrieved with him, even more with him than 
 with Mrs. Piddinghoe, because he had not sided 
 with her. And they had quarrelled — yes, there 
 was no getting away from that, they had quar- 
 relled for the first time in their married life. Well, 
 she was wrong; no doubt about it. She had no 
 right to act like that without his consent. After 
 all, it was his house, his money. Something 
 began to harden in George. He would have to 
 teach her a lesson. She was very silent in the 
 next room now, probably crying — women were 
 like that — their anger always had its reaction in 
 tears. On such occasions it isl3etter to keep out 
 of the way. He lay back in the bed, conscious 
 of his power. Barbara had not treated him as 
 she ought. Did she realise her dependence on 
 him ? Did she reaHse that she was an unrecog- 
 nised, penniless actress, an illegitimate child, and 
 he had made her the wife of the great George 
 Champneys ? Perhaps it was a little unkind to 
 look at it like that; he detested cruelty as much 
 as a scene or a row. They would make it up later 
 on, of course, but — in any case she must come to 
 him, not he to her. He got out of bed and went 
 into the bathroom. Having washed and dressed, 
 he went downstairs and ^phoned for his car. He 
 drove up to his club, and did not see Barbara 
 again that day. 
 
HEARTBEAT 191 
 
 XXL 
 
 The row about Mrs. Piddinghoe had conse- 
 quences more far-reaching than either party 
 could have anticipated. She was something of 
 a female Samson, and realising that the temple 
 was to fall upon her own head, she did every- 
 thing to embroil others in the crash. She did 
 not leave till late on that Sunday afternoon, and 
 then she took the cook with her and an enormous 
 quantity of mysterious luggage. Before she left 
 she threatened legal proceedings, and called 
 Barbara a string of names unflattering to her 
 moral character and the integrity of her parental 
 stock. The other servants were all out, except 
 the boy who cleaned knives and boots. After 
 she had gone, Barbara discovered that the base- 
 ment was in a complete state of chaos. Things 
 were scattered all over the floor; doors of cup- 
 boards and larders were locked and the keys 
 missing; gas was escaping from the kitchen 
 range; water dripped from some mysterious tank 
 in the passage. It was Sunday night, and the 
 chances of getting a plumber or a gas-fitter were 
 remote. Fortunately Snowden, the boot-boy, 
 proved a host in himself. It was he who detected 
 what was wrong with the stove. Between them 
 they strove to rectify the results of the disruption. 
 She had a feeling George would not come back 
 till late, and she did not care. Over this business 
 George had shown his worst side. He had 
 behaved like a spoilt baby. He had been weak 
 and unreasonable. He ought to have been 
 
192 HEARTBEAT 
 
 grateful to her for discovering the robbery; in- 
 stead of that he had practically told her to mind 
 her own business. After all, wasn't the house hers 
 as much as his ? Hadn't he often said so ? 
 
 They had quarrelled; no escaping that fact — 
 yes, quarrelled for the first time. Well, he was 
 in the wrong, no doubt about it. He was too big 
 and important to worry about tins of tongue and 
 pounds of butter. He feared a scene or any un- 
 pleasantness, and so — he ran away ! Men were 
 like that. If everything wasn't just right for 
 them, they didn't try and put it right — they ran 
 away and hid. If George bought a thing, and 
 when he got home he found it defective, he just 
 grumbled, and then went and bought another. 
 Catch him taking it back to the shop ! Pampered 
 fools ! She was a little unstrung, but the occupa- 
 tion of putting her house in order steadied her. 
 Her crust hardened. George had treated her 
 badly. Did he realise that she had given him her 
 youth? Did he not know that he was a puffy, 
 elderly man ? Perhaps that w^as unkind — he loved 
 her well enough in his way — but he must be 
 taught some sort of lesson. Of course they would 
 make it up, but — in any case, he must come to 
 her, not she to him. She wasn't going to dine 
 alone in an empty house, and cook her own 
 dinner, so she telephoned to Isabel, and happened 
 to catch her. The two girls went down to 
 Romano's and dined extravagantly ; and over the 
 wine-glasses Barbara's eyes sparkled with 
 malicious satisfaction realising that it was 
 George's money she was spending. 
 
HEARTBEAT 193 
 
 The reconciliation was more difficult of accom- 
 plishment than might have been imagined. 
 Indeed, it may be said that after the affair of Mrs. 
 Piddinghoe they never quite got back on to the 
 old footing. Two obstinate wills came into con- 
 flict : the man's defensive, cautious, and secure 
 in its ultimate triumph; the woman's offensive, a 
 little reckless, relentlessly logical and yet eter- 
 nally conscious of exposed dangers. It seems 
 strange how in this world of ours the test of our 
 moral dissonances may be so often tried over 
 matters which concern petty things like tins of 
 tongue and pounds of butter. At the inception 
 of this quarrel Barbara had not been unduly eager 
 to follow up the attack on Mrs. Piddinghoe; she 
 was a little sorry for her. It was George's 
 attitude which inflamed her. In a flash she 
 seemed to see epitomised in the incident all the 
 turgid unpleasantness of his character — his 
 vanity, and weakness, his love of comfort, and 
 above all the mighty claims of his possessive 
 sense, a possessive sense which included her 
 (body and soul) in its inventory of household 
 goods. 
 
 On the Sunday night after it happened, they 
 both got home very late, within ten minutes of 
 each other. They were both a little scared about 
 the quarrel, and both had had time to relent some- 
 what. At the same time, they had both deter- 
 mined not to give themselves away. George 
 went to her door, and standing nonchalantly in 
 the opening, he said : 
 
 '' Did you get some dinner? '' 
 
 N 
 
194 HEARTBEAT 
 
 She replied in an offhand manner : 
 
 '* Yes, you bet I did. With Isabel. The place 
 is in a nice muddle. The gas was escaping. That 
 woman has pinched the keys.'* 
 
 All this, she implied, was George's fault. 
 George was convinced that it was her fault; 
 nevertheless he felt a little guilty about having 
 left her to cope with the situation alone. He 
 mumbled : 
 
 ** Oh, well. We'll do something about it to- 
 morrow. Good-night." 
 
 '' Good-night." 
 
 Not a word, not a gesture of real conciliation — 
 not an embrace, for the first time ! 
 
 In the days which followed, the policies which 
 the cumulative characteristics of these two 
 married people embodied in themselves continued 
 to sustain a silent conflict. A real good row, 
 with passion and tears, would have tended to clear 
 the air; instead of that, they continued to be them- 
 selves in a subdued form. Between them lay a 
 barrier of unexpected critical resentment. George 
 was like — and about as useful as — a cat during a 
 removal. He regarded the disunion of his well- 
 ordered house with an expression which clearly 
 implied: ''There you are! What did I say? 
 Interfere, alter, and things go to pot. It has 
 taken me years to build this up, and you've 
 destroyed it in a day." 
 
 Barbara, on her part, found — like many other 
 reformers — that it is always dangerous to destroy 
 an essential thing till vou have found something 
 to put in its place. George's valet, one house- 
 
HEARTBEAT 195 
 
 maid, Annette and the faithful Snowden alone 
 remained. Of these, the three adults refused to 
 do anything- beyond their normal allotted task, 
 and even then under a kind of protest, as much as 
 to say: 
 
 '' We are not used to this sort of atmosphere. 
 You must put it right at once." 
 
 She found herself trying to do half the house- 
 work, cleaning George's boots, and cooking for 
 the staff. On the third day she managed to get 
 a housekeeper with an excellent character and 
 her husband, an ex-marine. She also got a cook. 
 Within twenty-four hours the cook was quarrel- 
 ling with the housekeeper and refused to stop. A 
 few days later the ex-marine came in one evening 
 very drunk, just as she was going ofif to the 
 theatre. He insisted upon going to sleep on a 
 Chesterfield in the library, because he said that 
 at last he was on board ship. It would be tedious 
 to recall the changes, the quarrels, the complica- 
 tions which ensued in this household which had 
 previously run with well-oiled simplicity. It was 
 an undoubted triumph for George, the more 
 especially as he made a point of only being there 
 for bed and breakfast, the details of both of which 
 comforts Barbara attended to herself. It was 
 nearly four months before the place regained any 
 semblance of ordered calm, and even then the 
 standard was nothing like so high as it had been 
 in the days of " the Piddinghoe.'' Many things 
 were missing, including silver-backed brushes of 
 George's, some carved ivory figures, a collection 
 of Barbara's trinkets, and even a small clock. 
 
 N2 
 
196 HEARTBEAT 
 
 With all the changes it was impossible to bring 
 the guilt home to anyone. Moreover nothing 
 was just where it ought to be. 
 
 In one of his more agreeable moods George 
 favoured her with a profound comment. 
 
 ^^ A house/* he said, " is like a State. It's got 
 to be run on human nature, not high-falutin' 
 ideals.** 
 
 He left her to digest this apothegm at 
 leisure. He had gone before she had time to 
 reply : 
 
 *' You mean to say it*s got to be run by thieves 
 and drunkards.** 
 
 XXII. 
 
 It was George, however, who eventually '' came 
 to her.** He caught a chill and got very sorry 
 for himself. It was at the time when things had 
 improved. A reliable Scotch housekeeper had 
 been installed, and a cook who frequently cooked 
 quite well, two new housemaids, and a char to 
 do the unpleasant work for them — a period of 
 comparative calm. 
 
 George came home late after the theatre. He 
 said he felt very tired, and his bones ached. He 
 had his usual night-cap and went up to bed. She 
 had retired, too, but in about half-an-hour*s time 
 there was a tap at her door, and he came in and 
 shut it. She heard him stumbling towards her 
 bed in the darkness, and mumbling, '* Fancy ! 
 Fancy ! ** 
 
 J 
 
HEARTBEAT 197 
 
 He lay down upon it, on the outside of the 
 eider-down, and pressed his moist face against 
 hers. 
 
 '' Fve been an awful cad to you, Fancy,'' he 
 whispered. 
 ' He was humid and, at the same time, feverish. 
 
 " You're not well, George," she whispered 
 back. '' You'd better have some aspirin. I'll 
 get you some." 
 
 He clung to her and would not let her move. 
 
 ** It's not that. I've been worrying about you. 
 I can't stand it any longer. I hate all this. I 
 want you — just the same as before. Forgive me. 
 Fancy — I love you." 
 
 She lay there inert, and let him kiss her. When 
 she could speak, she said : 
 
 "' I'm sorry it happened. You'd better let me 
 get you some aspirin." 
 
 '' Afterwards, not now. I want to hold you — 
 like this, all alone in the darkness. Just you and 
 I together — like we used to " 
 
 Poor old George! He was sorry for himself. 
 She put her hand at the back of his head and 
 stroked his hair. She mothered him discreetly, 
 shrouding her emotions in a genuine sympathy 
 for his condition. This was married life, then — 
 perhaps as much as anyone dare expect — fair days 
 and foul days, and then a groping together in the 
 darkness. This was marriage, then — an institu- 
 tion, like a house or State, to be run on " human 
 nature, and not on high-falutin' ideals." George 
 had come to her because he wanted her, a warm 
 and comforting niche in the structure of his 
 
t ( 
 
 198 HEARTBEAT 
 
 domestic conception. To-morrow — or as soon 
 as he felt well — everything w^ould go on just 
 
 the same, but to-night . . . She felt the 
 heave of his body, hungrily restless for his 
 traditional comforts. 
 
 Get inside, then,'' she whispered again. 
 
 Only you must try and keep still. I'll go and 
 get you the aspirin and some hot water." 
 
 On the morrow he was still feverish, and she 
 sent for a doctor. It was only a chill, but he 
 was obliged to drop out of the bill for three days. 
 His part was played by an understudy. Barbara 
 nursed him, controlling, meanwhile, with a firm 
 hand her reconstructed household. When the 
 fever had abated he sat about forlornly in a 
 dressing-gown, bored by the enforced inactivity, 
 the absence of glamour and applause. During 
 the daytime he would be contented enough, but 
 when it came to seven o'clock in the evening he 
 would appear to shake with an ague of agitation. 
 He should be in the dressing-room now, with 
 Manners, and Banstead, and the others dancing 
 attendance. He should be at the back, with call- 
 boys and property-men falling over each other, 
 touching their hats: "Good evening, Mr. 
 George." The agitated murmurs of the crowd 
 in front, chattering over their programmes. 
 Eight o'clock, and the orchestra tuning up — 
 people rushing hither and thither. ** Lights, 
 please, Mr. Winslow." Eight-fifteen — " Be- 
 ginners, please ! " Eight-thirty, up goes the 
 curtain; the roar of welcome at his familiar 
 figure 
 
HEARTBEAT 199 
 
 *' There he is ! That's George Champneys ! 
 Good old George ! ** 
 
 Oh, he had no use for Barbara during these 
 vicarious exultations, only to say when the 
 pressure became unendurable : 
 
 ** I think ril just have a spot, old girl." 
 
 So soon as his temperature becdme normal he 
 drank a lot of whisky. He said it was good for 
 him, and in a way she believed it was. The 
 demand for it was in his blood, as was the 
 demand for adulation and applause. During 
 those days the true character of the man became 
 vividly manifest, and she tried not to see it. His 
 good temper, kindness of heart, and generosity 
 were, to an extent, a combination of indolence 
 and desire for popularity. It is easier and 
 pleasanter to be good tempered than to be just 
 and critical. He followed the line of least resist- 
 ance in all things. Generous ? Why shouldn't 
 he be generous ? He had abundance, and nothing 
 so warmed and quickened the popular palate as 
 lavish tipping and a reckless disregard for cost. 
 Everything had come too easily to George, and 
 the result had destroyed his moral fibre. He was 
 wearing badly. His body was becoming loose 
 and flabby, his face lined and puffy, his eyes dull 
 and preoccupied. His dog-like attachment to her 
 was of an unreliable kind. She was a necessary 
 adjunct to his existence, and yet she bored him. 
 She never knew whether he was really listening 
 when she spoke to him. One thing was certain. 
 If she told him anything overnight he never 
 remembered it the next morning. This was a 
 
200 HEARTBEAT 
 
 trait which irritated her ahiiost beyond endur- 
 ance. They would have a long discussion in the 
 evening about, for instance, what was to be done 
 with a certain bureau. The matter would be 
 settled and disposed of, and then, the next morn- 
 ing, he would suddenly say : 
 
 '' I say. Fancy, where shall we put that 
 bureau ? " 
 
 Neither was his temper of that equable kind 
 ascribed to it by reputation. It was one thing 
 in the limelight of success to laugh and joke with 
 everyone, to raise salaries, to tip extravagantly, 
 to be hail-fellow-well-met with the hiTmblest 
 minions of his staff. All these stories got about. 
 In the bars off Shaftesbury Avenue where the 
 stage-hands congregated, in the clubs where the 
 " old boys " foregathered, in green-rooms and 
 agents* offices, everyone would say: '^ Ah, you 
 should get in with old George Champneys. He's 
 a sport, if you like — treats everyone alike — gave 
 young Cinders a quid for carrying his bag out 
 to the car '' 
 
 All this was true, but it was she who had to 
 bear the brunt of his sullen reactions. He would 
 have moods of unreasoning irritability, when 
 some trivial matter — like cold toast— would cause 
 him to sulk and fume for hours. Sometimes he 
 would appear to harbour some inexpressible 
 antagonism towards her. He would regard her 
 distrustfully, as though aware that she filled the 
 niche he had designed for her reluctantly — that 
 she was an eternal challenge to the claims of his 
 possessive sense. In short, he did not — and never 
 
HEARTBEAT 201 
 
 would — possess her. The love which " was to 
 come afterwards '* had not materialised, and it 
 was slipping farther from his reach. 
 
 Sometimes he would dismiss her from his mind 
 altogether, and indulge in idle dreams — the 
 yellow sands of the little bay at Rapallo, the villa 
 entangled with flowers against the dark trees, 
 Maisie leaning over the balcony holding out her 
 arms — youth to youth, the unmatched beauty of 
 unspoilt desire. And dark thoughts would flitter 
 through his mind. He had gained the whole 
 world and lost his soul. He became afraid of 
 the darkness and the empty moments. 
 
 " I'll just have a tot, old girl." 
 
 And so the perpetual compromise went on, the 
 eternal moving on and slipping back. And when 
 he laughed the world laughed with him, and 
 when he wept he wept alone, or into the husk of 
 a stillborn love. And always there haunted him 
 the recurrent premonition: '' One day she'll* get 
 a lover — what wall I do then? '' 
 
 It was characteristic of him that in that moment 
 he thought only of himself. And he admonished 
 himself : 
 
 " When it happens I'll have to keep my head. 
 I mustn't kill her or the man, or I'll get hanged." 
 
 O God ! It might all have been so different ! 
 He tried to analyse the reasons, to locate the pre- 
 cise moment when everything had gone wrong. 
 But he could not. The facile descent leaves few 
 landmarks, and those which exist are usually 
 invisible to the egoist. It was hard luck, just 
 pure hard luck. If, now, he had a child — a son ? 
 
202 HEARTBEAT 
 
 no, perhaps a daughter, a laughing, sunny girl, 
 with all her life before her, flinging her little arms 
 around his neck — how secure he would feel with 
 a love like that. No one can usurp a father's 
 place or a mother's. But this other love — that's 
 like an open conflict with the world. He became 
 watchful and jealous. He must be more careful 
 with his darling Fancy in the future. 
 
 One day he came to the conclusion that Samuel 
 Toller w^as a dangerous person to have about — 
 young and unattached, rather good looking, and 
 becoming too free and intimate. He sent him 
 away in charge of a tour and engaged Caleb 
 Thirkettle as his secretary. Caleb Thirkettle was 
 also young, but he was a plain, serious-minded 
 young man, married to Gracie Bard, the actress; 
 and they had two young children. 
 
 XXHI. 
 
 Barbara was only partly conscious of her hus- 
 band's disorderly humours. After the revelation 
 which had come to her during his brief illness, 
 she preferred not to indulge in moral specula- 
 tions, not to visualise dubious hypotheses. She 
 had failed, her dreams had not come true; 
 nothing was left but the ancient salve of making 
 the best of a bad job. Direct compensation in 
 the way of matijrial things was easily accessible, 
 and for a time she abandoned herself to it. She 
 snapped the shutter on the little visions which 
 had accompanied her through life. Only one 
 
HEARTBEAT 203 
 
 still persisted in dancing before her eyes unin- 
 vited. It came at queer odd moments — in the 
 street, in her dressing-room, whilst singing, and 
 when alone in the darkness — if only she had a 
 child — a little daughter; no, perhaps a son, one 
 who would cling to her and call her '' Mummy *' 
 — that would be a love that would endure through 
 the inevitable fading and withering of the leaf. 
 No one could supersede her. And he would grow 
 up into a proud, strong man; not like his father, 
 more like — the knight of her dreams. 
 
 And so the tragi-comedy of this dubious aUiance 
 went on : nights of tunefulness and charm, and 
 gay, mad laughter; applause and beauty, merry 
 parties and extravagant feasts; fine clothes and 
 motor-rides to the open country; wit, and com- 
 pany, and social interplay ; meeting together and 
 parting; spasmodic attempts to regain a thing 
 which had never existed; pity and tears, and the 
 groping together in the darkness; sullen realisa- 
 tions; and then back once more to dance to the 
 tune of the piper. 
 
 One evening a strange thing happened to 
 Barbara. The run of *' Laugh and Grow Fat " 
 had come to an end, and they were rehearsing a 
 new revue; consequently many of her evenings 
 were free. Isabel had again got a small part at 
 Daly's, and on this evening in question Barbara 
 had arranged to go with her after the show to 
 supper at a little cafe, frequented by '' the *' pro- 
 fession, near Long Acre. They arrived just 
 before twelve, and the supper-room was very 
 crowded. They eventually got seats at a table 
 
204 HEARTBEAT 
 
 in the corner, where two old men — obviously 
 actors — were finishing a meal. They were both 
 drinking whisky, and were in that state difficult 
 to determine whether drunk or sober. There are 
 some old men who have the genius of appearing 
 always drunk, although they may not have had 
 anything to drink for weeks. Their conversa- 
 tional methods are always ruminative, forensic 
 and redundant. They bang on the table and say : 
 
 " Ah, old boy, you should have heard 
 Florenzo " 
 
 And then they give a convincing imitation of 
 Florenzo, a performance which one should always 
 allow them to do, because thev enjoy it so much 
 themselves. These two old blue-chins were of 
 that kind. Isabel and Barbara both knew the 
 type well, and were not unduly alarmed. Even 
 when one of them said to Barbara : 
 
 *' Mademoiselle, you have the face of a queen 
 who ruled in Ascalon.*^ 
 
 She only smiled, and said : 
 
 " Oh, do you think so? Might I trouble you 
 for the O.K. sauce? " 
 
 The two girls had their supper in comparative 
 peace. When they had nearly finished Barbara 
 suddenly heard one of them say : 
 
 ** Ah, old boy, there has been no one since 
 Hannifan — you take it from me.'' 
 
 For a moment the name Hannifan conveyed 
 nothing to her; then she remembered, and her 
 heart beat violently. Leaning across the table 
 she said: 
 
 ** Excuse me, sir, did vou know Hannifan ? " 
 
HEARTBEAT 205 
 
 The old actor's face lighted up with surprise 
 and a joyous anticipation. Here was a chance, 
 if ever there was one, to talk and air his experi- 
 ences. And not, mark you, to old Bob Stepney, 
 who had heard it all a hundred times and never 
 listened once, but to a young and pretty woman, 
 a stranger, eager to hear. He cleared his throat 
 and thrust back his head. 
 
 ** My dear, Hannifan and I were hand-in-glove 
 for longer than your life. Hannifan and I were 
 on the road together, in fit-ups, when these 
 syndicate halls were unborn. Hannifan and I 
 shared our crusts and bowls of gruel, when one 
 had to serve an apprenticeship — not like now. 
 Hannifan ! Ah ! there was an artist for you " 
 
 '* Yes, yes, I see. Excuse me, though, did you 
 ever meet a singer called Kitty O'Bane ? '* 
 
 The old actor looked a little annoyed at the 
 interruption. It had spoilt his periods. He might 
 eventually have touched in Kitty O'Bane, but he 
 had hardly launched Hannifan yet. He puckered 
 up his lips. 
 
 '' Yes, I knew Kitty — an artist, too. She was 
 out in the summer of '84. Hannifan said to 
 me '' 
 
 '' Oh, please tell me anything you know about 
 her." 
 
 Very well, then, if she wouldn't let him talk 
 about Hannifan, Kitty O'Bane would serve 
 almost as well. 
 
 ''Kitty O'Bane might have climbed to the top 
 of the tree. She had youth, beauty, and great 
 talent. Her mother was Irish; her father " 
 
2o6 HEARTBEAT 
 
 he shrugged his shoulders. '' Kitty O'Bane, 
 when I first met her, was not unlike you, 
 mademoiselle. She had the same dark eyes, the 
 eager lips, the Queen of Ascalon air. She was 
 taller than you, and she could ride. I saw her 
 first in a circus, jumping through hoops. I was 
 with dear old Larry, the best sand-dancer who 
 ever put toe to board '' 
 
 '' Why didn't she climb to the top of the tree ? *' 
 
 The old man drew himself up, and took a deep 
 draught of whisky-and-water. Then he said 
 portentously : 
 
 '' Because of the flesh-pots of Egypt." 
 
 ** What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 *' I can't tell you exactly, my dear. Women 
 have always been an unopened book to me. 
 There was some scandal. She got mixed up in 
 a love-affair in high society, I believe. She left 
 the company. We did not see her for years. 
 Indeed, I myself never saw her again. But 
 Larry, I remember, told me that he came across 
 her in Manchester. She was finished, broken, 
 darting in and out of booths, cadging money any 
 old way. She went down, and down, and down.'* 
 
 '' Did she die?" 
 
 *^ This was twenty years ago, or more, my dear, 
 and she was sliding down. The upward path is 
 lined with thorns, the downward path is greased 
 with butter. I cannot say. Why do you ask me 
 about Kitty O'Bane? " 
 
 ^* Because she was my mother," said Barbara, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
BOOK III.— DIASTOLE 
 
 I. 
 
 In reorganising the details of her domestic 
 world, Barbara found a certain element of delight. 
 It was her first real taste of power. Having 
 routed the redoubtable Mrs. Piddinghoe and 
 triumphed over George, she took care not to let 
 the reins of authority slip from her hand again. 
 Aided by the Scotch housekeeper, she checked all 
 the orders and supplies, and even went on pil- 
 grimages to various stores to ascertain whether 
 they were getting the best value for their money. 
 It was rather a surprising streak in her, probably 
 a by-product of the operation of having had a 
 Chancellor for a father. Every Saturday morn- 
 ing she went into the library and spent an hour 
 or so going over the accounts with Caleb 
 Thirkettle, the new secretary. It was a source 
 of satisfaction to her to realise the respect paid 
 her by this rather solemn young man. He was 
 the antithesis to the breezy Toller, who always 
 treated the domestic finances of the Champneys' 
 household with airy indifference. To Thirkettle 
 it all seemed very important and interesting, and 
 
 he supplied her with order-books, and receipt- 
 
 207 
 
2o8 • HEARTBEAT 
 
 files, and a wages-book for the servants. If any- 
 thing went wrong with the electric light or gas, 
 instead of writing to a firm about it, he would 
 invariably rectify the trouble with his own hands. 
 He w^as a competent young man, with a broad, 
 flat, eager face, rather queer and frog-like. His 
 grey eyes, which were set wide apart, were re- 
 flective and wistful. There was something about 
 him which appealed to Barbara. 
 
 '' He's unhappy, and he's taking it like a 
 sport," she decided. 
 
 He w^as deferential and friendly, but not over- 
 familiar. It was always a pleasure to ask his 
 advice. His face lighted up, and he had a way of 
 twisting his head on one side and nodding it 
 thoughtfully^. Then he would begin : 
 
 " Well, what I would suggest, Mrs. Champ- 
 neys, is this " 
 
 He was essentially a person to be trusted and 
 confided in, but a little difficult to draw out. Her 
 affairs appeared to him of so much more import- 
 ance than his ov/n. He spent part of his time at 
 the theatre and part of the time in the house. 
 George liked him and found him incomparably 
 more useful than Toller had been. He usually 
 referred to him as " Frog-face " w^hen speaking 
 to Barbara, but to his face he called him 
 '' Thirk." 
 
 Thirk was in every way a great success. Apart 
 from his executive efficiency, he acted as a kind 
 of bridge between husband and wife. He had the 
 confidence of both, and as the gulf between them 
 tended to get w^der and wider, so did this broad 
 
HEARTBEAT 209 
 
 safe bridge become more and more valuable. 
 Many a time when the tension became acute, 
 when the conflict of wills threatened a crisis, by 
 some adroit manoeuvre the young secretary would 
 save the situation. Barbara's subversive inclina- 
 tions towards material delights had not made 
 things easier. She frequently went to suppers 
 and dances after the theatre, and when she 
 arrived home George would be asleep. She en- 
 tertained more, and spent money lavishly. It 
 was not, as she explained to Thirkettle when they 
 were going through accounts, that she *' wanted 
 to be mean, but I do hate being done.** And 
 Caleb Thirkettle agreed that it was a very human 
 and natural feeling. 
 
 Neither of them anticipated at that moment the 
 part which human and natural feelings were to 
 play in the immediate future. The welding of 
 the links in that emotional chain which was des- 
 tined eventually to circumscribe their united 
 world of desires was a process which occupied 
 some time. It began with the fellowship of a 
 domestic inventory. It grew in the interchange 
 of the most commonplace gestures of personal 
 inquiry. It budded in the mutual recognition of 
 unexpressed suffering. It came to flower in the 
 unadorned confession of a failure to achieve. 
 Barbara elaborated the full story of Mrs. Pidding- 
 hoe, and the quality of sympathy which her 
 account evoked prompted her to ask Caleb Thir- 
 kettle's opinion about the colour of curtains for 
 a spare bedroom^ Then she began to consult 
 him about her frocks and hats. Queer, oh \ so 
 
 o 
 
2IO HEARTBEAT 
 
 very queer. What could Caleb know about 
 frocks and hats ? And yet she felt that she had 
 never had so sympathetic a consultant. Frocks 
 and hats led to other things. As the days went 
 on, she found herself more and more depending 
 upon his quick opinion, and it was not his opinion 
 only. It was that, in consulting him, the matter, 
 however trivial, became of increased importance 
 to herself. She looked forward to his visits, and 
 saved up little things to tell him. Never before 
 in her life had she met anyone to whom the barest 
 detail became significant. Soon she had told him 
 all about Isabel, and the affair of herself rehears- 
 ing for the revue, and then being frozen out by 
 Mr. Banstead, and the return of Rosie Ventnor. 
 These disclosures rapidly led to confessions of 
 a profounder nature. She told him about her 
 father, her life at High Barrow, about Billy 
 Hamaton, and then the secret concerning her 
 mother, her father^s will, her life on tour. She 
 only held back at the indecisions which obsessed 
 her when George proposed. 
 
 Even this avowal, she knew, was only held in 
 abeyance. And it gave her a certain joy to feel 
 that one day she would tell Caleb even this. She 
 could envisage the distressed expression on his 
 face, the little, quick, nervous way in which he 
 would shake his head, the movement of the eyes 
 which seemed to absorb the vision of an experi- 
 ence almost before she had described it. 
 
 One afternoon she returned late from a tea and 
 dance, and going into the library she found Caleb 
 seated at the bureau with his head in his hands. 
 
HEARTBEAT 211 
 
 The room was in semi-darkness. He looked up 
 and made a movement as though to turn on the 
 electric light. She waved her muff at him and 
 called out : 
 
 " No. Don't turn on the Hght. Come and sit 
 by the fire, if you're not busy." 
 
 He rose and walked obediently to the easy- 
 chair on the right of the fireplace. Barbara knelt 
 on a tuffet. They looked at each other, and 
 neither spoke. The fire crackled. Over in the 
 studio two girls were rehearsing a duet. George, 
 she knew, was in town. At last she smiled at him 
 and whispered : 
 
 '' What is the matter, Thirk ? " 
 
 He, too, tried to smile, but the glow of the fire 
 revealed a smile all twisted awry. 
 
 She repeated her question, and he answered 
 huskily : 
 
 *' I've no right to talk to you — as I would like 
 to." 
 
 The militant desire for revolt leapt to the fore- 
 front of the girl's mind. She flashed out : 
 
 " Damn it, Caleb; you have every right." 
 
 It was the first time she had called him Caleb, 
 
 and the employment of the Christian name was 
 
 part of the challenge she was flinging to the dark 
 
 forces which always appeared to be imprisoning 
 
 her desires. Why shouldn't she have a friend? 
 
 Probably it was her own fault that she had so 
 
 far muddled her life, but she had no intention of 
 
 being cut off from every channel which might 
 
 lead to a greater freedom. The young man did 
 
 not appear surprised. He sighed comfortably, 
 
 02 
 
212 HEARTBEAT 
 
 as though the impulsiveness of her interjection 
 had steadied him. He shook his head and said: 
 *' What are you doing with your life, Mrs. 
 Champneys? Tve muddled mine/* 
 
 What an odd question ! What was she doing 
 with her life ? No one had ever asked her such 
 a thing before. What was she doing with her 
 life ? Yes, of course, she knew that Caleb had 
 muddled his. She could tell it by his eyes. And 
 she, too — but no, she wasn't going to acknow- 
 ledge yet that she had failed. She spoke 
 defensively. 
 
 ** I know I haven't done much. I expected to 
 do more — get on more quickly. IVe married a 
 
 successful actor-manager. I — Fve " 
 
 She knew she was talking outside her subject, 
 and when he replied : 
 
 ** You're only speaking of material failures and 
 successes," she answered humbly : 
 ^* Oh! I know.*' 
 
 There was a silence in the room, emphasised by 
 the distant sound of girls' shrill voices singing a 
 song about ** Casey's sold his sister's socks to 
 Sue." The somewhat ironic contrast between 
 this song and the sombre atmosphere of mufifled 
 confession was not lost upon Barbara. She 
 could not hear the words, but she knew the song 
 quite well, and had sung in the chorus innu- 
 merable times. The ridiculous words kept 
 jumbling through her head as she listened to 
 Caleb's confession. 
 
 ** You see, both the parents persuaded — almost 
 insisted. I had only just left school. The child 
 
HEARTBEAT 213 
 
 was born before our marriage, you see. The 
 trouble is, I never loved her, never, never. I 
 lost my head. We met at a skating-rink in 
 Whitby. I knew nothing. I could not even earn 
 my own living at that time. The trouble is, Mrs. 
 Champneys, she loved me. She still loves me — in 
 her way. I have no capacity for cruelty. Do you 
 understand what I mean? At Charborough I 
 won prizes for prose essays, and poetry also. I 
 was mad about the drama. We were turned 
 adrift. I tried to act, but it was a failure. Gracie 
 got small parts, but I couldn^t sponge on her, 
 could I ? I have written two plays — neither suit- 
 able for commercial production. If it had only 
 happened later. Pve had no chance of going 
 through the mill. Pm an amateur. I want to do 
 so much. Fm not exactly a fool. Pm a kind of 
 intellectual handy-man. I can earn my living 
 now. I could in all sorts of ways. I believe I 
 could be a plumber. Don't laugh at me. But 
 it's the terrible sense of not being allowed to do 
 the work one wants to *' 
 
 ** Why don't you leave her ? " 
 
 " How can I leave her ? It would be unspeak- 
 ably cruel. And there are the children." 
 
 " Do you love the children ? " 
 
 ** One can't help being fond of one's children." 
 
 Again a silence fell between them. Barbara's 
 heart was beating fast. She knelt there in the 
 firelight, a woman aglow in the luxury of the 
 confessional. Clutching the beads at her throat, 
 she whispered : 
 
 *' I've mucked things too, Caleb. I expect you 
 
214 HEARTBEAT 
 
 understand. It has taken me years to realise that 
 I don't love my husband. He promised me that 
 love would come afterwards. . . .'' 
 
 Her voice died away, and they were afraid to 
 look at each other. Suddenly she said : 
 
 " Call me Barbara. We must be pals.'' 
 
 She did not turn her head, but she was aware of 
 him rocking restlessly in his chair. His voice was 
 almost inaudible. 
 
 " You see what it is drifting to. I must go 
 away, Mrs. Champneys." 
 
 She could not account for it, but when he said 
 that she felt a queer stab of triumph. For the 
 moment the innate desires of her being were com- 
 pletely satisfied. They demanded nothing but 
 repose for the purpose of reflection. She laughed 
 softly and stood up. 
 
 *' We're a queer couple, Thirk. You mustn't, 
 desert me. I've got to go and dress now for the 
 theatre." 
 
 As she left she closed the door quietly, as one 
 might on leaving a room where someone was at 
 prayer. 
 
 II. 
 
 That night Barbara slept but little. She was 
 conscious primarily of a profound surprise. 
 
 " I've had some rum experiences," she 
 thought, " but nothing like this has ever 
 happened to me before. I've never met anyone 
 before I wanted to tell everything to, regard- 
 less ..." 
 
HEARTBEAT 215 
 
 Caleb, with his reticences and his restlessness, 
 had come like a prophet out of the wilderness. 
 His almost incoherent implications had conjured 
 up a vast sea of delight of which she at present 
 only stood on the foreshore. His perfunctory- 
 dismissal of material failures and successes came 
 almost in the nature of revelation. She was 
 uneducated, neglected, already sickening of ** the 
 flesh-pots of Egypt," but hungry for more sub- 
 stantial satisfactions. What had Caleb to offer? 
 
 *' It*s damned awful being a woman," she 
 thought at one point. It was less the restraints 
 and inhibitions which the sex disability imposed 
 upon her than the trend of outlook which the 
 exigencies of her upbringing had forced her to 
 adopt. Had she been a boy, her father would 
 have educated her differently. Had she been a 
 boy, she would have championed her mother's 
 cause openly. She would have had the freedom 
 to attack and reconstruct. 
 
 Caleb? Their cases were not identical. He 
 had made his own mistake, and he was free to 
 rectify it. She was a victim of the mistakes of 
 others, and she had to work furtively, in the dark. 
 She had to grope for the spiritual threads which 
 others had snapped. Towering above her was 
 the immovable mass of her father's enduring 
 shadow — and she was by no means an irresistible 
 force. Almost as though he had ordained it, she 
 now staggered beneath the dominance of another 
 man who exercised in the flesh somewhat similar 
 prerogatives. A weaker character than her 
 father, but with the same myopic conservatism of 
 
2i6 HEARTBEAT 
 
 outlook. A little more human than her father — 
 indeed, in many ways far too human — but equally 
 egoistic, self-sufficient, and blind to another's — 
 particularly if it be a woman's — point of view; 
 and by these tokens carrying in his heart the 
 infinite capacity for cruelty. 
 
 In that mood she postulated mankind as a 
 wholly unbalanced discord of the sexes. Men 
 were cruel. Her smattering of reading presented 
 jumbled visions from Joan of Arc burnt at the 
 stake to Tess hanged. Her own experience 
 rioted with recollections from her father's injus- 
 tice and silent tyranny to the little agents who 
 mauled girls about, from George's almost uncon- 
 scious grip upon her freedom to the arrogance 
 of Julius Banstead. Strangely enough, this 
 sense of inequality did not depress her; rather 
 she felt stimulated and militant. St. George 
 would never have been a hero if there hadn't been 
 a dragon or two about. 
 
 She awoke refreshed and eager for whatever 
 the day might bring forth. And the first thing 
 that the day brought forth was a simple desire 
 that her life might serve some useful end. She 
 evolved this amiable ambition from her own inner 
 consciousness whilst having a bath, and she was 
 extremely pleased with herself at the resolution. 
 Caleb had said nothing about serving a useful 
 end, but the influence of his benign disquietude 
 prompted it. She resolved that George was 
 frankly a materialist and to that hour she had 
 been the same. What were they doing with their 
 lives but getting on, making money, chasing 
 
HEARTBEAT 217 
 
 popularity, buying comforts, and worshipping 
 luxuries ? Never once had George hinted at 
 anything more ennobling. He could be 
 generous, kind-hearted, sentimental — all within 
 the ambit of these material considerations; 
 beyond that the shoots of his ambitions withered 
 and died. 
 
 The next thing which the day brought forth 
 was distressing news. After the conversation 
 with the old actor in the cafe, she had written to 
 a lawyer in Liverpool and asked him to try and 
 trace any record of her mother. A letter came 
 by the second post. The lawyer had been 
 successful in his search. Her mother had died 
 nineteen years ago, in an infirmary in one of the 
 suburbs of Liverpool. Having apparently no 
 relatives or friends or money, she had been 
 buried in a pauper's grave. When Barbara read 
 that she cried out in agony. Annette came 
 running into the room : 
 
 ** Ohy madame f madam e f qu'est-ce qti'il y 
 
 But Barbara had no use at that moment for the 
 decorative French maid. Her heart was bleed- 
 ing. She must go and break the news to George. 
 But George was in the studio, trying over some 
 songs with Birtles; he would resent any interrup- 
 tion. Even if she told him — she envisaged his 
 large moist face looking rather scared and 
 distressed; not distressed on account of her 
 mother, but distressed because the news disturbed 
 his own placid environment; it upset his dear 
 Fancy and made her difficult and unapproachable. 
 
21 8 HEARTBEAT 
 
 She had told him about the old actor, and that 
 she had written to Liverpool, but he had never 
 enquired whether she had heard any news. He 
 looked upon the episode as unpleasant and 
 unnecessary. Why couldn't she let sleeping 
 dogs lie ? 
 
 On second thoughts she decided not to tell 
 him. What was the use ? She must tell some- 
 one. There was Isabel. Isabel would probably 
 weep and hug her, but would she understand? 
 Isabel had a way of sometimes just saying the 
 wrong thing. She was as great a materialist as 
 George. 
 
 No, the only person who would understand was 
 her new friend Caleb, and he didn't come till 
 four o'clock. She did not go out; but hung 
 about the house in a fever of impatience. When 
 he did arrive the ordeal became acuter still, for 
 George commandeered the young secretary and 
 they retired to the library. She went to the door 
 and listened, and she could hear George comfort- 
 ably sucking his pipe and droning : 
 
 ** Er — you might write a line to Sydney Aire- 
 dale and ask him if he's read ' The Gay Dog's 
 Day.' I want to get his report in. Oscar 
 Lemmon doesn't think much of it. By the way, 
 make a note, I promised Birtles 15 per cent, on 
 the rake off we shall get from the sale of * Mr. 
 Percy's Pants have Parted.' Where are last 
 week's returns from the B company on tour ? 
 'Um. I told Ledger that it would be no good 
 north of Glasgow and Edinburgh. 'Um, 'um, 
 well — covering expenses, anyway." 
 
HEARTBEAT 219 
 
 How trivial and vulgar it all seemed ! And 
 there was Caleb Thirkettle, who might be writing 
 prose dramas or doing something great and 
 worthy, wasting his time writing stupid notes 
 about Mr. Percy's Pants ! Caleb was trapped, 
 and she was trapped, caught up in the machinery 
 of social progress. Mr. Percy's pants ! Social 
 progress ! Would George never stop talking ? 
 At last he drifted from business to social matters, 
 and she heard him tell Caleb two of '' the very 
 latest,'' which he had heard at the Club yester- 
 day, and Caleb laughed politely. Or, perhaps, he 
 was really amused. Men were strange creatures. 
 
 With almost uncanny deliberation George came 
 out into the hall and put on his hat and coat. On 
 observing her, he said : 
 
 '' Hullo, dear. I've got to go up to White's 
 to meet Joe Costing." 
 
 The temptation to say " All right. Well, hurry 
 up," was almost unendurable. 
 
 When he had really gone, she darted into the 
 library, and, without any preliminary explana- 
 tion, thrust the letter into Caleb's hand and said : 
 *' Read that!" 
 
 She saw the look of troubled concern steal over 
 his face as his eyes scanned the letter. When 
 he had finished it, he was really angry. He 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " My God ! What a damned injustice ! " 
 
 Oh, it was just what she wanted, someone to 
 express her own feelings, and to share the horror 
 and the anger. Now that she had her victim there 
 she did not mean to spare him. She stood with 
 
220 HEARTBEAT 
 
 her back to the fire, and tears started to her eyes, 
 although her voice was fairly under control. 
 
 ** Think of it, Caleb. My father buried in 
 Westminster Abbey, my mother in a pauper's 
 grave. And — at one time they must have loved 
 each other. They shared the same house, the 
 same bed. Do you think he could have known ? 
 Did they drift apart ? If Father was so hard, so 
 unjust as that — why did he keep that packet of 
 love-letters ? What could Mother have done — 
 that the lawyer said she treated him badly, * after 
 all his generosity ' ? *' 
 
 She rattled out these questions, knowing full 
 well that Caleb could not give any satisfactory 
 answers, but comforted in sharing the anguish 
 they provoked. 
 
 When she had quietened a little, he said 
 reflectively : 
 
 " Your Mother could not have been a bad 
 woman." 
 
 The remark surprised her, and she exclaimed : 
 ''Why?'* 
 
 *' People have said that you are the spit and 
 image of her.** 
 
 Ah ! she wanted him to know the truth of all 
 things. She could not let that pass. She went 
 up close to him and whispered fiercely : 
 
 '* Don't be deceived, Caleb, Pm no bally 
 heroine. I'm awful at moments. You'd never 
 believe it if I told you what I'm like. Fm out for 
 myself all the time. I've always been like that. 
 As a child I was utterly selfish and spoiled. When 
 I look back on it I feel convinced now that I only 
 
HEARTBEAT 221 
 
 married George because it would help me on. 
 Till you came and talked about * material suc- 
 cesses and failures ' I believed my mission was 
 just that — to get on, and be popular and rich and 
 successful. But now — somehow I believe that it 
 is something else ** 
 
 " Which goes to prove my contention. Funda- 
 mentally you're fine. They've never given you a 
 chance — Barbara . * ' 
 
 ** Thank you for calling me Barbara. You're 
 awfully nice to me, Caleb, but, believe me, I don't 
 deserve it. I know I'm not an out-and-out rotter 
 like — some of these women. But, oh ! I have 
 awful vicious, foolish impulses. I'm not only 
 selfish." 
 
 ** The tragedy is that a man may have vicious, 
 foolish impulses, and be buried in Westminster 
 Abbey. If a woman has them, she goes to a 
 pauper's grave." 
 
 *' Then there is no God." 
 
 ** Yes, there is. That's just what there is — a 
 God." 
 
 '* Oh, Caleb, tell me what you mean." 
 
 The young man turned away from her and 
 walked slowly up and down the room. The 
 troubled look still haunted his eyes. He spoke 
 disconnectedly, 
 
 *' I am bad at explaining, Barbara. I can only 
 say things as they occur to me. I'll tell you why 
 there's a God when sometimes it seem there can't 
 be. One has to look at the broad line. Man has 
 sprung from an inferior mammal. What im- 
 presses me in this — in the big sweep of physical 
 
222 HEARTBEAT 
 
 and spiritual evolution there is no such thing as 
 retrogression. Sometimes things appear to be 
 going backwards, but this is only because they 
 are preparing for a spring forward. Individuals 
 fail, races become decadent and die, but the thrust 
 of humanity must inevitably be — upward.'' 
 
 Barbara pondered these statements carefully. 
 They went a little beyond her immediate compre- 
 hension, but they were charged with hope. She 
 frowned at the fire. 
 ** Do you believe in Nemesis, then ? '* 
 " I believe in a spiritual Nemesis.'* 
 Spiritual ! Why did Caleb always talk about 
 spiritual things, when no one else had ever done 
 so except in connection with the Church or table- 
 rapping ? Without turning her head, she said 
 eagerly : 
 
 *' What precisely do you mean by spiritual ? " 
 *' That part of us which deals with ideas." 
 *' Ideas!" 
 
 '* Yes. You and your mother are both victims 
 of ideas. Those ideas will meet their Nemesis. 
 Listen, Barbara; we are all so apt to regard the 
 ugliness and injustice which surround us that we 
 overlook the greater ugliness and injustice from 
 which they have sprung." 
 
 *' Do you really believe that mankind 
 advances ? " 
 
 '' Mankind can't help advancing." 
 *' It didn't help my mother much." 
 *' The physical existence of both your mother 
 and your father is at an end. Their spiritual story 
 is not yet complete. That is what I believe." 
 
(C 
 
 HEARTBEAT 223 
 
 Oh ! I would like to believe that so much." 
 Moreover, the ideas which they individually 
 embodied will work out to an equitable solution." 
 
 " I would like to believe that, too." 
 
 '* Perhaps that is why you are conscious of 
 sometimes feeling like an instrument. The forces 
 are working through you and through your " 
 
 The young man hesitated, and Barbara buried 
 her face in her hands. 
 
 She groaned aloud : *' O God ! I wish I had a 
 son ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 George was quite right. Love did come after- 
 wards to Barbara Champneys, but it was not 
 through her husband that she plumbed its mystic 
 depths. It came suddenly, tempestuously, and 
 with a radiance which illumined the dark corners 
 of her soul. It was there before she knew it, with 
 gossamer wings fluttering against her window- 
 pane at dawn. It filled her crowded day with a 
 thousand tokens of rapture. For the first time 
 she saw life as it was, and as it might be, and as 
 it had never surely been before to anyone. And 
 the magician holding the key to this enchanted 
 world was the queer little '' Frog-face " secre- 
 tary, whom George had substituted for the 
 dangerous Mr. Toller. 
 
 Her love was cradled in his enveloping 
 sympathy, which quickened as it warmed. She 
 flew to him like the bee to the clover. She rose 
 to him like a drenched flower to the rays of the 
 
224 HEARTBEAT 
 
 sun. He became an indispensable, inevitable 
 salve to her aching wounds of moral duress. She 
 listened for his footsteps, lulled her senses to an 
 ecstasy of comfort in the warm timbre of his 
 voice, in the exaltation of his words. The idyllic 
 connection rapidly followed the normal evolution 
 of ** human and natural feelings.'* She realised 
 this one morning when he was packing a 
 despatch-case. He was leaning over the table, 
 vigorously tucking a sheaf of contracts into the 
 case. The lines of his mouth and nostril were 
 sharply accentuated. Around his eyes were tiny 
 wrinkles as he frowned at the job in hand. 
 Abruptly she thought : '* Good God ! I love him.*' 
 She wanted to laugh, but at the same time she 
 thought : '* There will never be anyone else.'* 
 
 She felt no idle desire to kiss, as she had in the 
 case of the lord's son. It was an overwhelming 
 desire to possess. She wanted Caleb for her very 
 own, always — always. She knew at that moment 
 that fate had mocked at her; her life with George 
 was a travesty. What was she to do ? 
 
 And Caleb? The action of packing the bag 
 was symbolical. Every day he determined to 
 pack his bag and go away. He knew that this 
 was the right and proper — indeed, the only — 
 thing to do. And every day he put it off. He was 
 an idealist whose idealism was temporarily 
 suspended in face of a stupendous temptation. A 
 married man with two children making love to 
 his employer's wife ! It was in vain that he per- 
 suaded himself that this statement gave a false 
 account of the situation, that he was not " making 
 
HEARTBEAT 225 
 
 love to her '' — he loved her, which was a diiferent 
 thing ; he was helping her, in a way he was neces- 
 sary to her. His conscience mocked him. Her 
 image was never for an instant absent from his 
 thoughts. He knew the hour would come when 
 he would have to declare himself or die. This 
 was no ordinary intrigue of the senses; neverthe- 
 less, the senses insist upon playing their part in 
 such a communion. He had never attempted to 
 kiss her, or even to press her hands unduly when 
 they met and parted. He rather went to the 
 opposite extreme, knowing that any such action 
 would mark the approach of crisis. But their 
 eyes were not idle, and the message of eyes can- 
 not be muted or misunderstood. For the rest^ 
 everything dovetailed with a satisfying perfection 
 that appeared pre-ordained. The playground of 
 their dawning passion seemed specially prepared. 
 Caleb had every reason to spend several hours 
 every day in the house, and George was fre- 
 quently not there. Barbara had every excuse for 
 visiting the young secretary in the library. Was 
 it not natural for the manager's wife to talk about 
 the affairs of the theatre ? In the evening she- 
 would frequently see him again behind the scenes 
 or in one of the offices. Frequently they would 
 drive down together in her car. 
 
 Barbara, moreover, was not unschooled in the 
 science of intrigue; her conscience was a little 
 dulled by the hazards of her theatrical career. In 
 every instance it was she who made the advances, 
 she who was the more obstinate in the acceptance 
 
 of the established fact. Blinded as she was by 
 
 p 
 
226 HEARTBEAT 
 
 the sudden gflare of this new revelation, she never- 
 theless realised the need for caution. So far she 
 had not had time to focus the eventualities and 
 possibilities of the position, but she was instantly- 
 aware of its dangers and penalties. Her one 
 absorbing impulse was — not to let it slip away, to 
 hold this precious visitation and make the utmost 
 of it against the buffets of the world. To this 
 end she quickly realised that circumspection 
 would be essential. She must be cautious and 
 watchful, and not shatter the spectrum of this 
 heaven-sent light by any rash or foolish act. 
 
 Caleb at first was for doing the wise and proper 
 thing, but by the more pervading force of her 
 reliance upon his strength she gradually gained 
 the ascendancy over his resolves. 
 
 *' So long as it doesn^t go any further,'' was 
 the rampart of defence upon which he constantly 
 fell back. 
 
 At the same time, he knew in his heart of 
 hearts that the day would come when it would be 
 bound to go further. He adumbrated visions of 
 Platonic gestures, but the central fact of passion 
 was graven with no uncertain markings. She 
 was at that time a beautiful and desirable woman, 
 in the fullness of her development. In her 
 presence his idealism became a thing of dusty 
 theories. Life is a reality which springs surprises 
 upon us every day. Even what we think and 
 believe and pin our faith to to-day may be on the 
 shelf to-morrow, accumulating the dust. Oh, he 
 could argue himself out of it well enough, but 
 what of the morrow ? If he should awake to find 
 
HEARTBEAT 227 
 
 himself beyond the sound of her voice, away from 
 the perfume of her hair, shut off for ever from the 
 welcome of her eyes, what would brook the 
 noblest theories of the noblest theorists ? Let 
 Plato rage in hell, and Aristotle, Luther, and 
 Marcus hug their precious sophistries in what 
 dim corner of the universe the gods had placed 
 them ! He was alive, in Kensington, with an 
 April sun warming the spring-buds in his 
 employer's garden. And — soon she would be 
 there. 
 
 Above the passion which obsessed him his mind 
 brooded like a mother alarmed at a recalcitrant 
 child but unable to check its unexpected humours. 
 He analysed and introspected, and wavered 
 hesitatingly before the apparition; 
 
 Barbara had no such misgivings, or if she had 
 they were buried in a sub-conscious plane, 
 momentarily shelved by the urgency of more 
 pressing affairs. She was like an animal recog- 
 nising an atavistic tendency, and blindly consumed 
 by an uncontrollable desire to preserve it, 
 believing thereby to serve the primal instincts of 
 its type. What thinking she did was directed by 
 her sense of cunning and self-protection. In her 
 presence Caleb found himself a vast compendious 
 philosopher, with the heart of a child. Oh, it 
 was a joy to tell her little things, to watch the 
 eager parting of her lips, the eyes hungrily 
 absorbing his most trivial impression. Banalities 
 became important, generalisations a delicious 
 adventure, the hard facts of daily experience a 
 tender chronicle of mutual regard. And then 
 
 P2 
 
228 HEARTBEAT 
 
 the confidences which swung- backwards and 
 forwards — whither did they expect them to lead ? 
 
 The crisis came in a very commonplace way. 
 One evening, after tea, she went into the library. 
 She was dressed for going out. Caleb had his 
 back to her and he pretended to be absorbed in 
 his work. She crept up on tip toe, and in a 
 sudden whim put her arms round his head and 
 her hands over his eyes. Then she laughed, and 
 glanced at the desk. On it were books and 
 papers connected with the theatre, but in one 
 corner was an open copy of Browning. She 
 exclaimed : 
 
 '' Oh ! so this is the way you pretend to do your 
 work! The sack for you, Mr. Thirkettle.'' 
 
 The boy seized her two hands firmly and pulled 
 them down upon his breast; but he did not release 
 them. By this action her cheek was very near 
 his own. He replied : 
 
 " Please, madame, I was only reading about 
 you.*' 
 
 What was he reading about her ? The ques- 
 tion was not immediately answered, for their 
 cheeks touched. He felt her hair tickling his 
 temples, and it was more than he could endure. 
 He swung round on his seat, put his right arm 
 round her neck, and pulled her face to his. He 
 kissed her cheek, and mouth, and lips, and she 
 did not protest. When it was done they both 
 laughed self-consciously. She spoke first. 
 
 " What were you reading about me? " 
 
 He found it necessary to kiss her again in a 
 rather more prolonged manner before he replied : 
 
HEARTBEAT 229 
 
 *' You shall read it yourself/' 
 
 And he handed her the book opened at 
 *' Porphyria's Lover/' 
 
 Neither made any reference to the sudden 
 expression of passion. Barbara took the book 
 away and went and sat in a corner seat. She did 
 not look up until she had finished the poem. 
 Then she said : 
 
 '* What an extraordinary poem ! Why does it 
 make you think of me ? *' 
 
 Caleb stood up and walked towards her 
 stealthily. He sat down by her side and took 
 her hand. 
 
 '' I don't know. I always think of you as 
 Porphyria." 
 
 '' What docs it really mean, Caleb ? Why does 
 the man strangle her ? " 
 
 '' For the same reason that I want to strangle 
 you." 
 
 '* Oh, you mustn't do that. It would seem so 
 — so ungrateful, after we had been such good 
 friends. Besides, I should hate it. I don't want 
 to be strangled. No, no, not again " 
 
 She darted away from him with the book in her 
 hand. When some distance away, she read aloud 
 the last two lines : 
 
 And all night long we have not stirred. 
 And yet God has not said a word. 
 
 '' I like that. It's so — graphic, isn't it. Of 
 course, God never does say a word. He wouldn't 
 have said a word, whether the man strangled her 
 or not. Do you know what God does, Caleb ? 
 
230 HEARTBEAT 
 
 He sends messages to our door by a messenger, 
 and the messenger hands them in and says, 
 * There is no answer.' There never is an answer 
 to God/' 
 
 There were tears, born of a fierce excitement, 
 on the brink of her eyes. Suddenly she thrust out 
 her arms and said in a changed voice: '* What 
 are we going to do about this? '' 
 
 Caleb sat there staring at his feet. He was 
 ashamed, perplexed, and profoundly stirred. 
 
 '' It's got to be faced," he answered, not look- 
 ing up. ** It's been coming on so long. I'm a 
 cad, Barbara — a cad, an utter cad. I must go 
 away." 
 
 Like a flash she was upon him, her arms round 
 his neck, her lips pressed to his. 
 
 '' No, no, you can't do that. I want you, 
 Caleb. I love you." 
 
 From that moment they became lovers, lovers 
 without a plan or a policy, loving secretly and 
 furtively, without shame or misgiving, content 
 that for a few hours each day the world rewarded 
 them with the light of each other's presence. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Frolics still played to packed houses. At 
 that time a revue was being done called ** The 
 Baker's Dozen," the company having now 
 swelled to eleven people. The judicious some- 
 times murmured that ** George Champneys and 
 his company are nothing like they used to be in 
 
HEARTBEAT 231 
 
 the old days, when they did the whole show in 
 pierrot dress and practically no properties or 
 change of raiment/' but George knew the taste of 
 the groundlings, and he was out to please them. 
 He spent thousands of pounds on elaborate sets, 
 properties, illusions, and tricks of lighting. The 
 performance more closely resembled a pantomime 
 than an entertainment by a pierrot troupe. Rosie 
 Ventnor had gone, and her place was now taken 
 by the famous May Mendelssohn. In other 
 respects the cast had also been strengthened. But 
 as it happened, Barbara made an unexpected hit 
 with an Apache dance, which she danced with an 
 actor named Leonard Greer. The scene was a 
 dingy attic with weird lighting eflFects, and the 
 music, which had a haunting lilt, was by an 
 Austrian named Szolt. Greer was an excellent 
 dancer, and there was something about the com- 
 bination which excited Barbara indescribably. 
 With a red scarf round her head and a loose black 
 ulster over her pierrette frock, she threw herself 
 into the interpretation of the dance with great 
 abandon. The actions were extremely violent and 
 exhausting to the performers, Greer in the finale 
 picking her up and throwing her across his 
 shoulders; but the dance always brought down 
 the house, and had to be repeated. 
 
 '* What has happened to Fancy? " queried the 
 other members of the company. *' She seems to 
 have found herself.'' 
 
 George was frankly delighted and proud. He 
 went about saying to everyone : 
 
 " I say, have you seen Fancy's dance? " 
 
232 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Even the Press bestowed a measure of praise 
 upon the performance, and " Day by Day *' said : 
 ** In the Apache dance in the last act Miss Fancy 
 Telling and Mr. Leonard Greer proved them- 
 selves artistes considerably above the average 
 British terpsichorean standard/' Could enthu- 
 siasm go further ? To Caleb her explanation 
 was this : 
 
 ** When I do that dance I think of Porphyria. 
 She was like that. She had a dolt of a husband, 
 and she got fed up. One night she just went mad. 
 It was music or something which got her. 
 Music's a rum thing, the way it makes you some- 
 times feel you are yourself, only seventeen times 
 more so. You see, she was very keen on that 
 poor, lonely man and his ' cheerless grate.' She 
 went to a dance and danced like mad, but she 
 couldn't get the thought of him out of her head. 
 And so, suddenly, late at night, she just sneaked 
 out when no one was looking — her husband was 
 probably having a whisky-and-soda in the smoke- 
 room — she rushed through the rain and the sullen 
 wind to the poet's house, where he lived all alone. 
 She knew it was an awful thing to do. She burnt 
 her boats, you see. But it was worth while, 
 perhaps." 
 
 '* Perhaps it was," replied Caleb. 'Tt may be 
 we are only to take the strangling as a symbol, 
 suffocated by popular disapproval, eh? All the 
 same, I can't bring myself to like your Apache 
 dance." 
 
 '' Oh, but why, Caleb? " 
 
 *' I don't know. It's somehow you, and yet, as 
 
HEARTBEAT 233 
 
 you say, seventeen times yourself. It's the 
 savagest thing I've ever seen." 
 
 They were in the Hbrary at the time, and she 
 went up to him and pretended to bite the lobe of 
 his ear. 
 
 '' I am a savage," she retorted. 
 
 He pulled her down on to his knee and kissed 
 her. 
 
 '' This is getting horribly serious, darling," he 
 groaned. " What are we going to do ? " 
 
 " Be circumspect," she replied, snuggling her 
 cheek against his. 
 
 '* This is a good demonstration of it. Anyone 
 might come in at that door at any moment." 
 
 '* George is in town. There is no one else 
 likely to." 
 
 " It's the unlikely thing one has to watch. I 
 love you terribly." 
 
 Barbara left him and went to the window. In 
 the little garden clumps of pansies and tulips were 
 revelling in the April sunshine, a lilac bush w^as 
 a-bud. Suddenly she turned to him and said : 
 
 ** Where are your rooms? " 
 
 '* In the Fulham Road." 
 
 ** Why shouldn't we go there ? " 
 
 ** My dear, what were you saying about circum- 
 spection ? " 
 
 '* There's no harm in my calling on you at your 
 TQoms, is there ? " 
 
 '* I have a landlady." 
 
 ''Well, what about it? She wouldn't think 
 I'd come to murder you, would she ? " 
 
 '* No — no, I suppose she wouldn't. We might 
 
234 HEARTBEAT 
 
 be seen going in. You're famous, you know. 
 Fancy Telling." 
 
 '' Nobody lives in the Fulham Road." 
 
 ** All right, my dowager duchess. You'd be 
 shocked, though. It's an awful little hole." 
 
 ** I'd be happier there with you, Caleb, than in 
 any dowager duke's mansion." 
 
 '^ You darling! " 
 
 And so, the following day Barbara Champneys 
 called on Caleb Thirkettle at his rooms in the 
 Fulham Road, and no one saw them go in, and 
 no one saw them come out; neither did anyone 
 know what transpired in the rooms. They were 
 dingy. There was a small sitting-room, over- 
 crowded with heavy mid-Victorian furniture, 
 and the room connected by a folding-door with a 
 bedroom slightly larger. 
 
 V. 
 
 In talking of *' spiritual Nemesis " Caleb soon 
 became aware that he was submitting himself to 
 the position of being hoist of his own petard. 
 His conscience was on the rack. Every day he 
 became more deeply in love with her, and the 
 more he loved her the more troubled he became. 
 He was a cad to George, a cad to his wife, and 
 an unspeakable cad to his two young girls. 
 Somehow the latter case affected him most. He 
 had no particular regard for George, not a great 
 deal for his wife; but the children — who were at 
 present in the charge of a sister-in-law — were 
 
HEARTBEAT 235 
 
 dependent upon him and his good name. More- 
 over they adored him, and although they were 
 too young to tmderstand any marital complica- 
 tion, they were old enough to hug the illusion of 
 a devoted mummy and daddy. If he left Gracie 
 in the lurch it would bring unutterable distress 
 upon all three. The grim question of money had 
 also to be considered. Barbara had no private 
 means, and he was entirely dependent upon his 
 salary. If they ran away he might find it very 
 difficult to get another situation, and Barbara 
 had been accustomed all her life to every 
 luxury and refinement. He could not possibly 
 desert the children, or leave Gracie to keep 
 them. 
 
 The position was impossible. The love which 
 had come to them both at last, ablaze with the 
 fine flowers of idealism and true passion, could 
 never be anything other than a sordid intrigue. 
 In this respect the attitude of Barbara surprised 
 him. She gave no evidence of the slightest 
 shame or remorse. She was a complete 
 intriguer. She brought to bear in the matter a 
 degree of cunning which astounded him. Down 
 at the theatre she was just friendly and a little 
 formal. In the house, when others were about, 
 it was the same. But when they were alone — ^he 
 could have verified Isabel's comment : 
 
 *' You're a passionate little devil. A man 
 could have a good time with you.'* 
 
 They ranged through moods of playfulness and 
 passionate disputations. Although her mind 
 was less tutored than his, he found her easy and 
 
236 HEARTBEAT 
 
 companionable to talk to, probably because she 
 had tasted the stuff we call real life. She made 
 shrewd and surprising conclusions, and would 
 sometimes jump an obstacle which baffled him 
 by the aid of her intuitions. In reverting to the 
 culpability of their unholy liaison, she always 
 adhered to the primitive excuse : 
 
 " We're not doing anyone any harm. It's our 
 affair. Something tells me that love like ours 
 can't be wicked." 
 
 Caleb found it difficult to answer this satis- 
 factorily, particularly as the solution would 
 involve the honour and the character of Barbara 
 herself. And so he compromised, and the 
 summer months slipped by. Every day he came 
 to the house, and two or three times a week she 
 visited him at his rooms. Sometimes they would 
 take the car and dash down into the country, for 
 a few hours' ramble over the Surrey hills. And 
 they would sit in the bracken, and talk of God, 
 and life, and poets, and the mystery of sex, 
 nations, personality, destiny, restaurants, stage- 
 chatter, books, love, and so back to God again. 
 And except for restaurant and stage-chatter, 
 Barbara appeared not to have talked of these 
 things before. She was a spiritual opportunist, 
 making a religion of her own as she went along. 
 The more she yielded to the claims of this illicit 
 passion, the more alert did she appear to religious 
 suggestion. She wanted to know all about God, 
 and the why and wherefore of existence, and in 
 this regard Caleb was as much an experimenter 
 as herself, except that he had covered more 
 
HEARTBEAT 237 
 
 ground. He described himself as an agnostic, 
 with a sneaking regard for theosophy and a con- 
 firmed belief in reincarnation. When she asked 
 him the value of reincarnation, he replied : 
 
 " Because it confirms my faith in there being 
 no such thing as retrogression. If you believe 
 in physical evolution, you must believe in spiritual 
 evolution. Everything is emerging — going 
 forward." 
 
 '' But,'' said Barbara, '' how about when you 
 see a man start decently and then go to pot ? *' 
 
 '* He has emerged from a lower type still. 
 The fact that he started life decently may 
 show that he is improving. In the next reincar- 
 nation he may hold out as a decent chap to the 
 end." 
 
 Barbara shook her head. She was not 
 enamoured of reincarnation. 
 
 " It seems to wipe out such a thing as heredity, 
 for instance." 
 
 *' Wouldn't you have it wiped out? " quickly 
 retorted Caleb. " We are too apt to look at 
 things in terms of duality, whereas everything is 
 a trinity." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 ** There is action, and reaction, and then the 
 spirit it evokes. If you study mathematics, you 
 find that everything is in threes." 
 
 '' The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost." 
 
 '' Precisely. You cannot talk of the Father 
 without first postulating the Son, and so the 
 Spirit is produced." 
 
 '* Now, come down to earth, Caleb darling. 
 
238 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Assuming that my father treated my mother 
 badly, are not his sins visited upon me ? *' 
 
 *' Nothing is visited upon you except physical 
 attributes, and even these only by suggestion. 
 You are an independent spirit, with an indepen- 
 dent chain of existence to work out.*' 
 
 '' That's rather jolly, but it sounds so lonely. 
 Nature seems beastly cruel.'* 
 
 ** Nature is, but Nature and God are not the 
 same thing. God is rather a reaction against 
 Nature. Nature is a kind of wild profligate. It 
 is picking up the pieces and putting them in order 
 which is God.'' 
 
 VI. 
 
 In those days she was studiously charming to 
 George. The large comedian had arrived at a 
 position of static security at the top of the tree, 
 both professionally and socially. His popularity 
 had never been greater, his wealth more soundly 
 invested, his home life more comfortable and 
 satisfying. The staff had settled down, and his 
 dear Fancy was always there in the niche he had 
 designed for her. He had only to whistle and lo 1 
 she answered his bidding. For the rest, his days 
 were filled with pleasant activities, in which 
 universal adulation of himself played a con- 
 spicuous part. He sometimes drank a little more 
 whisky than was wise for him, and in the morn- 
 ing his pulmonary organs were invariably con- 
 gested and wheezy; but for the most part his 
 health remained good. Moreover, his affection 
 
HEARTBEAT 239 
 
 for Fancy increased. He observed that during 
 the last month or so she had been much more 
 tractable and friendly, much less touchy, and — 
 less ungetatable; he was proud, too, of the success 
 she had made with the Apache dance. George 
 had never found her so adorable. He cherished 
 a supreme hope that perhaps, after all, his Fancy 
 was going to fall in love with him. As to any 
 suspicion concerning herself and Caleb, he never 
 gave the matter a second's consideration. Ban- 
 stead said to him one night in the dressing-room : 
 
 '' I say, old boy, that young Thirkettle's sweet 
 on your wife.*' 
 
 Not even then did he feel the slightest appre- 
 hension. He laughed and said : 
 
 *' Oh! is that so? I hadn't noticed it. Poor 
 Fancy ! " 
 
 He did not even enquire upon what Banstead 
 based his suspicion, but the producer — not with- 
 out reasons of his own — followed it up. 
 
 ** You've only got to watch his face when he's 
 looking at her. It's my business to read faces." 
 
 George smiled indulgently and dismissed the 
 matter from his mind. Certainly, later in the 
 evening, he did detect Caleb regarding his wife 
 with an adoring, dog-like expression. Instantly 
 he glanced at Barbara. Her face was tranquil, 
 almost cold and expressionless. 
 
 '* Poor old Thirk ! " he reflected, and prepared 
 for his cue. It was nothing. These little wayside 
 infatuations were common to the whole order of 
 his experience. Why, even he — yes, even since 
 he was married — happily married — he occasion- 
 
240 HEARTBEAT 
 
 ally. ... It meant nothing, nothing at all — 
 
 unless the attraction was reciprocated to the full. 
 
 And look at Barbara ! Not much chance of that. 
 
 In three minutes' time he was singing : 
 
 " Oh, tny ! Hold me down ! 
 My wife's gone away till Monday ! " 
 
 In Spite of Barbara's extreme circumspection 
 and George's obtuseness, the lovers did not, how- 
 ever, escape the breath of scandal. It would have 
 been a miracle if they had. Annette had her 
 shrewd suspicions, and one of the parlour-maids 
 had entered the library at an unfortunate moment. 
 Whilst the long arm of coincidence was stretched 
 forth by the call-boy's aunt, who lived a little 
 further down the Fulham Road, and on two 
 occasions saw Caleb and Barbara coming out, 
 recognising Miss Telling at once through the 
 good fortune of having, on occasions, had free 
 seats given her. Thus was Barbara's contention 
 that '' no one lived in the Fulham Road " com- 
 pletely discountenanced. The call-boy's aunt told 
 the call-boy, who told one of the stage-hands, 
 who passed it on to the assistant stage-manager. 
 From there the story passed by easy stages to 
 the whole company, increasing a little in force 
 at every repetition. Everybody began to know 
 that there was an affair going on between Fancy 
 Telling and the Chief's secretary: everybody 
 except George. You have to be on very intimate 
 terms with a man to hint to him that his wife is 
 unfaithful. No one was in this position except 
 Banstead, who foresaw the possibilities of a little 
 sexual blackmail. His attempts in this direction 
 
HEARTBEAT 241 
 
 did not, however, meet with the success he antici- 
 pated. He ensnared her into one of the offices 
 by a subterfuge, and then tried to put across 
 the strong, masterful stuff which had almost 
 succeeded before. But on this occasion he 
 received a violent slap on the mouth. It hurt 
 him, and he winced. Drawing back, he growled : 
 " Hold on, you little wild-cat ! I suppose you 
 think it isn't known about you and young 
 Thirkettle.'' 
 
 Barbara was staggered. She certainly had no 
 suspicion that it was known. She turned pale, 
 and blurted out : 
 
 " What are you talking about ? '* 
 Banstead saw that the blow had gone home. 
 He shifted his ground a little. 
 
 '' Come, be decent. I have no wish to tell your 
 husband.'* 
 
 The implied threat stung her to a fury. 
 " Tell and be damned to you ! " she snapped, 
 and she raised her hands like a kitten's claws, 
 ready to strike. Her eyes blazed. She strode 
 with tense deliberation towards the door. Grip- 
 ping the handle, she hissed at him : 
 
 " Get out of the theatre, you dirty cad! 
 When she had gone, Banstead whistled. 
 " Didn't come off, old boy," he said to him- 
 self. He was not, however, unduly perturbed. 
 She had no authority to turn him out of the 
 theatre, and he knew that she would never report 
 the matter to George. If she started stirring up 
 mud of that description, even George might 
 become suspicious. On the other hand, he had 
 
 Q 
 
 ft 
 
242 HEARTBEAT 
 
 warned his Chief, and he could go no further. 
 There was no proof, and George would only 
 resent these insinuations. For the moment it 
 might be considered a drawn battle. He had 
 frightened her, and hurt her feelings ; but she had 
 given him a jar to his vanity, and a swollen lip. 
 
 From that day greater circumspection than 
 ever was employed; on the other hand, they were 
 both under a closer scrutiny. At the theatre they 
 avoided each other entirely, but in the house they 
 felt fairly free when George was out, but a little 
 nervy of sounds and knocks. Not having the 
 personal acquaintance of the call-boy's aunt, and 
 not being aware that the first rumour came from 
 that direction, they were less circumspect regard- 
 ing the visits to the Fulham Road. Once there, 
 they felt perfectly safe and free. George did not 
 even know the address, and Caleb's wife was on a 
 summer tour in the North. Love laughs at lock- 
 smiths and even landladies, and is seldom down- 
 hearted at anything except deliberate frustration. 
 Barbara did not tell Caleb about Banstead, but 
 she hinted that there were rumours going about, 
 and they must be more careful. Caleb by this 
 time had subdued his moral misgivings. In the 
 light of his mistress's eyes all was right with the 
 world. The position was tragic but inevitable. 
 He would get on, and by some means or other 
 make money, and then they would run away. 
 They would both get divorced, and then one day 
 he would be the lawful husband of his darling 
 Barbara. But of course he would always con- 
 tinue to keep the two children, and would com- 
 
% 
 
 HEARTBEAT 243 
 
 pensate Gracie in some way or the other. Grade 
 was warm-hearted but shallow-minded. She 
 would soon adapt herself to the new conditions — 
 probably marry again. Oh ! it would be all right 
 in the end. If only one were not eternally 
 haunted by — the element of crisis. 
 
 Some shadow of it came to Barbara one wet 
 evening in July. It was Sunday, and she had 
 been forced to spend the evening at home, as 
 George wanted her to help entertain a party of 
 his friends. They had left early, as they came 
 from a distance. 
 
 When they had gone she went up to her 
 dressing-room and changed into a peignoir. She 
 was feeling tired, and a little anxious. She looked 
 at herself in the mirror, and noted the pallor of 
 her cheeks and the little rings beneath her eyes. 
 For some reason or other, she put some lip-salve 
 on her lips, sighed, and then removed it. She 
 walked across the room and rang for Annette. 
 When the French maid arrived, she said : 
 
 ^' Annette, will you go and ask the master if 
 he will come and see me for a minute. Fm going 
 to bed. Fm rather tired.*' 
 
 ** Parfaitement, madame." 
 
 The mirror had a curious attraction for her. 
 She turned her face this way and that, and sighed 
 again. *' I shall have to tell him. I might as well 
 get it over.'* 
 
 George came into the room, puffily solicitous. 
 
 '* Well, old girl? *' 
 
 ** George, Fm afraid I shall have to cut that 
 Apache dance." 
 
 Q2 
 

 244 HEARTBEAT 
 
 '' All right, old girl; as you like. It's been 
 going some time. Weather too hot for you ? " 
 
 " It's not that/' 
 What is it, then, dear ? '' 
 I'm going to have a child." 
 
 The earth rocked under the clamour of this 
 calm, terrific statement. She had done it, and 
 there was nothing to dread except the humidity 
 of his acceptance. She saw his large, somnolent 
 face suddenly alive with the signs of startled 
 vitahty. It shook like a pink blanc-mange. His 
 eyes expressed amazement, fear, joy, and — worst 
 of all — adoration. Then they seemed to ;melt 
 and die away, as he murmured : 
 
 ** Fancy — darling — thank God! " 
 
 The fool ! He was blubbing — the worst thing 
 that could have happened. A big man blubbing 
 and blubbering like a child ! What did he want 
 to blub for ? What had he got to thank God for ? 
 Who was God ? What was God ? Caleb had said 
 that it was picking up the pieces and putting them 
 in order. Nature was a profligate. Quite true. 
 Oh, but she couldn't stand this. He was 
 advancing upon her, holding her in his arms. His 
 tears were wetting his cheeks. He was 
 murmuring : 
 
 *' Fancy darling, this will make all the differ- 
 ence. We shall be so happy. You shall come out 
 of the bill and rest. You shall have the best of 
 everything : nurses, specialists — a lovelv place to 
 go to — everything; nothing shall be spared." 
 She choked hoarsely : 
 '' I shall be all right. I don't want all that." 
 

 HEARTBEAT 245 
 
 Everything he did made it more difficult. His 
 sentimentaHty would kill her, and she couldn't 
 afford to die — yet. So difficult to keep one's 
 head. She assumed uncontrollable fatigue and 
 eased away from him. 
 
 I must go to bed now." 
 Yes, yes, yes, of course, of course. I will 
 help you; lean on me — dear old girl." 
 
 Would it never be possible to rid herself of his 
 protestations, all this while, all these months to 
 come ? In bed she hung limply, and turned 
 away. It was only her demand for Annette 
 which finally brought about his departure. 
 When he had gone she set her teeth and said : 
 *' I will not cry. I hate him. Why did he want 
 to go on like that ? " 
 
 Sternly she thought of Caleb, and of their love 
 — of the days to come. But she was tired, very, 
 very tired, and a little unstrung. George had 
 looked so big, and helpless, and babyish, and 
 appealing, standing there, so pathetic and piti- 
 able. Oh, it was cruel, horribly cruel; and she 
 did not want to be cruel, not even to George. 
 Suddenly the tears came, whipped into being by 
 the torture of her husband's image. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The appearances are always with us, the riot and 
 the record of chronicled events, the unctuous 
 pronunciamenti of ordered authority, the awards 
 and penalties of standardised codes, honours for 
 the worthy and the lash for the unsuccessful. 
 
246 HEARTBEAT 
 
 virtue and vice clothed in fustian, strutting before 
 an audience hidden by a glare of light, the big 
 band playing, with the crash of cymbal and the 
 beat of drum. 
 
 But real life moves onwards to a muffled beat, 
 paying little heed to the appearances. Action 
 and reaction and the spirit evoked, its roots 
 buried deep in the illusion of time. The child 
 unborn is building the temple which the work- 
 men have deserted. The tears which a woman 
 shed long ago are watering the flowers of to- 
 morrow's celebration. It is the tyrant who 
 forges the chains of freedom; the outcast who 
 instructs us in the precise interpretation of civic 
 laws. Memory, like a withered leaf, is lightly 
 blown away; but through the twisted years the 
 horror and the ecstasy come tumbling upon us, 
 and we know them as our own. That life we call 
 our own is not a chronicle of events, but an inter- 
 action of conflicting periods. The metallic 
 records of a king are as brittle and unreal as the 
 coloured baubles on a Christmas-tree. The 
 nearer we get to life, more muted become the 
 strings, more elusive the word upon the tablet. 
 All the tenderness and sweetness is a heritage we 
 pass along; all the bitterness and anguish is a 
 mortgage upon our spiritual estate. We share 
 it with these others stretching out their hands to 
 us through the darkness. The profligacy of 
 Nature is so great that its very abundance would 
 defeat its own ends, but for the fact that there 
 is a force always at work checking it, demand- 
 ing more sharply-defined contours to the speci- 
 
HEARTBEAT 247 
 
 mens evolved, more closely woven fibre to the 
 material produced. And this force demands not 
 merely growth but a definiteness of form, with 
 crisis and accent; as though it were obeying a 
 Draconic law that ordains all things to be made 
 in the image of something, or in a reflection of 
 that image. Our consciousness pivots upon the 
 recognition of our propinquity to the form we 
 are ordained to complete. A buffalo is not 
 conscious of the clumsiness of its form, nor does 
 its conscience smart when it has stolen a choice 
 root from a weaker brother. Man, being nearer 
 to a more perfected form, is conscious of it. He 
 sees himself, and the nearness and the littleness 
 of his perfections. Moreover, he sees above him 
 and beyond him the solidity of his development, 
 with its accents and crises. 
 
 The crisis which came to Barbara was the 
 inevitable chisel-mark of the sculptor who had 
 been preparing his form for just this accent. 
 That she had contributed to its fashioning goes 
 without saying, but that it was only a contribu- 
 tion who shall deny? The conception of 
 absolute free-will is the pleasant illusion of moral 
 policemen. It is the negation of man's place in 
 evolution. It dismisses all complexes and 
 physical reactions. The appearances demand it, 
 but the heart denies it; and the human heart has 
 always been surer in its touch than the human 
 brain. In short, man is not yet far enough 
 advanced to have free-will. 
 
 Barbara's early life had been an obscure 
 passage of inhibitions, with their violent 
 
248 HEARTBEAT 
 
 reactions. Her natural impulses had been 
 thwarted, less by decrees than by implications 
 which bewildered her. From the very first she 
 was conscious of being spiritually starved, of 
 having to build her own world furtively, and with- 
 out assistance. No one told her anything. The 
 discovery of the truth about her mother stung 
 her to the quick. She turned to the world with 
 open arms, asking for pity. It seemed to her 
 the moment for pity; but the world shrugged its 
 shoulders and labelled her a social pariah. Then 
 she became a little heady and reckless. The gay 
 allurements of the theatrical world, which had 
 been her mother's, attracted her. Even here dis- 
 illusionment dogged her footsteps. She learnt 
 that everything has its price, even beauty. She 
 became embittered after that, but still hungry 
 for she knew not what — some inner satisfaction, 
 perhaps. Then one day she met George. She 
 liked him, and he was rich. Inexperienced in the 
 values of love, she plunged into the desperate 
 experiment. Had he not promised to teach her 
 all there was to know of love ? She realised with 
 him only what love might be. And she realised 
 that it not only might but must be the most 
 wonderful thing in the world, and she had missed 
 it ! Missed it, and cut off her chances for ever ! 
 
 She was young, and she did not utterly despair; 
 but she became less fine. Pleasant compensa- 
 tions were easily to hand, and the years drifted 
 on. It was always her heart which cried out for 
 finer things; her brain which said: 
 
 '* Don't be a fool. Have a good time.*' 
 
HEARTBEAT 249 
 
 She observed George becoming more and more 
 material, more and more repulsive. There were 
 times when it was almost impossible not to 
 express her physical loathing of his contact. 
 Beyond that, she realised that he was an empty 
 husk. His ideas were centred on himself, his 
 theatre, his money, his wife. She saw her life in 
 perspective, its past and its future, and she began 
 to be desperate. A child might have saved her, 
 but no child came. Everything was dark, and 
 melancholy stalked in the gay appearances. 
 
 And then, just when everything was blackest, 
 came Caleb, offering her everything which the 
 lessons of her experience had taught her to be of 
 value. Can it be said that she did more than con- 
 tribute to the crisis which she herself knew to 
 be inevitable from the very first ? 
 
 Blinding in its suddenness, horrible in its effect, 
 and enduring in its result, she nevertheless nur- 
 tured a sneaking welcome to the first sounds of 
 its coming. She had reached a position that was 
 intolerable. What part Julius Banstead played 
 in the careful staging of the denouement it is 
 impossible to say. Beyond a known interview 
 with the call-boy's aunt, nothing is known of his 
 personal machinations. Being a clever producer, 
 one may assume that he did not rush the action 
 of the tragedy, and that he chose the actors best 
 suited to their parts. Doubtless he enjoyed the 
 subtle construction of his design, and rejoiced 
 in the sure sense of his technical equipment. The 
 complete success of that culminating crisis must 
 have thrilled him to the marrow. 
 
250 HEARTBEAT 
 
 The last week in July Caleb had gone away for 
 
 a fortnight's holiday. He went with laggard feet, 
 
 for the interruption took him from his love. 
 
 Gracie was then in Ireland, and her sister and 
 
 husband were taking the two children down to 
 
 Swanage. There was no excuse for his not 
 
 joining them. He was fond of the children, and 
 
 he had neglected them of late. His first letter 
 
 was couched in this strain : 
 
 Darling,, — 
 
 I am seated in a little garden looking down into 
 Swanage Bay, where wliite sails flitter hither and thither in 
 an opalescent haze of sea and sky. Hollyhocks stare at 
 me over the low, stone wall, and the tender green of 
 tamarisks fades away into the yellow sands below. The 
 sun is always shining, and at night a pale moon looms 
 disconsolately above the sea like a wistful mother. And it 
 is all hideous. At least, I don't mean hideous — I mean 
 empty. It is beautiful and adorable, but empty and mean- 
 ingless. Oh ! my dear, my dear. I sit here at night, all 
 alone in the empty garden, thinking of you, wanting you, 
 aching for you. It is all a setting, and no more; an empty 
 stage. It is only love which brings it all to life. How 
 beastly it is — our luck. It makes one feel that the fall of 
 man was a matter of inexperience rather than conscious 
 wickedness. We were both unwise, but, God in Heaven ! 
 we didn't mean to be wicked. We both yearned for beauty, 
 and because we had not seen it, we took the reflection for 
 the reality. And now that we have seen the reality and 
 hold it within our grasp, we are paralysed by the cruelty 
 its acceptance may bring to others. I play with the 
 children on the shore, and their love and trust shame me, 
 because I am always thinking of other children — yours and 
 mine. Getting through the days is a torture. In town one 
 does not feel it so much. Even when I do not see you I 
 know that you may appear at any moment. Barbara, I love 
 you, and nothing can ever take that from me. 
 
 Your own 
 
 Caleb. 
 
HEARTBEAT 251 
 
 Barbara replied in a similar but briefer strain, 
 and these letters passed two at a time every day 
 for the week. On the Saturday Caleb received a 
 telegram : 
 
 G. going away Sunday morning till Monday evening. 
 
 On Saturday night Caleb arrived home at his 
 rooms in the Fulham Road for the week-end. At 
 eleven o'clock on the Sunday morning he rang 
 Barbara up. Yes, Mrs. Champneys was at home; 
 he should be put through to her. Barbara's dear 
 voice. Everything satisfactory. George had just 
 gone off with Ebbway in the car to Walmer. 
 They were going to play golf; would not be back 
 till just in time for the show the next night. Well, 
 where should they meet ? Oh, Barbara would 
 call for him. She was there within the hour. 
 They lunched somewhere, neither was quite sure 
 where, and in the afternoon they motored to 
 Pangbourne, and went on the river in a skiff. 
 They would have preferred a punt, but neither 
 knew how to punt, and so Caleb rowed and they 
 tied up under the willows, and five hours slipped 
 by before they had had time to recount all the 
 important things that had happened during the 
 week's separation. The river was rather crowded, 
 and a rowing-boat is not the most comfortable 
 thing to lie in, and so, shortly after six, they 
 returned to town. 
 
 ** I feel extravagant,'* said Barbara. *' Let's 
 dine somewhere jolly. I'll pay." 
 
 She laughed, and Caleb laughed. Money was 
 such a contemptible thing in the scale of their 
 
252 HEARTBEAT 
 
 love. They were always candid about it, and 
 Barbara was so much richer than he. 
 
 They dined at an expensive but rather secluded 
 restaurant in Vigo Street, and drank champagne. 
 They sat for a long time over their dinner, 
 exchanging eternal intimacies, and flashing 
 messages with their eyes and hands. At last 
 Barbara said : 
 
 '' Well, we must go.'' 
 
 He nodded. '' Right you are. I'll see you 
 home." 
 
 They went out and hailed a taxi. Caleb looked 
 at her meaningly and repeated: ''I'll see you 
 home." 
 
 She nodded, and Caleb turned to the driver and 
 said: 
 
 " 1 w^ant you to drive to the Fulham Road. 
 Go straight down. I'll tell you where to stop." 
 
 They got into the cab, and Barbara remarked : 
 
 '' You are a little devil ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The mise-cn-scene for the climax was not chosen 
 with any regard to aesthetic considerations. 
 Caleb's rooms were dingy, badly-lighted, and not 
 even too clean. Smells of ancient cooking per- 
 vaded the staircase. In other respects the place 
 was suitable enough. 
 
 In the first place, the landlady and her husband 
 had gone out to a supper-party, and some lodgers 
 who lived on ,the top floor were unknown to 
 
HEARTBEAT 253 
 
 Caleb, and seldom visible. To all intents and 
 . purposes they had the house to themselves. They 
 entered the sitting-room, and Caleb turned on 
 the light and locked the door. Then he took her 
 in his arms. The embrace was of the prolonged, 
 silent kind. When it came to an end, Barbara 
 sighed and took off her hat. In the corner by 
 the window was a box ottoman, with some 
 cushions. Caleb said: 
 
 *' Come, let's sit down.'' 
 
 She sat a little timidly on the edge of the 
 ottoman, and he sat by her side. Suddenly 
 he remarked : 
 
 '' I don't think we need the light." 
 
 He went and turned it off, and then returned 
 to her, and they made themselves more comfort- 
 able in the darkness. There had been no in- 
 decision in all these actions. Each seemed to know 
 that everything was predetermined. Even that 
 which followed, the passionate manifestation of 
 mutual desire, was deliberate, as though con- 
 ceived in an impatient presentiment. Swanage 
 Bay was a poor place compared with the dingy 
 room in the Fulham Road. The possessive sense 
 was soothed. She dozed at last, in a sweet luxury 
 of fatigue, and Caleb listened to her gentle 
 breathing. 
 
 Suddenly she started. He felt the white chill of 
 fear about her. 
 
 " What's that ? " 
 
 There was a sound on the stairs outside. Quite 
 true. It was his business as a man to calm her. 
 
 " It's nothing, darling. The people upstairs, I 
 
254 HEARTBEAT 
 
 expect/* Then he added, in a whisper: '* The 
 door's locked, anyway/' 
 
 There were footsteps in the passage. Some- 
 how the terror was contagious. Of course it was 
 only the people from upstairs. Barbara must not 
 be alarmed; that was the first consideration. But, 
 God ! what was this inevitable premonition of 
 horror ? Why did it seem such a vivid and fore- 
 boding fatality that, although he had locked the 
 sitting-room door, he had forgotten to lock the 
 bedroom door, and the folding-doors between the 
 two were open ? Why didn't he dash across even 
 now and lock it? — and frighten Barbara? No, 
 no, it was all foolish. In another second he would 
 hear the sounds dying away. 
 
 The handle turned. Someone had entered the 
 bedroom. Barbara was sitting up, clutching him 
 fearfully. 
 
 " What is it, Caleb ? Who is it ? " 
 
 And still he could not move. The crisis had 
 come and he lay there, as in a coma, watching 
 its development. There was no electric light, but 
 a match was struck in the next room. Two figures 
 appeared at the opening of the folding doors. 
 
 They were George and Ebbway. 
 
 Someone said : '' My Christ ! " and the match 
 went out. 
 
 They had all seen each other. Ebbway struck 
 another match and advanced into the room to 
 light the gas. His face was white and he was 
 trembling like a leaf. George remained by the 
 folding doors. Barbara was still seated, making 
 ineffectual dabs at her disordered hair. Caleb 
 
I 
 
 HEARTBEAT 255 
 
 stood with his back to the window, looking like 
 a murderer condemned to death. The incan- 
 descent gas cast a cold, greenish light over the 
 room, and made all their faces appear ghastly. 
 The atmosphere of guilt swathed the actors with 
 a weird mantle of inertia. There was nothing to 
 be said or done. 
 
 After lighting the gas Ebbway drew back and 
 stood near George, as though following his tra- 
 ditional habit of giving up stage-centre to his 
 chief. It was a position which the famous come- 
 dian appeared unable to take advantage of. He 
 put his hand to his heart; his breath came with 
 difficulty. 
 
 He gave a kind of whimper: '^ Fancy *' 
 
 and then stopped. His face shook, and tears 
 started to his eyes. He appeared to grow sud- 
 denly old, all the purposes and desires of his being 
 mangled by a glance. He was a finished man, 
 broken and pitiable. 
 
 Barbara saw all this, and a profound pity for 
 him' crept into her eyes. Poor old George ! She 
 could not have controlled the feeling, whatever 
 the circumstances, but almost instantly she 
 remembered his saying : 
 
 " The one thing I won't have is your pity. 
 When a man wants love, and he gets only pity, 
 it drives him mad." 
 
 The words danced through her memory as she 
 saw his face change. Her pity robbed him of 
 the last shred of hope. He was no longer a man, 
 no longer a lover, but a madman. He who was, 
 by nature, a possessor was robbed of his greatest 
 
256 HEARTBEAT 
 
 possession. Into that one moment there crowded 
 all the spoiled impulses of his life, multiplying 
 self-pity. As happens with a weak man in a 
 crisis, his egotism was the controlling force. He 
 was blinded by the cumulative disappointments 
 and disillusions, and this last disillusion of all 
 acted upon him as he had predicted. It fired him 
 with a gleam of insanity. For a second he 
 rushed at her, as though about to strike her. He 
 raised his arms above his head, then stopped and 
 shivered; saliva oozed around his lips. He 
 screamed at her in hoarse, rough accents, in 
 which the Lancashire note was evident : 
 
 '' Get out of it — ye bloody prostitute ! *' 
 
 Barbara slunk against the wall and whimpered. 
 Her terror was entirely physical. She was pre- 
 pared to duck and flee if he attacked her. And 
 it was not her own life which this instinct 
 prompted her to protect. She had got beyond 
 all that. She must get away, somehow — any- 
 how, before he destroyed that other life for 
 which she was responsible. She slunk by a side- 
 board, watching him alertly. At the same 
 instant she heard Caleb's voice : 
 
 '' Oh, no, not that, not that ! '' 
 
 The distraction caused George to turn away, 
 and she reached the door. Another moment and 
 she would have been through it, when her pro- 
 gress was stayed by the sounds of a falling chair. 
 George seemed to have observed Caleb for the 
 first time — the man who had robbed him of his 
 most precious possession. With a growl he 
 lurched towards him and grabbed at the other's 
 
HEARTBEAT 257 
 
 throat. In a normal fight the odds would have 
 been about equal. George was heavier, taller, 
 and stronger, but on the other hand Caleb was 
 nimbler and in better condition. One blow over 
 the heart would probably have crumpled the 
 older man up. But George was fired with the 
 fury of a maniac, and Caleb was defending him- 
 self with the nervelessness of a guilty man. In 
 Caleb's eyes George's anger was justifiable, and 
 he could only protect himself. The confined 
 space and the congested furniture played their 
 part in the brief struggle. George fell over a 
 chair, but in falling he managed to grip the 
 other's throat, and they both crashed against a 
 cabinet on which were china vases. Ebbway was 
 crying out : 
 
 '' Don't ! Don't ! For God's sake ! " 
 Before he could get near to part them, they 
 had fallen in a heap amongst smashed vases. 
 Blood was let on either side, and there was a 
 feral growling and groping for primitive 
 weapons. It was impossible to see exactly what 
 took place in that ugly minute. By the time 
 Barbara had reached them, Ebbway was pulling 
 George away, and Caleb was coughing in a queer, 
 unnatural way, a kind of inside choking cough. 
 Ebbway exerted all his strength and managed to 
 pull George back on to the ottoman. He 
 continued to shout : 
 
 '' For God's sake! For God's sake! " 
 George fell among the cushions, which a few 
 minutes earlier had been the playground of a 
 different passion. His passion being sated 
 
 R 
 
258 HEARTBEAT 
 
 momentarily, the wave of insanity also passed. 
 His hand was cut, and he groaned aloud : 
 
 *' Throw the into the street/' 
 
 But Ebbway was kneeling over the fallen boy, 
 about whose neck was an ugly gash. 
 
 '* My God! *' Ebbway was saying, ** get 
 someone — a doctor, quick ! '* 
 
 Two scared people appeared at the door, the 
 lodgers from upstairs. It was Barbara who 
 dashed out into the street, calling out to the first 
 person she met : 
 
 ''A doctor! quick! Where's the nearest 
 doctor ? *' 
 
 It was nearly twenty minutes before a doctor 
 was found. When he arrived with Barbara, 
 there was a crowd outside the house, and two 
 policemen were in charge. The doctor, a quiet, 
 elderly man, went calmly to work. He knelt upon 
 the floor, and the only remark he made was : 
 
 *' This is a case for the mortuary." 
 
 Barbara screamed, and Ebbway put his arm 
 around her. 
 
 " Courage, Mrs. Champneys. It*s all right! 
 it's all right ! " 
 
 He patted her hands, and coaxed her. 
 George's interest in her had subsided. He was 
 lying back on the ottoman, nursing his bleeding 
 hand. His large eyes were transfixed, staring 
 obliquely at the huddled form upon the floor. 
 Suddenly he exclaimed : 
 
 '' By Christ! they'll hang me! *' 
 
 It was again Ebbway's mission to act as 
 comforter. He patted the big man's shoulder. 
 
HEARTBEAT 259 
 
 *' No, no, old boy. Don't you be frightened. 
 It was an accident. I saw it all. You never 
 meant to kill him. He fell on the vase.'' 
 
 Then, as a masterly after-thought : 
 
 ** A man is always justified in defending his 
 wife's honour." 
 
 The scene became an unwieldy phantasma- 
 goria. Strange faces came and went, unreal 
 people with notebooks and solemn, official 
 manner. Questions were asked, and incoherently 
 answered. She and George never looked at each 
 other. 
 
 '* I can't stand this any longer," she suddenly 
 thought. The desire to escape became an obses- 
 sion. She crept out of the room and went down- 
 stairs. There was a policeman in the hall. She 
 drifted by him to the kitchen stairs, as though 
 waiting for someone. When he was not looking 
 she stole down into the kitchen. The basement 
 was deserted. She let herself out into the side 
 passage, which connected with the tiny front 
 garden. She walked calmly through the crowd of 
 people outside the gate. When she came to the 
 first turning she ran. She was whimpering like 
 a dog that has been thrashed. Where was she to 
 go ? She had no money, not even her hat. She 
 would never, never go back to George's house 
 at Kensington. Perhaps they would put her in 
 gaol. What did it matter ? Suddenly she thought 
 of Isabel. Isabel was living, at that time, in 
 lodgings at Notting Hill. She walked all the way 
 there, too preoccupied to be conscious of the 
 concern her dishevelled appearance caused. To 
 
 R2 
 
26o HEARTBEAT 
 
 her relief she observed a Hght at the window of 
 the first-fioor room, which was Isabel's sitting- 
 room. She knocked, and a woman let her in. 
 She went upstairs and tapped on the door. There 
 was a sound of laughter and the clink of glasses. 
 Her knock had not been heard. She opened the 
 door. Isabel and four other people were sitting 
 round a table, playing cards and drinking beer. 
 They were all in high good spirits, far too good 
 spirits to be concerned at the appearance of a 
 dishevelled girl. Someone called out : 
 
 '* Hullo ! here's Fancy. Come on, Fancy, and 
 take a hand. They've got all my money." 
 
 She looked beseechingly at Isabel and said : 
 
 ** Can I have a word with you in the next 
 room ? " 
 
 Isabel detected trouble, and she rose at once 
 from the table and went out with her. They both 
 went into the bedroom. As briefly as she could 
 she described what had happened, but before the 
 narrative was completed she had fainted. Isabel 
 put her to bed. When she came to, Isabel was 
 bathing her temples with scent and murmuring : 
 
 " It's all right, my lamb; you stop here. I 
 expect you've exaggerated the trouble." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Isabel's conclusions were usually laconic and 
 frequently shrewd; but on this occasion they 
 proved wide of the mark. Barbara had not 
 exaggerated the trouble; she had rather under- 
 
HEARTBEAT 261 
 
 stated it. On that night and during the weeks 
 that followed, her sanity was only preserved by 
 a concentration on one central fact. It simplified 
 the issue considerably. Everything was lost and 
 finished, except that one reality which it was her 
 mission to vitalise. She was unable to focus the 
 disaster which had overwhelmed her. The loss 
 of Caleb and his love was the dominant calamity. 
 By comparison, the loss of her position, her public 
 disgrace in the law-courts, and the question as 
 to what would happen to George seemed 
 trivialities. 
 
 A few days later a letter came from a lawyer 
 to state that *' his client, Mr. George Champneys, 
 was prepared to take her back on certain con- 
 ditions.*' She tore the letter up. A week later a 
 letter came from George himself, imploring her 
 to go back, on any conditions, when he was 
 released after the trial. She tore that up also. 
 On that point her mind was definitely made up. 
 Under no circumstances would she ever go back 
 to the man who had murdered her lover, for 
 murder him he had. In the witness-box she 
 averred that she did not see what happened in the 
 struggle. She suppressed the fact that she saw 
 George stab at Caleb with a broken vase. Her 
 accusation did not seem worth while. What did 
 it matter now ? She was not vengeful. She did 
 not want George to be hanged. He would be a 
 very bad condemned man, probably go mad. It 
 would be horrible to contemplate. Caleb was 
 dead, and it didn't matter what happened to 
 George; but she would never live with him again. 
 
262 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Neither would she ever take a penny of his money. 
 She had wronged him and betrayed him, and to 
 accept money from him would be placing her in 
 the position of the thing he had called her. All 
 that was finished between them. Of course 
 George would get off. He would be worried and 
 harassed, and spend some time in a comfortable 
 gaol, having his meals sent in ; but clever lawyers 
 would see him through. Ebbway had sworn that 
 he actually saw the deceased strike his head on the 
 broken vase as he fell ! She also had lied for 
 George, and the lawyers would make a great deal 
 of the '^ defending of his wife's honour.*' 
 
 His wife's honour ! Well, she had not denied 
 her guilt, and she was vividly alert to the ** sen- 
 sation in court " when, in reply to the question : 
 '^ How long had this been going on ? " she had 
 replied: '' About four months." 
 
 All theatrical London was there, in its best 
 hats and frocks, and there was a kind of hiss of 
 delight. Oh, yes, she was finished all right, so far 
 as that went. The climax had been thorough. 
 But the central fact remained — her mission was 
 not yet fulfilled. She had to go on living. What 
 was she to do ? She was a fool not to have 
 retained her father's dole ! Four hundred a year 
 now would be a fortune. When Isabel, not 
 tauntingly but maternally, remarked: ** I told 
 you, dear, you were silly not to ask him for a 
 settlement just after you were married," she could 
 not be angry, for she was living on Isabel's 
 charity, and that she could not do for long. After 
 her disgrace theatrical managers would fight shy 
 
HEARTBEAT 263 
 
 of her, neither would she ever be in the mood 
 again to sing and dance. In a few months such 
 a thing would be impossible, anyway. She had 
 no other accomplishments. 
 
 At last she bethought her that at George's 
 house were certain pieces of furniture and a few 
 trinkets which had been hers before she married 
 him. She wrote to the lawyers about this. Nego- 
 tiations went on for several weeks, but eventually 
 they were sent to her. She sold them. The result 
 realised one hundred and twenty pounds, and she 
 breathed again. With economy that would keep 
 her till the end of November — the fateful month. 
 And afterwards ? The future did not bear think- 
 ing about. Caleb had said — she must not always 
 be thinking about Caleb. The tears started to 
 her eyes as she snapped the little shutters on 
 recurring memories. 
 
 '' Anyway it will be Caleb's child. His, when 
 he was young and unspoiled. Mine, when I was 
 at my happiest.*' 
 
 And she became alive to the necessity for placid 
 contemplation and calm hope. 
 
 Isabel was angelic. Materialistic and thrift- 
 less, she was yet prepared to share her last crust 
 with her downfallen friend. Neither did she 
 make any great attempt to influence her attitude. 
 ** You beat me, darling," she said once. 
 '* You've only got to stretch out your hand and 
 you can get it all back, or nearly all. Instead of 
 that, you prefer to pig it along with me. When 
 the kid comes, it's going to be precious difficult, 
 old girl." 
 
264 HEARTBEAT 
 
 One night Isabel came in very late, and found 
 Barbara awake. She undressed quietly and got 
 into the bed alongside Barbara. They whispered 
 together, odds and ends of subjects, and then 
 Isabel said : 
 
 '* I suppose you know, old girl, you could stop 
 this if you liked? '* 
 
 "Stop it? What?'' 
 
 ** You know — what's going to happen." 
 
 For a moment Barbara could not grasp her 
 meaning. Then she said eagerly : 
 
 *' Oh, no, no. I'm not going to do that." 
 
 Isabel sighed, and remarked : 
 
 ** Oh, well, it's your business. I know what 
 I'd do." 
 
 Barbara did not answer, and Isabel thought to 
 herself : 
 
 " This child beats me. I can't see what her 
 game is." 
 
 Bleak autumn months closed in. The great 
 Frolic tragedy ceased to hold public interest. 
 George had been released; but it was said that 
 he was broken in health and had gone abroad. 
 He had made five attempts to see Barbara, but 
 she always managed to avoid him. He sent 
 emissaries offering her money, and any terms she 
 liked, and she rejected them. He called himself, 
 but instructions had been left with the landlady 
 to say that she was out, whenever this occurred. 
 At last, apparently, he gave up hope and went 
 away. The theatre was closed, and the house in 
 Kensington let to another tenant. 
 
 London is an excellent place to hide in. In 
 
HEARTBEAT 265 
 
 the comparative obscurity of Notting Hill she 
 managed to avoid all her theatrical acquaintances. 
 She never went up to the old haunts. Many of 
 her friends sent her sympathetic letters, and 
 Ebbway was kindness itself ; but her great desire 
 was to sever herself from that side of her life. 
 The association was too bitter, the record too 
 humiliating, the wound too fresh. 
 
 '' I must do some work,^' she said to Isabel, 
 after a fortnight's idleness. She ran her eye over 
 the whole gamut of women's unskilled labour 
 market and the prospects loomed appalling. She 
 would have gone as a nursemaid, but for the 
 dread of meeting people who knew her. She 
 could not type or do shorthand, and she was 
 ignorant of clerking. Even a mother's help or 
 a shop-assistant requires some knowledge and a 
 ** character " from a responsible person. At 
 last, through the intervention of a friend of 
 Isabel's, she did obtain work of a kind. It was 
 as an assistant to two women who strung pearls, 
 and who had a little establishment just off New 
 Oxford Street. They were quite pleasant 
 women, and the principal was French, and her 
 name Madame Guillard. She worked there 
 seven hours a day and they paid her fifteen shil- 
 lings a week. The amount seemed pitiable after 
 her inflated experiences. In any case, it would 
 help her to eke out her small capital, and above 
 all things it would help to distract her mind. 
 
 ** Barbara Powerscourt is dead. Fancy Tell- 
 ing is dead," she said one day to Isabel. '* The 
 third person is suspended like Mahomet's coffin. 
 
266 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Caleb always said that everything was a trinity. 
 Fm beginning to understand what he meant/* 
 
 '* The pity is/' replied Isabel, " that you can't 
 go and have a good time, and forget about it." 
 
 Barbara smiled and shook her head. She fully 
 appreciated her friend's meaning. It had often 
 been her own solution when she was person 
 number two, but — even if she were a millionairess 
 — it did not fit in with the aspirations of person 
 number three. No, in the meantime the little 
 room off New Oxford Street served her purpose. 
 The work she was given to do was purely 
 mechanical, tying knots, checking, even running 
 errands and making tea, but the work itself was 
 interesting, and the expert knowledge displayed 
 by Madame Guillard and her friend surprised her. 
 When she first went, one pearl looked like any 
 other, but these two ladies were able to detect 
 the subtlest quality and gradation, and she gradu- 
 ally began to recognise differences also. Isabel 
 was performing in a sketch at the Victoria Palace, 
 and they did not see much of each other. 
 
 One afternoon in the middle of October, she 
 was at work at Madame Guillard's when a charm- 
 ing woman came in about some pearls she wished 
 re-set. She was in the early thirties, of medium 
 height, with a distinguished poise of head and 
 wistful, sympathetic eyes. Barbara had never 
 heard a gentler voice or seen a more ingratiating 
 manner. She talked for some time to Madame 
 Guillard, and then Barbara became aware that the 
 good lady was looking at her with interest. 
 Others were also in the habit of looking at her 
 
HEARTBEAT 267 
 
 with interest at that time, and making her feel 
 uncomfortable, but one could not resent the 
 peculiarly kindly and sympathetic glance of this 
 customer. When the arrangement about the 
 string of pearls had been finally settled, she 
 walked slowly towards the door. As she was 
 passing Barbara's desk, she turned to Madame 
 Guillard, and smiled. 
 
 *' Perhaps this young lady will bring them to 
 me when they are ready ? '' 
 
 ** Parfaitement, madame.'* 
 
 Barbara smiled back at her and nodded her 
 head. When the lady had gone she felt all 
 a-flutter, as though something very important 
 had happened to her. She was to learn afterwards 
 that it had. 
 
 The voluble Madame Guillard returned to the 
 room, exclaiming : 
 
 ''Oh, but she is charming, distinguee — and so 
 rich ! hein ? ** 
 
 ''What is her name, Madame Guillard?" 
 Barbara asked. 
 
 "Her name? She is Mrs. Myrtle, wife of — 
 what he is ? Some big man in Government and 
 the ships, an old familee. Veree rich, a nice man, 
 but too old for her, 1 t'ink. She is so sad, isn't 
 it ? You see her face, a sad, sweet face. They 
 entertain at their beautiful house in Sout Street, 
 and they have a big, big place in Yorkshire — old 
 — very old mansion. She is veree kind, a veree 
 nice customer." 
 
 Four days later Barbara appeared at the house 
 in South Street by appointment, and was shown 
 
268 HEARTBEAT 
 
 into a white-panelled morning-room, with Chinese 
 curtains and red lacquer furniture. A small clock 
 above the fireplace whispered the velvet beat of 
 indestructible time. There was about this room 
 an atmosphere Barbara had never encountered 
 before, a quality which wealth alone could not 
 buy. The furniture and curtains spoke of that 
 security of cultivation which had outlived the very 
 meaning of its production. These seemed not to 
 be chairs and cabinets and tables, but a spiritual 
 atmosphere in which these things dumbly 
 reposed. 
 
 Within a few minutes Mrs. Myrtle entered the 
 room, wearing a dress of black crepe-de-Chine. 
 Immediately the room seemed to respond to her 
 pervading presence. Everything took its place, 
 and even the caller seemed a part of an unstudied 
 perfection. Mrs. Myrtle shook hands and thanked 
 her for coming. Then she opened and examined 
 the string of pearls, with which she was delighted. 
 This business over, she said to Barbara : 
 
 *' What is your name ? *' 
 
 The girl was expecting this, and she answered 
 promptly : 
 
 '' Barbara Power." 
 
 ** Barbara ! — a pretty name; and so is Power." 
 Then she turned to the fire and said in a low 
 voice : 
 
 " When is this going to happen ? " 
 
 This question was also expected, and the reply 
 was : 
 
 *' About the third week next month." 
 
 The presiding genius of this tranquil retreat 
 
HEARTBEAT 269 
 
 now approached more difficult ground, and it was 
 with the gentlest pressure of the arm and the 
 most kindly insinuation of voice that she 
 enquired : 
 
 '^ Your husband? '' 
 
 '' My husband has left me." 
 
 '^Ah! " 
 
 Mrs. Myrtle was toymg with a long chain of 
 cornelian and regarding the fire intently. When 
 she looked up her eyes were overflowing with 
 sympathy. 
 
 *' You live with friends ? " 
 
 *' I live with a girl-friend — in rooms in Nottmg 
 Hill.'' 
 
 Mrs. Myrtle nodded. She appeared to be find- 
 ing difficulty in framing a suggestion. At last 
 she said: 
 
 *' Fm afraid you'll think Vm very impertinent 
 asking you these questions. Only— I don't know 
 how it is. I felt drawn to you when I first saw 
 you at Mme. Guillard's. You see, I — Fm very 
 fond of children. I have none of my own. I 
 wonder whether — whether you would let me help 
 you, Mrs. Power? " 
 
 Barbara's eyes narrowed. She had had a pre- 
 sentiment that some such proposition as this might 
 be put before her, and she had not, so far, been 
 able to frame a reply. What was the motive ? 
 Her somewhat bitter experience taught her that 
 people seldom acted without motives. Certainly 
 Mrs. Myrtle was different from anyone else she 
 had ever met. She could not believe that this 
 good lady could have any ulterior motives in an 
 
270 HEARTBEAT 
 
 act of simple kindness; at the same time, it was 
 as well to be cautious. She regarded her new 
 friend watchfully as she replied : 
 
 *' It is extremely kind of you. But, really, 
 there^s no necessity. I shall be all right.** 
 
 The elder woman suddenly put her arm round 
 her and pleaded. 
 
 ** Oh, please, do let me help you. You see, I — 
 I had a little child of my own, a girl — she died. 
 It would make me so happy.** 
 
 After all, what was the real objection ? It 
 wasn*t like taking money from George. This 
 woman was a stranger, just a kindly stranger, 
 and she could afford it. Barbara lowered her 
 eyes and repeated : 
 
 '' It is extremely kind of you." 
 
 X. 
 
 She had little idea at that time of what was to be 
 the surprising extent of Mrs. Myrtle's kindness. 
 She imagined it would amount to gifts of chicken 
 jelly and, perhaps, an offer to pay the doctor's 
 fees ; but a few days later Madame Guillard came 
 to her and said : 
 
 '^ Barbara, zis charming lady, I tink she lofs 
 you. She has spik to me of you, and she wants 
 to take you away. You are a lucky leetle girl. 
 Come, now, you are to go to see her zis after- 
 noon.** 
 
 And that afternoon Mrs. Myrtle put her pro- 
 ject before her. She said that her husband was 
 
HEARTBEAT 271 
 
 away on business in America, and he would not 
 be back till the end of December. She had what 
 she called a week-end cottage up on Leith Hill 
 in Surrey. She wanted Barbara to go there at 
 once. There were two servants there, and later 
 on there would be a nurse and a doctor. She was 
 to go out for gentle walks every day, and was to 
 feed up. Mrs. Myrtle herself would come down 
 now and then and stay a few days. This rapid and 
 unexpected change in her fortunes almost un- 
 nerved her, and she wept in Mrs. Myrtle^s arms. 
 
 Two days later she packed up her traps, bade 
 an affectionate farewell to Isabel, and set off for 
 Leith Hill. The week-end cottage proved to be 
 a charmingly-appointed small Georgian house, 
 with central heating, bath-rooms, and every 
 modern convenience. The bedrooms were large 
 and airy, with glorious views across commons 
 and pine-woods. There was a grand piano and a 
 library full of books. Mrs. Myrtle went down 
 with her, and directed that everything was to be 
 done for her comfort and complete satisfaction, 
 and Barbara quickly realised that on this score 
 there would be little cause for complaint. 
 Between the sheets on that first night she thought 
 to herself : 
 
 ** Well, this is the rummest go of the lot. 
 Fancy, this is where my son will be born — or will 
 it be a girl ? No. Tve made up my mind it will 
 be a son, and I shall call him Caleb. I shall tell 
 him about this in after-life — just where he was 
 born, and iabout Mrs. Myrtle's kindness. Its 
 wonderful — a kind of predestination — as though 
 
272 HEARTBEAT 
 
 the way is being prepared. Oh, I am so 
 tired." 
 
 The weather was wet and stormy, but every day 
 she tramped through the rain, and returned home 
 to drink glasses of rich milk. She began to feel 
 well and strangely elated. She took books down 
 from the library shelves, thumbed them, read a 
 few pages, and then sat there dreaming. And 
 the past had no significance, and the future did 
 not concern her. And one day a nurse arrived, a 
 brown-eyed, sympathetic little person, who was 
 friendly without being too intrusive. 
 
 The crisis came a week before it was expected. 
 When the agony came upon her, she grit her 
 teeth and said to herself: '' This will pass.'* 
 
 In the middle of the night the doctor came, 
 grey-haired but athletic of frame. His calm 
 presence helped to fortify her. But the grim 
 battle had to be fought alone. The agony in- 
 creased, and the next evening became so unbear- 
 able they gave her morphia. She swam off into 
 a vague unconsciousness, during which the earth 
 seemed to be ripped asunder. She knew at one 
 time she was groaning, and could not control it. 
 A voice came through an indeterminate mist of 
 time. 
 
 *' Yell, you little devil ! " 
 
 It was the doctor's voice, and she clutched at 
 the sheets and tried to speak. The nurse was 
 leaning over her, and at last the whisper came 
 through : 
 
 '* It's all right, my dear. You're all right. It's 
 a boy. He's all right." 
 
HEARTBEAT 273 
 
 Again she drifted away, but this time the dark- 
 ness was sanctified. When next she came in 
 contact with the conscious world she managed to 
 say: 
 
 '* Whereishe? '* 
 
 The nurse was smoothing her pillow. She said 
 quietly : 
 
 ** You can't see him yet, dear. You must wait 
 a little while. He's quite all right. Don't fret." 
 
 When at last she saw her son, it was the most 
 moving but the most tranquil moment in her life. 
 The nurse allowed her to kiss him once, and then 
 took him away. 
 
 It was many hours later before she could say : 
 
 *' Why did they call him a little devil ? " 
 
 Nurse laughed. *' Oh, that was Doctor Pollen. 
 We couldn't make him cry. We thought at one 
 time he was never going to." 
 
 The morning brought Mrs. Myrtle, all eager- 
 ness and joy. She kissed Barbara, and said : 
 
 '* Oh, my dear, I congratulate you. He's a 
 splendid baby." 
 
 Strength and vitality slowly returned, and full 
 consciousness of the wealth of her achievement. 
 Mother and child did well. She lay there idly 
 regarding the deft activities of the nurse and the 
 clamorous protests of the babe. Sometimes she 
 was allowed to have him in the bed with her, and 
 she anxiously scanned every line of the little 
 body. 
 
 ** You can't say he's particularly like anybody, 
 
 can you. Nurse ? " she once remarked. 
 
 '* Oh, I don't know, my dear," the other replied 
 
 s 
 
r' 
 
 274 HEARTBEAT 
 
 encouragingly. '* He has blue eyes at present. 
 They often change, though. I think the chin is 
 like yours. Of course, I -'* 
 
 '' You mean you never saw the father. Nurse. 
 He had blue eyes.*' 
 
 '* Ah! " 
 
 It is, nevertheless, always rather sanguine to 
 detect likenesses in a few days* old baby. Barbara 
 was perhaps a little disappointed in this. She 
 seemed to expect a speaking likeness of Caleb, 
 with all his characteristics and quaint manners 
 clearly developed. 
 
 '* What a long time to wait," she thought. 
 But still, there would always be the interest of 
 this development. Every year a little more and 
 a little more. 
 
 Development 1 As the days and then the weeks 
 progressed, and she was able to sit up and then 
 to move to another room, to walk slowly, and to 
 feel the old vitality returning to her limbs, the 
 practical consideration of development was begin- 
 ning to grow on her. The mission had been 
 fulfilled, but its further direction had yet to be 
 determined. The intervention of Mrs. Myrtle had 
 been like an act of God, but she had no intention 
 of taking advantage of it further than was 
 necessary. She and her son would not live on 
 charity. It would mean, then, when well enough, 
 a return toNotting Hill and to the pearl-stringing 
 business. Fortunately her hundred and twenty 
 pounds remained untouched. They would 
 manage somehow. 
 
 In any case, Mrs. Myrtle had not even given 
 
HEARTBEAT 275 
 
 any hint of an indefinite state of charity. She had 
 only said : 
 
 '* Now, my dear, you are to stay here as long 
 as ever you Hke/' 
 
 A remark which plainly hinted that a day would 
 come when she would expect the mother and child 
 to turn out. 
 
 On a December day, when the snow was 
 festooning the pine-trees and the wind was blow- 
 ing bitterly, she would regard the view from the 
 warm security of the library, and her heart would 
 be filled with misgiving. Not for herself, oh ! 
 dear no; she had met the buffets of the world 
 before, as her mother had — but this boy, this son 
 of predestination; this ought to be his world, 
 midst books, and culture, and wise counsels, away 
 from the ugliness and terror of sordid strife. 
 She would lie awake at night, shuddering at the 
 forbidding future. 
 
 *' You're getting soft, Fancy,*' she said to her- 
 self. " You've been pampered and spoilt for too 
 long. Even now you get moods when your soul 
 cries out for the ' fleshpots of Egypt,' as the old 
 man said." 
 
 At Christmas Mrs. Myrtle went away to stay 
 with relatives in Yorkshire, but she gave Barbara 
 permission to ask any friend down to stay with 
 her, and so she naturally wrote to Isabel. The 
 sketch that Isabel had been playing in having 
 come to an end, her friend came down and stayed 
 a week. Isabel was very impressed with the 
 house and the baby and the food and the servants. 
 But on the second evening she said : 
 
 S2 
 
276 HEARTBEAT 
 
 '* Don't we get anything to drink here, old 
 girl ? " 
 
 And Barbara had to acknowledge that they 
 didn't. Mrs. Myrtle was a teetotaler, although 
 she had made no objection to Barbara's daily 
 glass of port, which the doctor had prescribed. 
 
 ** Do you mean to say," persisted Isabel, *' we 
 can't get a bottle of fizz on Christmas Day ? ** 
 
 Barbara felt a little uncomfortable about this. 
 She knew her friend would expect to celebrate 
 this important day in her accustomed manner; so 
 she arranged that they should send down to the 
 inn in the nearest village and make a few 
 purchases on their own. She was now walking 
 again and almost feeling her old self. 
 
 She then became aware of a curious aspect of 
 het friendship with Isabel. In the scurry of 
 town, with plenty of excitement and social 
 change, their brief chats about each other and 
 current events were entirely satisfying. But in 
 this isolated spot, in the pure clear air, amidst the 
 solemnity of pines, these two actresses became 
 distinctly bored within a few days. The evenings 
 were long and dark and dull; and, curiously 
 enough, Barbara noticed it more with Isabel than 
 when alone* And the result was, they sent down 
 to the inn and made more purchases. They kept 
 Christmas Day royally. In the ordinary course 
 of events this fact need never have come to the 
 ears of the lady of the house; but it happened 
 that the cook was an extremely religious and 
 abstemious person. She was a Seventh Day 
 Adventist, and when Mrs. Myrtle returned a week 
 
HEARTBEAT 277 
 
 later, she felt it her duty to conduct her to the 
 larder and show her an array of bottles, the con- 
 tents of which her two guests had consumed in 
 her absence. There were three champagne 
 bottles, three port, and a dozen and a half empty 
 stout bottles. And the spectacle saddened 
 Mrs, Myrtle's heart. Isabel had by that time 
 departed, but she went straight to Barbara, and 
 said gently; 
 
 ''* I'm afraid, dear, your friend has been leading 
 you into bad ways.*' 
 
 Barbara did not at first grasp the purport of 
 this accusation. She looked perplexed until Mrs. 
 Myrtle added : 
 
 " All those bottles in the larder/' 
 
 Then she knew that the truth had been detected. 
 At the same time she was not willing to throw all 
 the blame on Isabel, and she replied a little 
 sullenly i 
 
 *' It was Christmas-time — I have unhappy 
 memories.'* 
 
 And Mrs. Myrtle thought : 
 
 ** Good heavens ! this child is the responsible 
 one, then,*' 
 
 And she answered:.- 
 
 '' It's so bad for you, my dear. Oae cannot 
 cure unhappy memories in that way/' 
 
 The incident created a definite chasm between 
 the two women, Mrs. Myrtle was disappointed. 
 Simple and abstemious in her mode of life, the 
 sight of those bottles conveyed to her the record 
 of an unbridled orgy. It was a thing she could 
 not understand; but what made it worse was that 
 
a78 HEARTBEAT 
 
 the affair had been conducted behind her back. 
 Barbara was not to be trusted. Could a woman 
 like that be trusted to bring up a child properly ? 
 
 Barbara on her part felt a half-savage resent- 
 ment against her hostess. She was annoyed at 
 the discorery. Of course, she was in the wrong, 
 but — oh, it was all very well for Mrs, Myrtle; 
 all the influences of her life had been towards 
 refinement and restraint. She hadn't come up 
 against the experiences of Isabel and herself. 
 They were indeed as the poles asunder. The 
 reflection hardened her decision to depart as soon 
 as possible. 
 
 Mrs. Myrtle returned to town during the 
 second week in January, and the day following 
 her departure Barbara wrote to her as follows : 
 
 My Dear Mrs. Myrtle^ 
 
 I do not know how I can thank you for all your kindness 
 to me. You have been one of the few real friends I have 
 ever met. But I feel that the time has come when I must 
 get back to my own life, whatever it is to be. Baby and I 
 will therefore be leaving here to-morrow, and we shall be 
 going to my old address in Notting Hill. Please, dear 
 Mrs. Myrtle, accept my best thanks for all your loving 
 kindness. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 Barbara Power. 
 
 Having sent this letter, she went upstairs and 
 kissed the small Caleb on his smooth skull, and 
 whispered : 
 
 '' Old son, we've got to go back and face it. 
 This is all swank, you know, us living here. I 
 wish you could stop, old boy. I love you so; but 
 it can't be done. We're poor folk." 
 
HEARTBEAT 279 
 
 At ten o'clock the next morning a telegram 
 came from Mrs Myrtle : 
 
 Please wait till I arrive coining this morning very urgent. 
 
 *' What's all this about?'' thought Barbara. 
 She decided to wait, but she continued her 
 packing. 
 
 XL 
 
 When Mrs. Myrtle came into the hall it was 
 apparent that her normal air of calm assurance 
 was ruffled by some inward agitation. She found 
 Barbara packing in her bedroom, and for the first 
 time the elder woman appeared a shade nervous 
 of the younger. She smiled graciously, and 
 asked her to come downstairs to the library. 
 Once ensconced there, she sat rather rigidly on 
 the edge of an easy-chair, and said : 
 
 *' Barbara, I want to make a proposition to 
 you, and whatever you think of it, I want you to 
 believe that I am thinking of the best interests of 
 us all." 
 
 Us all ! Then she was coming into it herself T 
 
 *' Please don't be angry or shocked till you 
 have heard me out. Briefly, it is that I offer to 
 adopt your son." 
 
 *'What!'^ Barbara almost screamed the 
 word, and her eyes blazed. Before Mrs. Myrtle 
 had had time to qualify her appeal, she was 
 having shouted at her : 
 
 *' Oh, so you — you too, even you — had an 
 ulterior motive." 
 
28o HEARTBEAT 
 
 The little burst of anger steadied the elder 
 woman. She said calmly : 
 
 '' I assure you the idea only germinated after 
 my return at Christmas. I only came to a decision 
 when I received your letter this morning/* 
 
 Barbara searched her face keenly. Yes, she 
 was speaking the truth all right. Well ? 
 
 ** Of course I know it is a stupendous sugges- 
 tion to make to a mother. It is also Idle to deny 
 that I am thinking of myself, too. Oh, my dear, 
 I want a child so much. I would do everything 
 for him. He should have the best of everything : 
 training, education, choice of career. He should 
 lead a clean, healthy life in the best surroundings. 
 He should travel and have friends chosen from 
 the wisest and best. He should have oppor- 
 tunities and large horizons '* 
 
 *' Yes, yes, that's all very well! '' shouted 
 Barbara. '* But what about me ? *' 
 
 *' I should, of course, compensate you, my 
 dear, to my fullest ability. On the other hand, 
 since you talk about yourself, do you think that 
 you -'* 
 
 "I know, you think because Pve got no 
 money, and because I — because you found some 
 champagne bottles ffi the larder — you think I'm 
 not a fit person to bring up a son.*' 
 
 '' My dear, Tm not criticising you. But you 
 can't deny it's going to be difficult. You're a 
 dear little person, but you are what I should call 
 — unstable. Even the child, you have confessed 
 to me, is the son of a man who was not your 
 husband. He starts with rather a handicap. I 
 
HEARTBEAT 281 
 
 can at least launch him into the world with an 
 honourable name." 
 
 " Name! You mean to say you would adopt 
 him, and pretend he was your own son ! *' 
 
 '* That is the proposal I make. I do not wish 
 to coerce you. It is for you to decide, and please 
 take your time over it." 
 
 *' I don't want any time. I can tell you now. 
 Pm damned if Til do it." 
 
 Mrs. Myrtle smiled sadly, 
 
 '* Please don't be angry with me. Fm so sorry. 
 Let us say no more about it, then.'* 
 
 And the two women kissed affectionately. 
 
 That afternoon, however, Barbara returned 
 with the young Caleb to Notting Hill, and the 
 grim struggle began. Isabel was ■* out " again, 
 and not in the best of tempers. When Barbara 
 told her about Mrs. Myrtle's offer, the two friends 
 nearly quarrelled for the first time. 
 
 ** You do throw away your chances,** Isabel 
 grumbled. She was not particularly enamoured 
 of the idea of having a two-months-old baby in 
 their congested lodgings. 
 
 " Chances ! " retorted Barbara. ** Would you 
 sell your baby ? " 
 
 " It isn't selling it. It's giving it a great oppor- 
 tunity which it's otherwise going to miss. 
 Besides, it doesn't really know you yet." 
 
 '* It does! " 
 
 ** No, it doesn't. As long as someone gives it 
 its bottle it doesn't care. If it was a year or two 
 older it would be different. Did she say how much 
 she'd give you ? '* 
 
282 HEARTBEAT 
 
 " No; I never discussed the matter/' 
 
 " She might have offered you a thousand a 
 year. They say her husband's nearly a 
 millionaire/' 
 
 '* I wouldn't take ten thousand a year." 
 
 Isabel sniffed, and repeated her accustomed 
 formula : 
 
 '' You beat me, Fancy." 
 
 The immediate difficulties were manifest. To 
 return to the pearl-stringing- industry was an 
 utter impossibility. A two-months' baby requires 
 the constant attention of at least one person. It 
 prefers two. If she hired a woman to look after 
 it whilst she was at the business, she would have 
 to pay her as much as she herself was paid by 
 Madame Guillard. Isabel was already in debt. 
 The hundred and twenty pounds was intact, but 
 when that was gone, what was to be done ? With 
 the utmost economy they could not expect it to 
 last more than a few months. 
 
 It must be said for Isabel that, after the first 
 unpleasantness, she behaved well. She curbed 
 her natural extravagance, and every day she went 
 round to the little agents and waited patiently for 
 interviews. And when Barbara became fretful, 
 she always cheered her with : 
 
 " Never mind, old girl; I'll get a shop soon, 
 and then we'll be all right." 
 
 But theatrical things were in a bad way just 
 then, and Isabel was not so young as she had 
 been, and was getting sloppy in the figure. The 
 baby was a source of delight and terror. Some- 
 times when he cried she thought she would go out 
 
HEARTBEAT 283 
 
 of her mind. Of his upbringing she was pro- 
 foundly ignorant. The landlady was consulted, 
 and proved a mine of comfort. The only trouble 
 was that she had forgotten most of the details of 
 baby-craft, because, as she explained, '* she buried 
 her last sixteen years come Easter Sunday." 
 Barbara was always in dread of doing the wrong 
 thing. The marvellous organism of his structure 
 was so delicately adjusted, she became convinced 
 that his hold on life was slenderer than it really 
 was. His cries sounded protests against her 
 ignorance and irresponsible motherhood. 
 
 No word came from Mrs. Myrtle. One even- 
 ing Isabel said: 
 
 ** At a pinch, I suppose, you could always touch 
 that Mrs, Myrtle for a bit." 
 
 '* Oh, no, I wouldn't do that," Barbara 
 snapped. ** It would be like backing down. I 
 was rather rude to her, you see. It would be an 
 awful climb-down." 
 
 Another evening Isabel came home and said to 
 Barbara : 
 
 " I've heard news of George. You can get a 
 divorce if you like." 
 
 *' What is it ? " 
 
 *' He's come back from Italy. They say he's 
 living at a private hotel in Knightsbridge with 
 Queenie Myland, a flapper in Covent Garden 
 pantomime." 
 
 Barbara shivered, but she said quietly : 
 
 ** I don't care. What's the good of a divorce 
 tome?" 
 
 *' You might want to get married again." 
 
284 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Barbara laughed bitterly, and put on the kettle 
 for the baby's bottle. 
 
 Two months slipped by, and the funds were 
 reduced to less than forty pounds. They could 
 not be as economical as they ought to have been. 
 At times conditions became unendurable, and Bar- 
 bara would send down the road for a bottle of 
 red wine or whisky. At other times she would 
 leave the baby in charge of the landlady, and she 
 and Isabel would penetrate to a restaurant in 
 Soho, where they could obtain hot, rich, and un- 
 common food, filleted herrings in oil, coquille of 
 sole with cheese, braised chicken, savouries, and 
 peche Melba. 
 
 '' Damn it all,*' Barbara would say, ** one must 
 live.'' 
 
 On one of these occasions they ran into Julius 
 Banstead, He was dining with a fair girl at an 
 adjoining table, and they didn't notice him till 
 the meal had been ordered. When he caught sight 
 of Barbara, he came deliberately across to her, 
 and in his round assertive voice exclaimed r 
 
 ** How are you. Miss Telling? We haven't 
 met for a long time." 
 
 Barbara felt her personality dwindle undec his 
 gaze. She rephed limply : 
 
 *' Tra all rights, thanks." 
 
 *' I'm running the Charing Cross Theatre now. 
 Won't you give me a call one day ? " 
 
 He fixed her with his searching glance. Yes, 
 she had heard about that. Banstead had got hold 
 of a rich man, a sleeping partner. He was now 
 a power in the theatrical world. The temptation 
 
HEARTBEAT 285 
 
 was obvious, and the more dangerous on account 
 of its abruptness. And yet some instinct 
 prompted her to say: 
 
 *' You never used to think much of my per- 
 formances." 
 
 Banstead laughed and displayed his fine teeth. 
 He suppressed the idle temptation to say : '' My 
 dear girl, I hadn't thought of offering you a 
 part" 
 
 Instead of that, he answered : 
 
 ** Oh, come now, you misjudge me. I know 
 we used to quarrel, but I never underestimated 
 your abilities." 
 
 Isabel, who had drunk two cocktails, e:^- 
 Claimed : 
 
 " Oh, Fancy, do go ! Til look after the 
 baby.'' 
 
 Banstead already had a diary out and was 
 remarking : 
 
 " What about Tuesday at three ? " 
 
 Then Barbara felt angry with this importunity 
 of fate. She was, perhaps, unfair to Isabel, 
 Julius might offer her a part at twenty pounds a 
 week, and she could keep a nurse and live in 
 comfort. But no, she knew her Julius too well. 
 She had no illusions on the score of his attitude 
 towards her. He thought he had her easily 
 trapped. She tossed her head, took a sip of 
 claret, and said firmly : 
 
 '* No, Tm not doing anything like that now, 
 thanks. I have a baby to look after. I've given 
 up. the stage." 
 
 '* Weil, then, just as an old friend." 
 
a86 HEARTBEAT 
 
 (< 
 
 I don't recognise you as a friend, either 
 ancient or modern/' 
 
 This might be called the retort conclusive. 
 Banstead grinned superciliously, snapped his 
 diary to, and returned to the fair girl without a 
 word, 
 
 " God! you are a one. You do chuck things 
 away," whispered Isabel tearfully. 
 
 But Barbara's jaw was set. She was like a 
 besieged animal that still has ground to defend. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The day was rapidly approaching when the last 
 bulwark would fall. Forty pounds, thirty 
 pounds, fifteen pounds and some bills owing. In 
 that dark hour Isabel suddenly got a small en- 
 gagement in a musical comedy at Hammersmith. 
 Her salary was to be three pounds ten a week, 
 but from her jubiliation and high spirits it might 
 have been going to be thirty pounds. 
 
 *' We'll be all right now. Fancy." 
 
 Poor dear Isabel ! Her loyalty was pathetic. 
 Somehow this insignificant stroke of fortune 
 added fuel to the flames of Barbara's despair. 
 Was she going to sponge on Isabel — she and 
 Caleb's son ? 
 
 One night she met a rich man from the Mid- 
 lands in that same restaurant. He was to all 
 appearance a decent, healthy animal, probably 
 with a wife and children in some busy Midland 
 town. 
 
HEARTBEAT 287 
 
 He made love to her in a straightforward 
 gentlemanly way, without pretence or vulgarity. 
 He complained of his loneliness, and appealed 
 to Barbara rather sentimentally for help. He 
 gave her his card, and said his name was 
 Theodore Moffat, and he owned terra-cotta works 
 at Tamworth, and rented a flat in St. James*. 
 He was obviously probing to see whether the two 
 girls were members of the demi-monde, and yet 
 he did not treat them with disrespect. He 
 explained that he had to spend three months 
 every winter in London, and he had few friends 
 and was frankly bored. Would they take pity on 
 him and visit him at his flat ? Barbara made it 
 quite clear that they were not members of the 
 demi-monde, but that they liked his face, and that 
 they would come and call on him together — if he 
 promised to behave himself. 
 
 They went one afternoon, and Theodore made 
 no attempt to conceal the attraction which 
 Barbara had ifor him. He badgered her with 
 questions, which Isabel answered. It was easy 
 to worm out of Isabel the state of the two girls* 
 finances, and when the story was told he leaned 
 towards Barbara and said : 
 
 *' I wish you'd let me help you.'* 
 
 " Why should you ? ** 
 I like you, and I can aflford it.** 
 No; it*s not done. Why should you give 
 something for nothing? " 
 
 '' Well, you could ** 
 
 '* Yes, I know well enough. I could be nice 
 to you.*' 
 
 
288 HEARTBEAT 
 
 No-o, I don't insist. Fm really not that sort. 
 
 
 t{ 
 
 It can't be done, old boy. Besides, I'm not 
 free." 
 
 *' What do you mean, you're not free ? " 
 
 She couldn't exactly explain. She was a 
 desperate woman. Here was the easiest way in 
 the world to secure some sort of protection. But 
 - — could she keep Caleb's son in that way ? The 
 man from the Midlands nodded. 
 
 ** A deal's a deal," he said, *' and a bargain's 
 a bargain. You have my card. Come and see 
 me if you're In difficulties. I've never forced a 
 woman against her will, or let in a friend." 
 
 '* I think you're a decent sort," commented 
 Barbara, and the two girls went away. 
 
 By the time Isabel's rehearsals were over, their 
 united resources amounted to twenty-three shil- 
 lings in cash, and eleven pounds odd in debts. 
 Moreover, clothes were getting shabby, and holes 
 in stockings unmendable. The baby cost fifteen 
 shillings a week in Allenby's, beyond incidental 
 expenses at the chemist and the hire of a pram. 
 
 *' Never mind," said Isabel; '' I shall get three 
 quid and a half next Saturday night." 
 
 When Isabel said that, Barbara knew she was 
 beaten. Tears swam in her eyes, and she went 
 to bed. 
 
 ** I've been undermined somewhere," she said 
 to the darkness. ** I haven't the grit to stand a 
 life of poverty and begging. I've seen you 
 through all right, though, little son. Thank 
 GodT you won't remember me." 
 
HEARTBEAT 289 
 
 The next day she wrote to Mrs. Myrtle, and 
 asked for an appointment. A telegram bade her 
 to go that afternoon. She found her patroness 
 in the morning-room at South Street. Barbara's 
 face was tense and set. She said sternly : 
 
 " I've come to give in; to offer you my 
 son.'* 
 
 The elder woman's face lighted with a quiet 
 exaltation, tempered by pity for her visitor. It 
 was a situation which required all her tact and 
 restraint. She solved it by kissing Barbara 
 affectionately and whispering : 
 
 *' Oh, my dear — you will allow me to 
 compensate you — handsomely? " 
 
 She was surprised by the passion of protest this 
 offer evoked. Barbara almost pushed her away, 
 and cried out : 
 
 ** Oh, no, no. That is what I will not have. 
 Do you understand me ? / havenH come here to 
 sell my son! I've come here to hand him to you 
 as a sacred trust. Not a pound, not a penny will 
 I touch. I've come to you because I'm beaten, 
 not only financially, but morally. I'm a rotten 
 woman and you're a good one. I have nothing to 
 offer him but cramped poverty, the influence of 
 vicious nature, narrow friends and outlooks. But 
 you — you talked to me of wide horizons, of great 
 opportunities, of the pure sweet air among the 
 pines. That is what I give him for, because — 
 because — I somehow believe he will be — rather 
 fine." 
 
 Her voice broke over this last statement. Then 
 she continued excitedly : 
 
 T 
 

 290 HEARTBEAT 
 
 '* I am a kind of instrument, do you see ? — of 
 some dumb fate. A friend, a very dear friend of 
 mine spoke of a spiritual Nemesis. Perhaps that 
 is the end, in my poor way, that I am serving. I 
 wanted a son more than anything in the world. 
 He has the best of everything that is in me. 
 Where my mother and I failed, let him succeed. 
 AVhere my mother and I suffered, let him rejoice. 
 This cannot be done without the true environ- 
 ment, the wide horizons, as you call them. This 
 is a sacred trust I offer you, Mrs. Myrtle. Do 
 you accept it ? *' 
 
 I accept it, my friend.*' 
 
 Say to me, ' I swear to adopt your son, and 
 to educate him, and to make it the passion of my 
 life that he shall be a good man.* *' 
 
 ** I swear to adopt your son, Barbara, to 
 educate him, and to make it the passion of my life 
 that he shall be a good man." 
 
 There is only one thing more.*' 
 Tell me, my dear." 
 
 " You shall call him Caleb." 
 
 *' He shall be called Caleb." 
 
 She wept then, and Mrs. Myrtle put her arm 
 round her and said : 
 
 '' Oh, my dear, I had no suspicion that 
 you had so noble a soul. You wouldn't — I 
 suppose you wouldn't sometimes come and see 
 him? " 
 
 ** No, no, I couldn't do that. I couldn't stand 
 it. The gift is absolute. Whilst I live I shall 
 watch you and him from afar. He will never 
 know his mother." 
 
 
HEARTBEAT 291 
 
 That afternoon a nurse arrived in a cab, and 
 Master Caleb was taken away to South Street. 
 And Barbara lay alone in the darkness, 
 murmuring : 
 
 *' Oh, my son — my son— my little son ! '* 
 
 And Isabel came in late, and moved softly, 
 knowing of her friend's anguish. 
 
 " It all seems damned unfair,** she said medita- 
 tively. " Men can have no end of a good time. 
 It's always sugar or dirt with them. If it's sugar, 
 they share a little with us. If it's dirt, they throw 
 it to us and run away. I had an awful job to- 
 night with young Stephens " 
 
 *' And God sends a messenger to our door," 
 murmured Barbara, ** and says, * There is no 
 answer.' That amused Caleb. I remember " 
 
 '' What's that, dear? " 
 
 ** I was talking in my sleep, darling." 
 
 Isabel turned out the light. And these strange 
 bedfellows, who had drifted together and formed 
 so great an affection for each other, and yet with 
 so little they could really share, wandered apart 
 in the darkness, each occupied with her own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Isabel was thinking : 
 
 ** Poor darling old Fancy ! It must be a blow 
 to her. It'll make it much more comfy, though, 
 having the brat out of the way. I do hope she 
 gets a shop soon." 
 
 And Barbara was thinking : 
 
 " O thou God, who are you ? What are you ? 
 Have I done right ? Oh, please protect him and 
 make a fine man of him." 
 
 T2 
 
292 HEARTBEAT 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The morning brought a condition of utter 
 lethargy. She was worn out. The child*s crying 
 echoed through her tired memory. He would be 
 crying now. Who would be looking after him ? 
 Wouldn't he miss her ? Wasn't there something 
 which would always tell him ? Three times she 
 started up to go and get him back. She couldn't 
 stand it. Mrs. Myrtle would be bound to give 
 him back to her if she insisted. She had signed 
 nothing. 
 
 Her limbs ached so, she could hardly move. 
 The meagre room became a dim tabernacle of 
 remorse. Isabel was breathing heavily, her hair 
 all frowsy, scattered on the pillow, her mouth 
 open. And she once was beautiful. The long 
 hours trailed by, unbroken by anything except 
 Isabel's snoring, the cries of tradesmen, the 
 clatter of milk-carts. It must have been past ten 
 when Barbara suddenly lost control. She 
 screamed out : 
 
 '* Oh, damn you, Isabel, wake up ! Get up ! " 
 
 Isabel opened her eyes in amazed surprise. 
 Barbara was hysterical, laughing and swearing 
 and crying at the same time. Isabel became 
 alarmed. She dressed quickly and ran out to find 
 a doctor. The doctor happened to be starting on 
 his rounds, and he came at once and examined 
 the patient. 
 
 '* What's she been doing? " he said a little 
 impatiently. " There's nothing wrong with her 
 except hysteria. Her nerves are all unstrung. 
 
HEARTBEAT 293 
 
 She ought to go away for a few weeks to get a 
 complete rest and change.'' 
 
 **Yes?" said Barbara. "Where do you 
 think ? Madeira or Monte Carlo ? *' 
 
 Before he had time to reply she flung herself 
 on to the bed, and laughed and cried alternately. 
 Isabel put her arms round her and wept also. The 
 doctor shrugged his shoulders, wrote out a pre- 
 scription, and went away» 
 
 After he had gone she quietened down. For 
 two days and nights she lay in a kind of coma, 
 completely oblivious to her surroundings. Isabel 
 waited on her, but she was unaware of it. Every- 
 thing was finished. She was slipping away into 
 a welcoming darkness. In dreams she visited 
 unfamiliar places, talked with unfamiliar people. 
 She could not see the people, but she could hear 
 them. They were not unkind, only — strange, 
 bewildering. They wanted to be kind to her, and 
 they talked eagerly in low-pitched voices. Hands 
 touched hers, lips were pressed against her brow. 
 
 Then, suddenly, she was a child again, playing 
 with dolls in the large nursery at High Barrow. 
 Miss Ridde was there. She could see her face 
 above the fire-guard. Her eyes glued upon a 
 novel, she was saying: 
 
 '* I see, dear. So Mrs. Wilkins is coming to 
 have tea with the postman." 
 
 Miss Ridde said that, but she wasn't thinking 
 about what she w^s saying. She was too 
 immersed in the romantic story. Poor Miss 
 Ridde ! What an unromantic figure she 
 appeared, with her thick spectacles and broad, 
 
294 HEARTBEAT 
 
 flat nose. And yet — why shouldn't she dream of 
 knights and ladies and gallant deeds ? 
 
 Miss Ridde had closed her novel with a snap. 
 She was wiping her eyes. 
 
 '' Come now, dear/' she was saying. " Get 
 your little cape and the brown fur bonnet. Fm 
 going to take you down to the House to hear 
 your dear father. Your father is a very great 
 man, a very great man indeed. He is the Chan- 
 cellor of the Exchequer. He has all the money 
 of the country in his charge. Think of that ! " 
 
 They were driving in a carriage through the 
 streets of London. It was a dim winter after- 
 noon. The pavements were wet, and they 
 reflected the lights of street lamps in perspective. 
 And there was the river, and the lights on the 
 other side, and barges feeling their way along 
 stealthily. There were large policemen, and big, 
 official-looking men looking her up and down. 
 And she wanted to nudge Miss Ridde and say : 
 
 ** Tell them about me and who my father is." 
 
 But they were already in the hushed hall. 
 There were the rows and rows of elderly men, 
 just as she had seen them once before. There was 
 the man in the wig — a kind of umpire ; and there 
 was the brass mace. A mace ! Yes, yes, she 
 remembered about the mace — the symbol of 
 ordered authority. And there they were all 
 listening intently to her father. But no, that was 
 a queer, funny thing. They were all listening 
 intently, sure enough, but it wasn't her father 
 they were listening to. The speaker was a young 
 man and he was talking about *' shibboleths." 
 
HEARTBEAT 295 
 
 He had them all right, as theatrical folk say. He 
 had gripped them. 
 
 ** Surely the honourable member does not 
 expect us to return to the shibboleths of the 
 Powerscourt tradition ? '* 
 
 Eh ? What was that ? Powerscourt ? Shibbo- 
 leths ? She wanted to ask Miss Ridde, but queerly 
 enough Miss Ridde was no longer there. In- 
 stead, by her side sat an old lady with a gentle, 
 distinguished face, and she smiled at Barbara 
 and said : 
 
 '' Well, my dear? Are you satisfied? " 
 
 Of course Barbara knew her. It was Mrs. 
 Myrtle. Mrs. Myrtle ! Well, what did she mean 
 when she said: *' Well, my dear, are you 
 satisfied? *' 
 
 She looked again at the young man speaking. 
 He was tall and loosely-limbed, with a broad 
 strong face, the blue eyes widely set, the brown 
 hair slightly ruffed. There was about him the 
 atmosphere of '* wide horizons." 
 
 She knew then. 
 
 She wanted to scream out : '* Caleb — my son ! 
 my son ! " 
 
 But she could not scream or cry; she could 
 only sit there, clutching — clutching. 
 
 He was speaking again : 
 
 ** Those of us who passed through the great 
 war, which happened long ago, hardly need re- 
 minding of the horrors of it. Its physical record 
 is set down for eternity to read. But, may I ask, 
 did nothing come out of it ? Men and women 
 pass away, but ideas take their revenge." 
 
296 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Yes, yes, that was it I That was what Caleb 
 would say. What did he call it ? Spiritual — 
 something spiritual — spiritual Nemesis ! Not 
 only in wars . . . 
 
 The House had vanished. She was all alone 
 On the top of a hill amongst the bracken. Her 
 feet were bleeding and her limbs ached. She had 
 walked far and the day was closing in. And yet 
 she was not unhappy; neither was she entirely 
 alone. Her thoughts were always responded to 
 by a large, comforting voice : 
 
 *' I am weary, broken, at my journey ^s end,'* 
 she said. 
 
 ** Journeys do not end,*' said the voice, 
 " Nothing ends. Everything flows on — irre- 
 sistibly.'* 
 
 Yes, I see that,** r/eplied Barbara quietly. 
 
 And yet I am a wicked woman. I cannot 
 escape my own weaknesses. Oh, listen to me, 
 stranger. I gave to the world a son. When I say 
 gave, I mean it literally. I gave him away to a 
 better woman than m3^self as a sacred trust. I 
 have seen him in the long hereafter. With my 
 hair greying I looked down into the hall where 
 he stood. I was a stranger — a distinguished 
 stranger. Think of that ! Did you ever hear of 
 a woman being a distinguished stranger to her 
 own son? He will never know his mother '* 
 
 There was a short silence, whilst her thoughts 
 ran riot. Then the voice capped her reflections : 
 
 *' So, you see, my dear, the pauper's grave in 
 Liverpool becomes the centre round which a new 
 world now revolves. Ideas take their revenge.*' 
 
 
HEARTBEAT 297 
 
 The hill was aglow with the amber light of the 
 sun on bracken and sand. 
 
 *' God is watching you/' said the voice. 
 
 '' Who is God ? ** she asked calmly. 
 
 '' When everything has been given, and every- 
 thing taken away, God is the pity which remains." 
 
 A strange sense of comfort stole over her. She 
 was not alone. One is never alone, perhaps. 
 Her body relaxed. She passed into a dreamless 
 sleep. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It was early morning of the third day after her 
 collapse. Her mind was perfectly clear, nakedly 
 free of illusions. The cold morning light, the 
 ugly wall-paper, Isabel snoring noisily. Well ? 
 She had visited strange places and she had come 
 back. 
 
 She was still Fancy, Fancy, with all the weight 
 of calamity upon her; still Fancy, with her rest- 
 lessness and weakness; still Fancy — broken free, 
 though, buoyed up by a comforting secret. 
 Things happen deep down within us. 
 
 She dressed quietly and went out. 
 
 It was late February, and there was a faint 
 touch of spring in the air. Crocuses and snow- 
 drops were already raising their modest heads in 
 neighbouring gardens. She drifted idly down 
 the streets, and her limbs responded to the move- 
 ment. She reached Hyde Park, and sat upon a 
 seat the opposite end of which was occupied by 
 
298 HEARTBEAT 
 
 a blotchy-faced lady fast asleep. Sparrows 
 quarrelled amongst the beds. Suddenly her heart 
 was touched with pity as she regarded the blotchy- 
 faced one — down and out, old and finished. But, 
 after all, wasn't she the same ? Down and out — 
 yes, but npt yet old or blotchy. She had her 
 youth. Nothing was left her but her youth. 
 Well, was youth a thing to be idly disregarded? 
 Free : she was free, not a responsibility in the 
 world. A curious thing, freedom, the possession 
 only of irresponsible people. Decent people 
 weren't free. They were tied hand and foot. 
 Something inspiring, though, about freedom. 
 After all, one might as well go on living. 
 
 She ambled back to the rooms in Notting Hill, 
 and found Isabel making tea, and looking 
 anxious. Barbara gave her the first smile for 
 three days. 
 
 " I've been for a walk, old girl.'* 
 
 '' Oh ! are you feeling better, Fancy? " 
 Yes. I shall be all right." 
 I do wish we could afford to send you away 
 for a bit." 
 
 Poor Isabel ! she had not yet received her first 
 week's money ! 
 
 ** It isn't necessary, darling. It's work I 
 want." 
 
 ** Will you go back to that pearl-stringing? " 
 
 " Oh, I expect so." 
 
 But she did not go back to the pearl-stringing. 
 She felt that the association of that room with 
 Mrs. Myrtle and her tragic connection would be 
 too much. She idled the days away. Her 
 
 
HEARTBEAT 299 
 
 health became normal. But she was hungry, 
 hungry for the good things. She wanted to dine 
 out, and they had no money. '* It's in my 
 blood," she thought. ** It's like Isabel said, ' If 
 
 you've ever been kissed properly ' I shall never 
 
 be able to work, not this ordinary, drudging kind 
 of work that decent people do." 
 
 On the night when Isabel got her salary 
 they spent a third of it within an hour on a 
 carouse. During the height of it, Barbara 
 reflected : 
 
 *' Who was it I kept saying I was not free to ? 
 I am free — I am free." 
 
 She parted with Isabel at the stage door. Then 
 she took a 'bus to Piccadilly and walked briskly 
 through St. James' Square. She found the flat 
 occupied by Theodore Moffat. The clean young 
 animal was dressing. He had dined in the City 
 and was going to a dance. A man showed her 
 into his sitting-room. In a few minutes he 
 appeared, looking rather handsome and aston- 
 ished. He cried out : 
 
 '' Hullo, Betty! "—she had told him that her 
 name was Betty Broadhurst — *' This is a delight- 
 ful and unexpected surprise." 
 
 Barbara stood a-quiver on the hearthrug, her 
 face immobile but her bosom heaving rapidly. 
 She said quietly : 
 
 *' You said once that a bargain was a bargain, 
 a deal a deal; and that if I came to you " 
 
 Moffat was even more astonished, too aston- 
 ished to rush the position. He replied 
 questioningly : 
 
300 HEARTBEAT 
 
 '* You would like me to — help you in some 
 way ? Come, tell me '* 
 
 '' Fm hard up and desperate. Yes, I want you 
 to help me/' 
 
 ''All right, old girl. Come now, sit down; 
 let's talk about it. Have a drink/' 
 
 She sat on the Chesterfield, and he poured out 
 two drinks. They silently consumed them, as if 
 in need of encouragement for the crisis to follow. 
 Yes, there was a touch of the gentleman and the 
 sportsman about this man. She could believe 
 that he had never — taken advantage of a friend 
 or an enemy. Suddenly she broke out with : 
 
 *' You understand, Mr. Moffat, Vm not — one 
 of those women, don't you ? Neither I nor my 
 friend. Only I'm desperate. I shall soon be 
 hungry and — one might as well go on living. 
 When you spoke to me I was not free. Now I 
 am free. I haven't a shred of responsibility in 
 the world — and very little conscience, I'm 
 afraid " 
 
 The significance of her visit was now clearly 
 patent to him. The good fortune almost tongue- 
 tied him. He whispered : 
 
 *' You mean to say that if I help you, you " 
 
 *' A bargain's a bargain. A deal's a deal, I'm 
 not going to take your money for nothing. Only 
 one thing — if I remain straight with you, you 
 must promise to remain straight with me." 
 
 Very solemnly he repeated: ''I'll remain 
 straight with you. I promise." 
 
 He went to take her in his arms, but she 
 repulsed him gently. 
 
HEARTBEAT 301 
 
 " Not yet, man ! Listen to me. I want to talk 
 first, fairly and squarely as one human being to 
 another. A bargain's a bargain, a deal's a deal. 
 You will keep me in comfort and make me an 
 allowance, eh ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 '' I want something more from you than that. 
 I shall be a kept woman, old boy. Is it possible 
 to make it a reasonably decent life ? Come, you 
 are acting dishonourably in keeping me. I am 
 acting dishonourably in coming to you. We are 
 both pretty low down; but don't let us sink 
 altogether!. We mingle our virtues and our 
 vices. I know myself pretty well now. I'm a 
 miserable compromise. I can neither be entirely 
 virtuous, nor entirely vicious. I have made my- 
 self like that. There are a lot of women like me. 
 But I don't want to sit around in this flat, idling 
 and drinking and smoking, waiting for you to 
 turn up and demand your rights. I want some 
 sort of companionship. I want work, and 
 interests, and distractions." 
 
 ** You shall have all that, Betty. I also am not 
 all either virtuous or vicious." 
 
 *' My name isn't Betty, It's Fancy Telling. 
 I was an actress, but that's all over. We've got 
 to be dead straight with each other. I hate these 
 women of the demi-monde, not because they're 
 vicious — usually they're not— but because they're 
 damned lazy. The people I like are the kind of 
 people you meet lunching in an A. B.C., little 
 clerks and typists, with ordered lives and an eager 
 intentness in all kinds of insignificant things, 
 
302 HEARTBEAT 
 
 walking about in the sun after a cup of coffee, 
 looking in the shop windows — ripping ! *' 
 
 ** You're a queer girl, Fancy. If you feel like 
 that, why don't you go and get a job — I could get 
 you a job — instead of coming to me? " 
 
 " Because I'm Fancy Telling, I can see it all, 
 but I can't do it, if you know what I mean. I 
 should break out one day and destroy the whole 
 thing. I altered Barbara Powerscourt, but I 
 can't alter Fancy Telling, You can alter what 
 you are, but you can't alter what you make your- 
 self. I've made myself that. Crudely speaking, 
 you want me for certain animal satisfactions. 
 Perhaps I'm the same. I shall never love you. I 
 shall never love anyone again " 
 
 She walked to the window and listened to the 
 distant roar of traffic. Suddenly she remarked : 
 
 " I like to have things straightforward. 
 Doesn't it seem queer ! There's you and I 
 making our bargain here quite decently together, 
 with London roaring all around us. If they knew, 
 they would — I don't know what they'd do. 
 They'd certainly say we were very wicked. They 
 have to have labels for everything. And yet 
 they're all very much the same. London is a 
 kind of clearing-house of the emotions. Some 
 belong to one company, some to another, and 
 they have to be sifted, and sorted, and labelled. 
 But underneath it all — lies the great pity." 
 
 ** By gum, you're a strange kid ! There's only 
 one thing I'm frightened about." 
 
 *' What's that? " 
 
 " I'll get too fond of you." 
 
HEARTBEAT 303 
 
 *' Do you love your wife? *' 
 
 " In a way — yes/* 
 
 *' Why do you do this, then? '' 
 
 " You're candid with me. I'll be candid with 
 you. The kind of thing — you and I — the reason 
 why you're here, I mean — that kind of thing 
 bores her. I don't believe she'd even mind very 
 much if she knew — about you. I'm made 
 differently. That's all." 
 
 " But if you fell in love with me ? " 
 
 " Golly! There'd be hell! " 
 
 *' Then you mustn't. Another point, friend." 
 
 ^* What's that?" 
 
 *' No children." 
 
 *' I should be as anxious as you that that 
 shouldn't happen." 
 
 He went across to her and put his arms around 
 her shoulders. When he spoke his voice was 
 husky with passion. 
 
 " Is it a bargain, then ? " 
 
 *' Yes." 
 Kid, I'm not going to that dance to-night." 
 
 i( 
 
 XV. 
 
 And so she went to live with Theodore Moffat, 
 and within the limit of their code he played 
 straight with her, and she played straight with 
 him. 
 
 ** One day he'll tire of me," she thought. 
 *' Well, when that day comes I shall look out for 
 another — if I'm not too old." 
 
304 HEARTBEAT 
 
 Old age ! No, she didn't fear old age. Nature 
 has a way of forcing us to adapt ourselves. And 
 when everything has been given, and everything 
 taken away , . . 
 
 She was quite happy in the young man*s flat, 
 singing quietly as she went about her duties. If 
 the day was cold or wet there was always the 
 morrow when the sun would shine, the busy 
 streets, people hurrying hither and thither. Dear 
 people ! — every face with a different story to tell; 
 music stealing through open doorways, glitter 
 and movement, pity and pathos, and that almost 
 unbelievable courage. A long way ahead it 
 would all come right — ** the pity which remains.*' 
 Isabel would come to tea. She would come up 
 the stairs, puffing, sloppy, and a little bewildered. 
 
 '* Fancy, you beat me, darling. I never 
 thought you'd do this ! *' 
 
 Darling Isabel ! 
 
 She was not frightened. She went to South 
 Kensington Museum and made a real study of old 
 lace this time. She started making lace. She 
 kept accounts. She mended the poor man's linen, 
 darned his socks, ministered to his wants, read 
 a little—*' Shibboleths," eh? 
 
 A long way ahead . . . 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY THE FIELD PRESS LTD., WINDSOR HOUSE, 
 bream's BUILDINGS, LONDON, E.G. 4. 
 
\ 
 
 r'' ' y.>.^ 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 
 OCT 10 1947 
 
 260ct'64HK 
 
 REC'D LP 
 
 JUL 9'65-lOwf"' 
 
 1 .1 
 
 REC'D LD AUG 1 
 
 
 
 BEC. CIR, AUG 4 '80 
 
 271 -12PM w3 
 
 LD 21-100?n-12,'46(A2012sl6)4120 
 
YB 32149 
 
 b 
 
 
 H- •.- 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY