ANN
Lady Ann Minteralighted thankfully.
After the burden and heat of the third-class carriage the evening air of Suet was like a drink of water—out of a dirty mug. Still, it was water: and the journey down had been hell. After all, the tip of a beggar’s finger made a desirable continent for a certain rich man.
Her husband took her arm and shepherded her out of the press.
“See now, kid,” he said tenderly, setting her dressing-case down, “you jus’ stay ’ere an’ watch out for me. I’m off to find your trunk.”
“All right, Bob,” said Lady Ann Minter.
Alone for the first time since her marriage, she strove to marshal her thoughts. These, however, were mutinous. The flight of opportunity, the welter of noise and movement on the fringe of which she stood undermined her authority. It was vital that she should think quickly and clearly, that she should make up her mind. Everything was depending upon immediate decision. But the very premises were denied her. She was wild to face the facts: but the facts danced and flickered and would not be faced.
Hideous, blazing queries blinded her fumbling brain. She found herself reading them aloud.
“Why didn’t I think of all this? How can I possibly bear it? What shall I do—do?”
And then the scorching answers.
“God knows . . . I must . . .Nothing. . . .”
She saw her father standing with his back to the log-laden hearth—saw his white, set face and his tightened lips. There were roses on the mantelpiece behind him, and a Morland hanging above—a spreading oak and a cottage and a jolly brown horse. . . . and a woman was standing in the doorway, holding a little boy, and a man on the horse was smiling . . . and they were all alone and happy, under the spreading oak . . . very poor and simple, but alone and very happy. . . .
She saw her aunt on her knees with tears running down her face—saw the china ranged orderly upon the walls—smelt the pot-pourri she had made the year before. The evening sun was pouring into the chamber, planting badges of gold on plate and bowl and pitcher, turning the closet into a queen’s parlour. . . .
She saw the register office and the registrar’s face like a mask, heard the cameras click as she and Bob passed out, felt the insolent stares of the waiter who brought them lunch. . . .
The journey down had been frightful. The heat, the discomfort, the everlasting talk. . . .
The coaches had been standing in the August sun and had become veritable ovens. Such air as entered them was baked instantly. Yet, the fight for seats had been savage—one woman had been knocked down, and children had been dragged and trampled. Bob had secured two places because he was strong, but one had been seized before his bride could take possession. A violent dispute had followed, while Ann stood between the seats smiling nervously and ready to die of shame. Indeed, but for the timely eviction of another inmate, the sudden activity of whose diaphragm disclosed the moving fact that he was considerably the worse for liquor, relations must have been strained beyond the breaking-point. The spectacle, however, of the wages of intemperance had proved that touch of Nature which can twitch discord into harmony, and for the next twenty minutes various appreciations of the episode revealed a cordial unanimity which was almost affecting. That a family in a corner should at the last moment have been rudely reinforced by the irruption of two small boys was sheer misfortune. In the absence of seating accommodation it had been impossible to protest against their occupation of the open windows—delicious tenancies, of which they took full advantage, boisterously exchanging reports and frequently subletting their coigns of vantage to one another. The corporal enfilading of the compartment which such arrangements necessitated had soon developed into a game, the pursuit of which their kinsfolk made no attempt to check until a particularly deliberate collision had afforded one tenant a pretext for hitting the other on the nose. The consequences of the assault had been frightful. The combatants were dragged yelling apart, the aggressor was cuffed into tears more explosive than those of his victim, both were shaken and reviled, the flow of blood was arrested by a handkerchief which had already been used as a dressing and was swaddling an ounce of bull’s-eyes, hideous threats were issued, provocative comments upon upbringing were audibly exchanged. Only the production of food had at all relieved the tension, but under the healing influence of snacks good humour had more or less revived. A baby-in-arms had been given a ham sandwich—at least, the apex had been introduced into its mouth. It gnashed and sucked contentedly, while protruding shreds of fat liquefied upon its chin. A girl had abstractedly devoured plums and put the stones in Ann’s lap. A married couple opposite had seemed incapable of underestimating the capacity of their mouths, thus inconceivably embarrassing their efforts to keep the ball ofbadinagerolling and distorting such retorts as they felt must be expressed into fresh dummies for their opponents’ thrusts. Before the meal was over the train had run into a tunnel and, after slowing down to a crawl, come to a dead stop. Someone had giggled, and a burst of hysterical laughter had succeeded the soft impeachment of gallantry. In the midst of it all Ann had felt Bob’s arm steal round her and his lips on her cheek. He had kept his arm about her for the rest of the trip. . . .
And now—
Again she tried to concentrate—haul her thoughts into line. They came sluggishly.
Married . . . she was married . . . married to Bob—Bob Minter, one of her father’s grooms. She had done it because she loved him. She had married him in London that morning, and——That morning? Was it possible that it was only that morning? Was it only that morning that the registrar had bowed and . . .
Her thoughts began to slip away. She let them go.
She stared at her wedding-ring . . . touched—plucked at it desperately.
The hideous queries and answers leapt like rams possessed.
“Why? God knows. . . . How can I? I must. . . . What?Nothing.”
For an instant panic fear looked out of her steady grey eyes.
Then—
“All serene, kid. I’ve got the goods,” panted Bob. He turned to a shambling porter, thrusting a truck. “Say, mate, where d’you keep your taxis?”
“Not ’ere,” said the porter. “Might get a keb.”
He preceded them wearily.
“You—you’ve got rooms, Bob?” faltered his bride.
Her husband’s eyes shone as he slid an arm beneath hers.
“Course I ’ave, kid.” He hesitated. Then, “I didn’ mean to tell you, but . . . I won’ be able to give you the ’ome you ought to ’ave—servants an’ cars an’ whatnot. More’s the pity. But jus’ this once—for this fortnight I’ve done my lady proud.” His voice began to tremble with excitement and pride. “You’ve got the bes’ room in Suet, darlin’—the best on the ’ole parade. There ain’t a fine lady in the town that’s got such a room. The Countess of ’Ampshire used to ’ave it, an’ all the ’igh muck-a-mucks ’ave bit an’ scratched to get it whenever they come this way. Firs’ floor—looks right over the pier. . . . An’ not a chair moved, nor a picture. You’ll ’ave it jus’ the same. You see, my aunt she keeps apartments—the best in Suet: an’ when we fixed things up I wrote to ’er, told ’er on the Q.T. an’ said I wanted ’er firs’ bedroom—jus’ for you. An’ she wrote beck an’ said that you should ’ave it if she ’ad to turn people out. She’s a good ’eart is old Aunt ’Arriet. Givin’ it us at a cut price, too—season an’ all. An’ we’ll grub with ’er an’ the girls an’ Uncle Tom—I tell you, kid, they don’t ’alf know ’ow to live. Why, you’ll be as fat as butter ’fore we go beck to Town.”
Ann’s brain reeled.
‘Grub with her and the girls and Uncle Tom. . . . Grub with . . .’
The station-yard faded, and the Morland above the mantelpiece stole into view—the spreading oak and the cottage and the girl standing at the door . . . and the man on the horse smiling . . . the humble intimacy of the scene—the simple happiness—the precious privacy . . .privacy. . . .
She was outcaste, of course—excommunicate. The order had been made that morning. She had signed it herself deliberately—with open eyes. More. She had done it gladly. She wanted to be expelled, that she might live with Bob—but under a spreading oak. . .in a cottage. . .alone, as outcastes live. . . not—not at Suet . . . not ‘grubbing with Aunt Harriet and the girls and Uncle Tom.’ . . . She thought Bob had understood that. She had told him so plainly—a child could have understood. And yet . . .
The pathos of his failure hit her between the eyes. He couldn’t grasp that she didn’t want ‘a show’—couldn’t appreciate such heresy. Her words had meant nothing. Because she was his great lady, she must have as fine a show as he could compass. Other women must be made jealous of her fortune. Others could skulk in cottages and under spreading oaks; but she must go to Suet—fashionable Suet, and have the best room in the place . . . looking over the pier. . . . It was the most loving compliment he could pay.
By a supreme effort Ann drove the consternation out of her eyes, shook off the cold clutch of Horror and squeezed her husband’s arm.
“You’re very good to me, Bob,” she said steadily. “I think you were wonderful to think of it all. We shall—shall be grand having the best room in Suet.”
Bob coloured with delight.
“Oh, it’s nothin’ much,” he said awkwardly. “I ’spect you’ve often ’ad rooms pretty near as good. But I—I like to think I’ll be giving you the best . . . jus’ for once.”
He broke away and made for a cabman, who, learning his applicant’s vocation, might see his way to take them on trade terms.
Ann watched him dazedly.
Nothing, it seemed, was to be spared her—nothing.
The discovery that she had made one grand, imperishable mistake stunned her: the savagery of the penalty she was to pay made her soul blench: but the ghastly, mocking irony of poor Bob’s solicitude cut like a cold, wet lash. Foul tongue in cheek, the spirit of Satire was possessing his honest heart. Beneath this hideous influence, thought, word and loving deed emerged grotesque, cross-gartered. He ushered some tender travesty with every breath. The eager pride with which he strove to make Fate split its sides tore at Ann’s heart. It was pathetic—with the pathos of the dying dog that whimpers to think it cannot rise to make its master sport. And just because it was so heartrending he could not possibly be told. Blow, lash, claw had to be suffered unflinchingly. He—he could not be told.
As for her love——
Ann put a hand to her head, as though to focus the truth.
Her passion for Bob was gone. The flax was not even smoking. The fire had been quenched.
Ann felt cold with shame.
Bob had been so fearful, and her love had cast out his fear. He had never doubted her love, but only whether that love could survive the strain. And she had fought to convince him, till he had been convinced. He believed heart and soul in its ability . . . heart and soul. . . . And now—Bob had been right. Her dauntless love had not endured eight hours—not eight hours. . . .
Of course she hadn’t appreciated. There had been a misunderstanding. She had assumed——
The excuses leaked like sieves. The truth poured out of them.
It was she—she only that was to blame.She hadn’t thought of all this. Her father had. So had her aunt. So even had Bob—poor, weak, unsophisticated Bob. With tears in his eyes, he had begged her not to smash his life; and she had smiled and kissed him and smashed it and smashed hers too.
The Sting of Death sank to a pin-prick, the Victory of the Grave to an unfinished game—beside the horror of the fare which Life was serving.
It seemed, indeed, that she was to be spared nothing.
Bob returned beaming. His wooing of the cabman had prospered, for, as luck would have it, the latter was in a holiday humour. He had been upon the point of returning to his stable, and ‘Pier View’ was on his way. He would drive them for nothing. He was, as Bob put it, ‘a proper sport.’ It soon appeared that he was a wag also.
In these circumstances it was most natural that his consent to oblige a pal should automatically promote him to the standing of a familiar. He celebrated his elevation heartily by a series of jocular allusions to nuptial bliss and intimate reminiscences of his own union, by tying a posy to his whip and desiring lustily to be informed of the shortest way to the Abode of Love.
The bystanders roared.
Encouraged by this reception, he stopped outside the station, and acquainting a policeman with the facts, begged the loan of his white gloves, his own, as he explained, ‘bein’ put away by me valet wiv me ’untin’ things. You know wot these servants are, officer.’
He was really extremely funny.
For the rest of the way he contented himself with a lively and affectionate communion with Lady Ann’s trunk—an effort which, to judge from the scandalized shrieks of mirth which followed them, went very well with such pedestrians as they passed. Indeed, their progress was triumphal.
Bob enjoyed it thoroughly, as one enjoys being rallied upon a possession of which one is justly proud. He was all sheepish smiles. Ann was all smiles, too. Her face ached with the strain. Every nerve in her body was squirming. She was upon the edge of hysteria.
“God knows . . . I must . . .Nothing. . . .”
Satire spat upon his hands and laid fresh hold of her tail.
Upon arrival at ‘Pier View’ it proved unnecessary for three several reasons, all of which were evil, to ring the front-door bell. In the first place, they did not and were not expected to use the front door. Secondly, a small boy, who was at once wearing a tight green blazer and dirty flannel shorts, swinging idly upon the area gate and contemplating the seething pageant of pleasure-seekers under the comfortable auspices of a generous complement of butterscotch, took one look at husband and wife and then fell down the steps, bellowing, “ ’Ere they are!” Thirdly, the little knot of passers-by which would long ago have collected, had the equipage but halted, began to give the driver an appreciative hearing.
Bob was out of the fly and stooping to set Ann’s dressing-case by the area gate; as he turned, the small boy reappeared, followed by a large business-like countenance which gave the impression of being able to look extremely unpleasant but was at the moment wreathed in winning smiles; flanking this, rose two other feminine faces, open-mouthed, peering—one fat, snub-nosed, jolly-eyed; the other discontented and pinched; the little knot of bystanders was swelling into an obstruction; the cabman was relating an anecdote which pointed the wisdom of the removal of boots before retiring. . . .
Ann saw it all as in an ugly dream.
It occurred to her that the train-journey and this were but the prologue—the induction to the play she had commanded, the devilish comedy in which she was to play the lead. The induction had been startling, but the play . . . The play was to be the thing. Of course. Plays were. The prologue was nothing. So far she had hardly appeared. When the curtain rose on the play . . . She found herself wondering if there would be an epilogue.
Suddenly, with a frightful shock, she realized that the curtain was up, that the stage was waiting . . .waiting. . . that this—was—her—cue. . . .
Crowd laughs at cabman’s sallies. Aunt Harriet and the girls reach the top of the area steps. Bob is busy with her trunk. Gramophone next door starts ‘YES! We have no bananas.’ Cabman stops his discourse, listens intently, and then says, ‘ ’Ark! The ’erald angels sing.’ Crowd yells with delight.EnterThe Lady Ann Minter. . . .
Ann pulled herself together and got out of the cab.
Then she turned to the driver and put out her hand.
“Thank you so much for bringing us,” she said most charmingly.
It was a fatal gesture—because it was the act of a lady.
The laughter snapped off short: the grins faded: the genial atmosphere stiffened with a jar.
The cabman’s assurance fell from him like a shirt of mail. His drollery collapsed before a mountainous wave of respect.
He took off his shabby hat and touched the slight fingers.
“Thank you, m’m,” he said humbly.
Amidst a gaping silence Ann turned to the steps.
She could hear the breathing of the bystanders, feel their resentful stares burning her face. She had spoiled sport, embarrassed, turned the frolic she should have led into a ceremony they could not follow. She had drawn the whip of her superiority, flourished it, laid it across their shoulders. Only the gramophone continued to spout its ghastly pleasantry, like a clown mouthing in a death-chamber.
‘We’ve broad beans like BUN-ions, cab-BAH-ges and HON-ions . . .’
Before this master-stroke of Satire Ann could have burst into tears. She had striven wildly to rise to the occasion, only to shatter—to let the whole thing down. . . . The awful hopelessness of her position flamed. Envy, Hatred and Malice, then, had been appointed her equerries. Not only was she to suffer: she was to cause suffering, breed discontent, induce ill-will. The efforts which she must make were doomed before they were made not only to fail but to turn to her condemnation. And she could do nothing, because there was nothing to be done. She had sold her birthright, but she could not sell her birth. Her style, her speech, her plumage could not be doffed. She was a peacock in daw’s feathers—and the daws would fiercely resent her condescension.
‘But YES! We have no bananas. . . . We have no bananas to-day.’
‘Would resent’?Were resenting. . . .
As she crossed the pavement—
“Oh, ’aughty,” said someone. “Sten’ beck fer the Lady Ermyntrude.”
There was a stifled giggle.
Her face flaming, Ann stepped to her hostess, who was palpably intoxicated with the prospect of communion with her guest and determined unmistakably to adorn a plane upon which lack of opportunity alone had hitherto prevented her from ambling. It was important that her new niece should at once appreciate that there was not the slightest necessity for her to step down. Here and now she must be made to realize that her aunt was fully qualified to step up.
Out went her hand chin-high.
“ ’Ow-de-doo, Lady Ann. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I ’ope you aren’t very fatigued, but it’s so ’ot for travellin’.” She turned to rend the bystanders. “Stare a bit ’arder, won’t you? An’ where’s your kemp-stools? Albert, ketch up that dressin’-case before it’s pinched.” The small boy sprang to do her bidding. “An’ don’ beng it on the steps. Come in, Lady Ann.” She began to descend, driving the girls before her. “I ’ope you left ’is lordship well.”
“Very—very well, thank you,” stammered Ann.
“Oh, I’m gled of thet,” said Aunt Harriet ecstatically. “It’s so nice to think of one’s deer ones——” She swung round to glare at the railings. “Albert, go back an’ see who threw them srimps. . . . ‘Orrible, vulgar brutes!” She stood fairly heaving with rage. “Reelly, the people that comes to Suet nowadays, Lady Ann—well, I don’t know where they was born. I didn’ know there was such people. Push you as soon as look at you. Reelly, one’s better at ’ome. Walkin’ out’s no pleasure at all. But come in, deer. Come in an’ meet the girls.”
She guided Ann through the passage and into a parlour.
The table was laid for a meal and there were covers for eight.
Standing uneasily together as though for protection were the two girls and two young men.
The sour-faced girl was adopting a nonchalant air. Hand on hip, eyebrows raised, lip curled, she sought self-consciously to veil her self-consciousness. Her jolly-eyed sister appeared to be upon the edge of hysteria. Her face was set in a nervous frozen grin, her hands were twitching, her eyes riveted upon the floor. The youths were, if possible, still less at ease. Both were tall and weedy. One was dark and throaty—a quality which his belief in a tennis-shirt Byronically open at the neck, with the collar carelessly arranged above that of his coat, served to accentuate. His long hair was unparted, oiled and brushed straight back. Two inches of close-cut side-whisker and an amazing length of finger-nail argued æsthetic tendencies which the soulful expression of his sallow face was intended to declare. He gave the impression of being able to groan efficiently. The other had a jaunty, more worldly air. His tiny moustache was waxed, his fair hair parted in the middle and curled into twin horns. He was clearly conscious of his superiority and, that there might be no mistake about it, was languidly sucking his teeth. His collar—a soft creation of broad black and white stripes—his red and chocolate tie, the golden kerchief flowing from his breast-pocket showed that he knew how to dress.
“These are me daughters,” explained Aunt Harriet, “an’ their gentlemen-frien’s. May . . .”
The sour-eyed girl advanced and shook hands—then turned, flushing violently, to toy with a book.
“Ada.”
The jolly-eyed girl gulped, giggled, started forward, missed Ann’s hand, tried again, clutched it anyhow and withdrew.
“Mr. Barnham.”
The æsthete thrust forward, stumbled, bowed over Ann’s fingers and turned confusedly away.
“Mr. Alcock.”
Mr. Alcock delighted in showing how things should be done. Here was a brilliant opportunity of at once asserting his superiority, astonishing Ann, who would be thankful to find such unexpectedsavoir-faire, and dispelling any skulking idea that to carry off such an encounter was beyond his powers. He stepped forward briskly.
“Pleased to meet you, indeed,” he said warmly. “ ’Ow’s Piccadilly?”
It was a difficult question to answer.
Before Ann had found a reply, there was the appalling explosion with which laughter which has been denied its usual channel forces the narrows of the nose. The strain had been too great. Nature had asserted herself. Ada had broken down.
Before her relatives’ horrified gaze, she abandoned herself to succeeding paroxysms of mirth, to which, to his undying shame, Mr. Barnham began sniggeringly to subscribe.
The devastation of gentility was too awful.
Mr. Alcock blenched, recovered, turned slowly purple and broke into a gleaming sweat. Ann regarded him as though fascinated. Two red spots of dishonour burned upon May’s cheekbones. Aunt Harriet was making a rattling noise. . . . All the time convulsion after convulsion shook the destructive to her foundations. And Mr. Barnham shook also.
“Aida!”
The rasp in her mother’s tone brought her up short. The former was glaring unutterably.
As her daughter’s abominable emotions began to subside, Aunt Harriet turned to her guest.
“Hoverwrought,” she said in the tone of one who is publicly excusing whom she intends privately to flay alive. “Takes after ’er father. Shell we go upstairs, Lady Ann? I’m sure you’ld like to take a look at your room, an’ we can ’ave a quiet chat.”
“I’ld love to,” said Ann.
As she came to the door, she glanced round.
Mr. Alcock had slunk to the window and was savagely employing a service-dressed brother of the golden kerchief. Ada, red-nosed and bloated with exertion, stared blearedly upon the ground. May was regarding the cornice with smouldering eyes. Mr. Barnham appeared to be about to prophesy no good, but evil.
“So—so long,” said Ann pleasantly.
The others stared back.
“Me deer,” said Aunt Harriet, labouring up the stairs, “I want you to feel that this is a nome from ’ome. Merriage is a wrench. One leaves a lovin’ ’ome for a strange country. An’ you do feel strange. I remember me own merriage. Down we goes to a little one-eyed place with never a soul as knew wot a lady was. I tell you I felt that lonely I could ’ave cut me throat. But you’ve no call to do that. You’re among frien’s ’ere that feels as you do an’ likes the ways you like. I give you me word, Lady Ann, vulgarity makes me sick. An’ there’s so much of it to-day.”
Arrived at a door upon the first floor, she opened it and passed into a large, dingily furnished bedroom facing the sea. The brown wallpaper was bruised and soiled: the threadbare carpet was overlaid with cheap rugs: a voluminous muslin valance swaddled the dressing-table: wardrobe, washstand and bed recalled the several sale-rooms whence they had come: a rusty horse-hair couch sulked in a corner: spotted engravings of Royalty being baptized or married or churched hung upon the walls: a cord of one of the Venetian blinds had broken, and the slats were splayed: a window of the bay was open and admitting something of what seemed to be the uproar of a gigantic fair.
“There,” said the proud hostess, mechanically laying folded hands upon the abdominal wall. “Simple, but tasty. I remember so well the firs’ time the Countess of ’Ampshire was ’ere. ‘Mrs. Root,’ she says, ‘people ’as an idea that we titleds must ’ave display. Completely wrong. Now, my bedroom at ’Assocks is jus’ like this—quiet, but distanggy.’ ”
“It’s delightful,” said Ann, looking round. “I—I don’t feel strange at all.”
“Couldn’ if you tried,” was the triumphant reply. “It’s so—so res’ful.” She sank on to a chair. “An’ now, me deer, make yourself at ’ome. This is your private room in ’Oliday ’Ouse.”
“You’re very kind,” said Ann.
“Don’ mention it.”
The abrupt injunction was disconcerting. It was not meant, of course, to be obeyed. On the contrary. . . . After searching desperately for words with which to flout its blunt authority—
“I—I wonder where Bob is,” faltered Ann. “If I could have my dressing-case . . .”
“Now, don’t you go makin’ any toilet,” said Aunt Harriet. “We’ll be goin’ out presently. Not that I don’t like changin’,” she added hastily, “because I do. But Tom—my husban’s that slack. In course I’m afraid I’ve fell away, but there you are. Where’s the good of me makin’ meself tidy, when ’is idea of dressin’ is to take ’is collar orf?” She sighed heavily. “But there, there,” she added. “We all ’as our crorse to bear.”
“Well, I’ll just wash my face and hands,” said Ann. “One gets so dirty in the train.”
“Just as you please,” said her hostess. “I’m afraid it’s waste o’ time—the pier’s that filthy—but it’ll freshen you up.”
She fought her way past the dressing-table and thrust her head out of the window.
“Albert,” she yelled.
“ ’Ullo,” rose the small boy’s voice.
“Don’t say ’Ullo’ to me,” snapped Aunt Harriet.
“Whatsay?”
His great-aunt drew in her breath.
“Where’s Bob?” she demanded.
“Gone to ’ave a drink with the driver.”
“Well, leave that there trunk an’ fetch up Lady Ann’s dressin’-case.”
“Whatsay?”
Albert’s inability to hear unwelcome tidings was a maddening complaint.
His great-aunt looked volumes.
“You ’eard well enough jus’ now,” she said in a shaking voice.
“Bob tole me to wait ’ere.”
“An’ I tell you to fetch up Lady Ann’s case.”
“Whatsay?”
Aunt Harriet left the window and erupted from the room.
Albert put the road between himself and ‘Pier View.’
Ann took off her hat and flung herself face downward upon the bed. . . .
“Why didn’t I think of all this?God knows.How can I possibly bear it?I must.What shall I do—do?Nothing.”
It occurred to Ann suddenly that it was all intensely funny. The comedy of the situation was rich. Albert—Aunt Harriet—Mr. Alcock alone would have brought down the house. Surely, her sense of humour . . .
Somebody laughed—wildly.
Ann perceived that here was another of Satire’s subtleties. Nothing so obvious as tragedy was to be her portion. She was to be tormented by a roaring farce—a farce that was founded on tears and broken dreams and all the cureless agony of passionate regret. It was the Dance of Doom, if not of Death.
When Aunt Harriet reappeared, lugging the dressing-case, she was manifestly conscious that, but for her guest’s whimsy, she would have been spared great provocation, distasteful exercise and—most important of all—a menial task. She certainly managed to smile, but it was a crooked business. She felt that her mask had slipped.
So soon as Ann was ready, the two descended—thoughtfully. The ladylike bond of union which Aunt Harriet had forged seemed to have stretched. All Ann’s efforts to contract it but served to emphasize its slenderness.
Mercifully, Bob was in the parlour, exchanging cheerful reminiscences with a jolly, fat man who proved to be Uncle Tom.
Her husband presented Ann, with shining eyes.
For a moment the fat man looked at her. Then he inclined his head.
“Your servant, me lady,” he said respectfully.
“Rot,” said Ann. “You’re my uncle,” and kissed him then and there.
“Oh, you peach,” said her uncle, and kissed her back. With his arm about her, he addressed the rest of the company. “Jus’ leave us alone a few minutes, will you?” he said. “There’s one or two ’ymns we want to run over together.”
This allusion to a recent scandal in which a local pillar of the nonconformist church was involved naturally evoked great merriment.
Ann tried to be thankful.
It also inspired Mr. Alcock.
“Break away, break away, there,” he cried.
Uncle Tom screwed round his head.
“Percy, me lad,” he said, “you ’aven’t a chance. This little girl likes ’em fat.”
Squeaks of delight contributed to another explosion of mirth.
They sat down to tea hilariously. . . .
“Do you ’unt at all?” said Mr. Alcock, presenting a dish of shrimps.
“I’ve given it up,” said Ann.
“ ’E means by night,” said Uncle Tom.
The laughter was renewed.
“Oh, give over, pa,” wailed Ada. “You’ve give me the ’iccups.”
It was too true.
Seats were left: remedies were commended: the victim was conjured—to no purpose. Spasm succeeded spasm with sickening regularity.
“ ’Old your breath,” said Bob.
Ada inspired and sat like a graven image.
The others watched her in a silence pregnant with expectation.
Her eyes began to protrude. . . .
“Stick it,” said Bob. “Stick it.”
A dusky flush began to steal into her face: sweat gathered on her brow: she was squinting. . . .
At last she let her breath go with a loose rush.
For a moment she breathed peacefully. Then a belated spasm convulsed her frame.
There was a rustle of consternation.
Suddenly, with a blood-curdling roar, Mr. Barnham smote upon the board.
In a second all was confusion.
Ann started to her feet: Aunt Harriet screamed: May recoiled against the wall: Bob and Mr. Alcock regarded their compeer open-mouthed: Uncle Tom, who had been in the act of drinking, was coughing and cursing and wringing tea from his moustache.
What was more to the point, Ada stopped hiccuping.
When Mr. Barnham pointed this out, the fact was coldly received.
“Enough to make anybody stop anything,” snarled Aunt Harriet. “Don’t you know ’ow to be’ave?”
“In course I do,” said Mr. Barnham. “You never see me do that before.”
“No, an’ don’t you never let me see you do it again,” was the tart reply. “Nasty, vulgar ’abits.”
“But I done it to stop ’er ’iccups,” protested the ill-used youth.
“I don’t want to know why you done it,” observed his hostess. “You done it—an’ that’s enough. You oughtter be ashamed of yourself. . . . May, give Lady Ann a cut of beef.”
With goggling eyes, Mr. Barnham proceeded in some dudgeon to the consumption of a hunk of dry bread, presumably with some vague idea that this mortification of the flesh would stimulate a recognition of his injury.
Conversation revived.
Mr. Alcock spoke of sport, commending the pursuit of lawn tennis with the air of one who has tried everything and come to the reluctant conclusion that that pastime is a better antidote toennuithan any other.
Uncle Tom recounted a dispute which had arisen in the saloon bar ofThe Goatregarding elephantiasis. His narrative slid naturally enough into a vivid comparison of such cases of this complaint as had come under his notice or that of the other patrons of the saloon bar. Aunt Harriet, even more naturally, proved able and willing to supplement his list with personal experiences so distressing as to suggest that an inscrutable Providence had chosen her among women to be harrowed in this peculiar way.
May related how someone had ‘passed the remark’ that a new char-à-banc service was to be instituted between Suet and Lather, and asked Ann if she was fond of motoring.
Ann replied with enthusiasm.
“I think it’s tremendous fun.”
“D’you ’ave the Blue Fleet in Dorset?”
“I—I don’t know,” stammered Ann. “Do we, Bob?”
“Yes, dear,” said Bob. “That bounder wot ’it your coopy was one o’ the Blue Fleet.”
There was an awful silence.
“Your coopy?” said Uncle Tom.
“Er, yes,” said Ann desperately.
“Nice, tight little car, too,” said Bob. “Wish I could give ’er one now.”
“A.C.?” ventured Mr. Alcock.
“ ‘A.C.’?” said Bob. “Forty-fifty Rolls.”
There was another silence.
“Must ’ve bin delightful,” said Aunt Harriet shakily. “Still, there’s things beside cars.”
“Rather,” said Ann heartily.
“Such as wot?” said Uncle Tom.
“Well, all isn’t gold as glitters,” snapped his wife.
“That’s true,” said Mr. Barnham sagely.
“Woddyer mean?” said his host. “Wot’s true? A Rolls moter coopy’s good enough fer mos’ people.”
“Well, an’ who said it wasn’t?” said May.
“Look ’ere,” said her father. “Your mother said there was things beside cars.”
“So there is,” said May. “Fine clothes an’ fine relations.”
She laughed spitefully.
“Shut up, May,” said Ada. “She never said she ’ad a coopy. It was Bob wot started it.”
“That’s right,” said Bob, red in the face. “I said it, an’ where’s the ’arm?”
“No ’arm at all,” said his aunt silkily. “If the troof was known, I spec’ she ’ad two or free cars.”
Her husband suspended mastication and stared at Ann. Then he spoke through the cud.
“Didjoo?” he demanded.
“No, indeed,” said Ann swiftly. “I think I was jolly lucky to have one.”
Uncle Tom nodded approval.
“You were that,” he said emphatically. Ann breathed again. “Why, my ole dad thought ’imself mighty lucky to ’ave ’is own tip-cart, an’——”
“Don’t be stoopid, pa,” said May. “Grandpa was only a common man.”
Her father gasped. Here was parricide.
“I mean,” said May sweetly, “he wasn’t a nurl.”
“I’ll bet he was just as good,” said Ann.
“So ’e was,” cried Uncle Tom. With an effort he emptied his mouth. “You ’ear?” he raved, turning upon May. “You ’ear, you undootiful girl? ’Ere’s a lady wot knows a nurl when she sees one an’ don’t ’ave to go to Boots’ Lendin’ Library to find out wot ’igh life means. An’ she says ’e was as good. ‘Common man’!” The iteration of the objectionable phrase re-pricked his piety. He wagged a cautionary forefinger. “You jus’ be careful, young woman. Don’t you go gettin’ ideas above your station. Jus’ because you go orf to dances an’ cinemas o’ nights an’ keep a tame mug ’andy to buy you cheap sweets—that don’ make you no better than wot you are.Ladies is born. . . .”
Never was enemy so hoist with his own petard.
Never was the seasoning of bitterness so sloshed into the pot.
Never was a silence so ominous as that which followed the reproof.
May’s face was purple, her eyes narrowed to green points of steel. Aunt Harriet was sweating with indignation:
her mouth worked. Ada looked scared. As though to belie a particularly hang-dog expression, Mr. Barnham muttered and snorted beneath his breath. Mr. Alcock sneered upon his finger-nails. Bob was smiling sheepishly. And the unconscious author of the unsavoury stew sat back regarding the company with eyes that saw nothing but a forgotten deference to authority awakened by the old lion’s roar.
Ann tried not to tremble.
Were there no lengths to which Satire would not go? Had Irony no mercy? God! What a tune they were calling! All hell was fiddling in the orchestra—and she had to pay . . . pay . . . .
A sudden peal at the bell saved a situation which was under sentence of death.
“That’s Mr. Mason,” said Ada. “I ’ope ’e’s brought Miss Gedge.”
She rose and left the room.
The cold, strained silence slid into the blessed hush of curiosity.
Then—
“I ain’t nobody’s darlin’, I’m blue as can be,” feelingly rendered by an indifferent baritone, floated into the room.
“That’s ’im,” shouted Uncle Tom gleefully. “Come in, yer bounder. There ain’t no room, but we can’t keep you out.”
Mr. Alcock and Mr. Barnham laughed half-heartedly.
Mr. Mason entered, tripped, recovered himself, gave the threshold an awful look, placed his hat upon the hand which Mr. Barnham was extending, side-stepped to the fireplace, pressed an imaginary bell and said, “Waiter bring a non-skid ’ammock and a moonlit night: I’ve just been married.”
Even Aunt Harriet laughed—rather reluctantly. In fact, good humour was bundled into the room, neck and crop.
Mr. Mason was tubby and of a cheerful countenance. He was neatly dressed in a sponge-bag suit which was too tight for him, a low double collar, a spotted bow tie and sand-shoes. A cane dangled from his pocket and a faded carnation drooped from his buttonhole.
Miss Gedge was stout, frankly vulgar and, but for a cast in her eye, would have been a good-looking girl. She was the personification of contentment and goodwill. A droll pertness of manner enhanced her charm. She had, moreover, a most infectious laugh. This her squire exploited vigorously. The two carried all before them.
There were but eight chairs, but the shortage, so far from presenting difficulty, smoothed an irregularity away. Lady Ann took her proper place, namely, her husband’s lap, while Ada, with many giggles, subsided into that of Mr. Alcock.
The tambourine was rolling. . . .
The flow of hatred had been arrested: soon the leak was being plugged—with the very underlinen of Sensitiveness, delicate, rosy mysteries, ripped from a girl’s back.
“Yes,” said Mr. Mason. “Children is bits of ’eaven. I was a very large ’unk. I remember Mother sayin’ so when she found ’er boots in the oven. She didn’t put it that way, but . . . Besides, look at the burf rate.”
Amid shrieks of laughter, he was conjured to ‘give over,’ whilst a glowing Bob squeezed Ann surreptitiously.
“Oh, isn’t ’e awful?” panted Miss Gedge. “An’ when we’re out ’e does pass such dreadful remarks. Las’ Saturday afternoon a gentleman’s ’at blows off. ‘Stop it,’ cries someone. ‘Not me,’ says ’Erbert, ‘I’ve lef’ me gas-marsk at ’ome.’ ”
There was a gust of merriment. As it died down, a fat guffaw of delight announced Uncle Tom’s perception of the point.
“ ’E ought to go on the ’alls,” said Mr. Alcock. “Make ’is fortune.”
Mr. Mason shook his head.
“Why,” he said, “I should be stole in a week. An’ there’ld be pore Mabel——”
“I should worry,” said Miss Gedge. “But you can’t ’ave your ’Untley an’ eat it too, can you, May?”
“Not likely,” said May. “Look at pore Mrs. Stoker.”
“There’s a tregedy,” said Aunt Harriet. “An’ three children an’ all.”
Mr. Barnham, who had been awaiting his chance, groaned eloquently.
“So when ’e talks about the stage,” continued Miss Gedge, “I says, ‘You go, me little friend,’ I says, ‘and ’ere’s ’appy days. But don’t you call roun’ for me on Monday evenin’, ’cause this is where you get off.’ ”
A round of applause acclaimed this admirable sentiment.
Mr. Mason blinked very hard.
“Ah, well,” he said, “I s’pose it’ll ’ave to be ’oly orders after all.” He adjusted his collar, peered at an imaginary book and looked up earnestly. “Brethren, we will now singCease thy ticklin’, Jock.”
This justly occasioned great laughter.
As it subsided—
“Oh, I’ve bought a new straw,” said Miss Gedge. “A regular Kiss-me-quick. Not that I wanted to, but since Benk ’Oliday the other ain’t gone with my scent. I wore it to ’Astin’s, you know, an’ ’Erbert’s brother was ’oldin’ it when ’e come over queer. Of course, memories is very sweet, but . . .”
Amidst squeals of delight—
“She ’ad ’im on the brain,” explained Mr. Mason.
The paroxysm which succeeded Uncle Tom’s appreciation of this remark was so prolonged as to suggest that his labouring lungs were in need of assistance, and there was a general feeling of relief when he was able to assure his anxious ministers that he would let them know when he was dying.
As order was restored—
“I say, is this a smoking-carriage?” said Mr. Alcock, and looked round, grinning, for approval.
Once the ball was rolling, the question usually went. The great thing was not to ask it too soon. ‘And when men have well drunk, then . . .’
The laughter was renewed.
“I should ’ope so,” said Uncle Tom, taking out an enormous calabash.
Cigarettes were produced.
Mr. Barnham made bold to offer his case to Ann, who declined smilingly.
“She’ll ’ave one with me,” said Bob.
He lighted a Gold Flake and, after inhaling luxuriously, put the cigarette to her lips. . . .
Ann winced. Another tender intimacy clapped in the common stocks. . . .
May accepted a cigarette from Mr. Mason, who had an unfinished cigar. Together Ada and Mr. Alcock enjoyed the cigarette till lately reposing behind the latter’s ear.
Beneath the soothing influence conversation became less boisterous. Little coteries sprang up. Miss Gedge and May exchanged murmurous confidences. Mr. Barnham listened to Aunt Harriet. Uncle Tom and Mr. Mason discussed ‘closing time.’ Ada played with Mr. Alcock’s hair and squeaked or whispered according to the nature of the sweet nothings with which he plied her. Breathing endearment, Bob fondled and kissed Ann’s fingers and presently pleaded for her lips.
“They won’t mind,” he insisted. . . .
At length Mr. Mason looked round.
“Well, ladies and gents,” he said, “what’s the pier done? I think an evenin’ with the movies with a little footwork in between the shows’ll just about see me ’ome.”
The suggestion was greeted with action.
Chairs were drawn back, laps shaken and smoothed, pardons begged.
Ann was feverishly considering how best to announce that she was weary and would like to retire, when Bob put in his oar.
“An’ this is my show,” he said expansively. “I’m goin’ to stan’ treat to-night.”
There was a murmur of deprecation.
Quick as a flash—
“Well, I’m sure that’s very ’andsome,” simpered Aunt Harriet.
“Now, look ’ere, Bobbie lad,” said Uncle Tom, “don’t you go rushin’ in. Ten to one’s a bit thick. Jus’ ’cause it’s your day out, that ain’t no call for you to go treatin’——”
“Why not?” cried Bob. “Why, I want you all to remember this day, I do—the ’appies’ day o’ my life. Ten? I wish you was fifty. I’ve becked a winner to-day—drawn the firs’ prize in the bigges’ sweep on earth. . . . Look at ’er standin’ there! Ain’t she a peach? An’ you want me to ’old me ’and for a matter o’ thirty bob!”
“ ’Ooray!” cried Mr. Mason. “ ’Ooray! An’ mind—the firs’ Benger’s with me.”
Laughter and cheers confirmed the acceptance of hospitality.
Feeling as though she had dashed herself against a wall, Ann stammered something about getting her hat.
“Oh, it’s right opposight,” said Ada. “We never wear ’ats jus’——”
She stopped with a jerk.
Aunt Harriet filled up the hole.
“I’m afraid it soun’s very lax, Lady Ann, but, you know, this year the residents proper ’ave to a great extent given up wearin’ ’eadgear of nights. In fac’, I think we should be remarked on . . .”
“Oh, I don’t mind in the least,” said Ann. “In fact, I like it much better.”
After all, what on earth did it matter? What did anything matter? She was married . . . married to Bob . . . tied for life . . .life: and she was boggling about going uncovered!
They passed out of the house. Aunt Harriet delaying the procession to enjoin a sickly charwoman to clear, wash up and set the table for six.
“Forsix,” she repeated meaningly, trusting thereby to promote such operation of mental arithmetic as would convince Mr. Barnham and Mr. Alcock that they were not expected to return. “Oh, an’ Mrs. Perch—I’ve measured the beef.”
“Very good, Mrs. Root,” said that lady, breathing through her nose. “I’ll bet you ’ave,” she added under her breath. “Rotten ole toad.”
When the door was shut, she shed a few tears of chagrin. It was a beautiful bit of beef.
The pier was indeed conveniently close. In less than a minute they stood before its gates.
The negotiation of the turnstile offered opportunities of humour, none of which were missed. The surly controller was rallied, rose and was appropriately mocked. His impotent indignation, hastily but vigorously served, followed them down the pier.
After the fresh sea air the breathless reek of the cinema was stale and stifling. It was the Saturday evening of a blazing week, to whose rare invitation the audience had healthily responded. Ann could have choked. She sat between Bob and Uncle Tom, with the former’s arm about her and her left hand in his.
A melodrama was being shown: some of the scenery was superb—a forest at dawn, a cool reach of some river with sunlit woods about its banks, the spreading lawns of a great mansion blotched with the silhouettes of stately trees. The dazzling luxury of the interiors, the perfection of their appointment, the admirable manner of the men-servants, the smooth rush of the cars turned the fruit of memory into the grapes of Tantalus.
Ann sat dumb before the cruelty of Fate. It was true, then—she was to be spared nothing. Every slender tack that could be hammered was to be driven home—punched into her heart.
She had a terrible yearning to express her agony. She wanted to moan and twist her hands. She wanted to fall upon her knees and clasp her head. She wanted to breathe “My God. . . . My God. . . . My God. . . .” She wanted to stammer her woe—change this fantastic hell into the similitude of human sorrow—picture it in words and tears—wrap it in the napkin of blessed, familiar speech.
Bob was importuning her.
“Give us a kiss, sweetheart.”
Fainting, she gave him her lips.
“Now, then, break away, there,” rasped an attendant. “If you can’t wait, there’s plenty of room outside.”
It was not the man’s fault. Complaints had been received and forwarded. Orders had come down that morning that any abuse of the obscurity indispensable to the performance was to be sternly checked. It was, of course, rather a delicate matter. Custom, if not prescription, was to be set by the ears. Still, the remark was well received—with hysterical laughter.
A wave of hot blood surged to Ann’s temples. Her mind staggered. When she came to, she found herself praying for death.
The reflection that a week ago Bob would not have—had not done these things preened its grim self before her. Ann realized suddenly that familiarity was breeding assurance, if not contempt. From being ‘my lady’ she had become ‘my—my missus.’ More. For the first time since their engagement Bob was among his own. Hitherto he had been upon parade. Now he was relaxed—comfortable. His own had received him. He was sliding into their ways—naturally. It was not a case of infection, of evil communications corrupting manners. They were his—hisways. Of course. His ways. He saw no harm—therewasno harm in them. They were wholesome enough. Only—they were not her ways. . . .
The melodrama came to an end, and they filed out. The sheet had announced an interval of fifteen minutes.
Thesalle de dansewas crowded. They thrust and were thrust within its walls.
Bob could not dance. Mr. Alcock, however, was clearly treading firm ground. The assurance with which he spoke made this still more manifest.
“Em I to ’ave the pleasure, Leddy Enn?”
What did it matter? What did anything—— Besides, how could she refuse?
They danced to a rousing fox-trot—as well as they could. There was little room, and steering was nothing accounted of on Saturday nights. Couples went as they pleased. Many seemed rapt—unaware that they were not alone: others heaved and revolved, careless of collision and greeting every bump with incorrigible cheer: some frolicked openly, to the unveiled disgust of the more intense, who sneered upon them as they passed.
By such as were not dancing Ann’s presence upon the floor was instantly remarked. As she went by, she saw heads nodding, arms being caught, fingers pointing, ribs being nudged. The infection spread to the floor. Couples began to stare—to draw apart. Very soon she and Mr. Alcock were dancing in a little space of their own. As if by magic, this revolved with them. Had he pleased, Mr. Alcock could have left the space standing. That he did not so please was natural enough. The youth was intoxicated. His thirsty vanity, ordinarily but scurvily found, was in its cups. His superciliary muscle was strained to breaking-point: his eyes were almost closed: his sneer, the droop of his parted lips beggared description. It was his hour.
The dance ended with a crash, and the two returned to their party.
As Ann was desperately raking its environs for Bob—
“Well, Lady Ann,” said Aunt Harriet, “what d’you think of our floor?” She laid her hand familiarly upon the girl’s arm. “Not so bad for ole Suet?”
“I—I think it’s very good,” said Ann, observing with horror that the space, which had momentarily disappeared, was beginning to surround her again.
Aunt Harriet saw it, too, and raised her voice.
“You know, Lady Ann, I’m so glad to ’ave you at last. I’ve got so much I want you to ’elp me with. You know, livin’ all the year round in the country, one’s ideas seem to get into a groove. In course, Taown’s the ’ub. There one’s in touch with things. ’Otels and emporiums is up to date. People ’asgotto move. One’s only to take a walk down the street or pop into a laounge. . . . But ’ere—nothin’. An’ after a bit, Lady Ann, stegnation sets in. I tell you,” she added, with a mischievous laugh, “I’m not goin’ to give you no rest. You’ll be wore out before I’m through.”
“I’m—I’m sure I shan’t,” faltered Ann, trying to smile and wildly conscious of an unnatural hush. “Indeed, I——”
Mercifully, the band recommenced its labours.
“Shell we take another turn?” said Mr. Alcock.
Ann lifted up her head.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I’m a little tired.” She looked round anxiously. “I wonder where Bob is.”
“Gone to ’ave a drink,” said Ada.
“Let’s go an’ fin’ them,” said Aunt Harriet.
They passed out after the manner of Royalty, a lane being made.
Mr. Alcock was dispatched in quest of the revellers, while Mr. Barnham, now sole warden of virtue, took up a central position and stared about him with an air of apologetic defiance.
After a suspiciously long absence, his colleague returned to say that the other squires were not to be found.
“They’re gone to the Arms, the greedies,” decided Aunt Harriet. “That’s where they’re gone. Never mind.”
A rich clearance of Mr. Barnham’s throat declared that he was labouring of plan.
“Let’s take a stroll down,” he suggested, “an’ ketch them as they come back.”
Economy had driven him to speak.
A premature return to their seats meant that the girl who sold chocolates would offer her tempting wares. This offer he would be bound in decency to frank. The acceptance or rejection thereof would rest with May—and Mr. Barnham did not trust May. . . .
His misgivings were well founded.
“Oh, who wants to stroll?” said May. “Let’s get back before the crush. I’m sure I’ve been trod and shoved enough for one night. Something crool, people are.”
It was not magnificent: it was not even war: it was pure oppression—hitting the poor in spirit below the belt.
Aunt Harriet acclaimed the suggestion, and the move was made.
Two minutes later Mr. Barnham was eased of two shillings. He parted, sweating, with a hunted look in his eyes that went to Ann’s heart.
She found herself wondering what, when he had married his bully, his life would be like. She saw him mute and shrinking before the eternal abuse, standing jaded and hungry without his own house, trying to summon the courage to enter in, dreaming of the happy days when he could buy exemption with a two-shilling piece. . . .
For a blessed instant her mind left her own tragedy to suck at his. Then it leapt back, buzzing. . . .
Aunt Harriet was purring hypocrisy, lying, dressing her lies in dirty splendour, fouling well after well. Ann responded mechanically, conscious that her spiritless dissembling would not have deluded a child, physically and mentally unable to play up to such form. An innocent-looking chocolate had caused Miss Gedge’s jaws to conglutinate—a comical condition of things which she was turning to generous account, throwing May and Ada into convulsions of girlish laughter. Mr. Alcock was confiding to Mr. Barnham confessions of a well-dressed man. . . .
A frightful feeling of loneliness flung into Ann’s heart—a new kind of desolation, of which her philosophy had never dreamed. Sympathy was clean gone. Nobody, nothing within sight meant anything to her—or she to them. A desert island had animals and trees and skies and yellow sands: an empty house had silence and memories and dreams to offer: she had things in common with a wilderness—would have got on with Death. But this . . . There was an awful emptiness about this crowded hall, a ghostly dreariness about this blithesome flow of soul which scared and terrified. ‘As the hart panteth after the water-brooks . . .’ She was parched—mad with thirst. The muddiest trickle would have served. . . . But the saving fountains had stopped playing, the once innumerable rills were dried up.
At last the lights were lowered, and the talk died down.
Ann tried to shuffle her thoughts and find a way.
Instantly her brain told her that there was no way to be found.
She fobbed the tidings off and began again.
A way. She must find out a way. Where to? A way out—out. Suicide, Flight presented themselves and were set upon one side. Flight presented itself again—almost immediately. Ann permitted herself to consider Flight. . . . With a shock she realized that now, if ever, was the time. The hall was in darkness: Bob was not there: before Aunt Harriet could follow, she would be clear of the place: outside, it was night and there were crowds to mingle with: pursuit would be vain. . . . With a hammering heart, Ann began to wonder if there were night trains to Town. . . . Then, with a hideous leer, Flight faded away.Her things—her money—her hat, even, was at ‘Pier View.’To get them was out of the question. The house was locked: Aunt Harriet had the key: if the charwoman was yet there, she did not know Ann by sight: besides—— Oh, it was hopeless, of course . . . hopeless.
Ann decided desperately that she must talk to Bob. She must try to explain—teach, if possible, the moment he reappeared, before a worse thing befell. She could not face that awful parlour again. Aunt Harriet alone. . . . Besides, the meal would be of the nature of a wedding-feast. Its prelusive character would be insisted upon. Jocular references would be made: sly digs administered. It would be hideous—revolting. Ann’s flesh crept.
The moment Bob came she must ask him to take her outside—away, out of the crowd to where they could have a talk. Perhaps they could get a room somewhere, out on the skirts of the town. He wouldn’t understand, of course. To repulse the kindly advances of his own kin! Deliberately to jettison ‘the best’! All his instincts would jib at such heresy. But to-night—for a week, perhaps, she could override those instincts. As for the future——
Three figures appeared, boggling, at the end of her row. Then they began to push their way along.
Mr. Mason came first, announcing in apprehensive falsetto that if anyone pinched him he should call the women police. Uncle Tom followed, heaving with merriment and inquiring cheerily if there was room for a little one. Bob came last, laughing very much and repeatedly asking his companions if they were right for ‘Emmersmith Broadway.’
Cries of ‘Shut up!’ and ‘Sit down!’ resounded.
An attendant came bustling. . . .
Bob subsided into his seat and mopped his face.
Then he laid a hand on Ann’s knee.
“Well, Beauty, ’ow’s things?” he whispered.
He reeked of liquor . . . reeked.