Something deep inside Ann seemed to give way.
“Didn’ min’ my leavin’ you, did you, sweetheart? Just ’ad a quick one or two to celebrate. They’re a couple of ’earties, they are—’Erb Mason an’ Uncle Tom. I tell you, kid, you’ve got orf with them all right.” He slid an arm about her and held her tight. “An’ I don’ wonder, by gosh. There ain’t much left to the others when you’re around.”
Uncle Tom was speaking excitedly—from a great way off. His breath . . .
“Bob, Bob! She’s bin showin’ ’em ’ow to dance. Danced about with young Alcock, an’ the others give ’em the floor.” He slapped his thigh. “Glory, but I wish I’d bin there to see ’er put it across them—see my peach of a niece showin’ ole Suet wot’s wot.” He thrust an arm through Ann’s and covered her hand with his. “Strike me dead, sonny, but you’re a lucky dog. I tell you—— Hullo!”
Ann had fainted.
The fresh air revived her immediately, but, though she implored the others to leave her husband with her and return to their seats, they would not hear of it. After a little, she abandoned the attempt. There was no reason why they should not have returned. Indeed, the girls were obviously disappointed. There was no reason at all—except that she was doomed. That was most clear. Every slightest chance was to be crushed. She had signed on and she was to go through the hoop. Resistance was futile. That terrible ring-master, Satire, knew his job.
They proceeded leisurely towards ‘Pier View.’
Mr. Mason and Miss Gedge left them at the pier gates. Bob parted with the former effusively, swaying a little as he turned. Could she have done so, Ann would have begged them to stay. The two were scrupulous: they had authority: she trusted them. Miss Gedge was kind, human, no fool. Mr. Mason’s vulgarity was but a pasteboard blade. . . .
As the area steps were won, two figures emerged.
These proved to be those of old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Allen, of Bung Street, Plaistow, who, finding their call ill-timed, were upon the point of departure.
The encounter was cordial in the extreme.
A kill-joy might have suggested that Mr. Allen was under the influence of drink. The way in which concluding words of sentences occasionally rebelled against the deliberate precision with which he enunciated their predecessors might have aroused suspicion in a bigot’s mind. So might the colour of his nose—and other things. But—he was an old friend; and among friends . . .
The Allens were bidden delightedly to supper; Mr. Barnham and Mr. Alcock were cavalierly sped.
The party descended carefully, Ada and May tarrying for a moment with their lingering swains presumably to temper the cold wind of dismissal and make further assignations.
Arrived at the door of the parlour, Ann shook off the sense of nightmare and begged to be excused.
Aunt Harriet crushed her entreaty, as a boa-constrictor his prey.
Food. That was what she wanted. A good bite of food. Ann had eaten nothing at tea—she had watched her. Nothing. That there fainting was nothing but want of food. Ann must trust her. She knew. Hadn’t she been a bride? How well she remembered how when—— But incourseAnn wasn’t hungry. Why, that was the surest sign. Food. A nice cut off the joint and a glass of stout. Why, she remembered when she was married. . . .
Her hostess was determined that Ann should grace the board. The latter gave way listlessly. What did it matter? What did anything matter? What——
She took her seat dully, with despair sunk in her eyes.
She sat on her uncle’s right and within his reach. From the opposite side of the table Mrs. Allen regarded her beadily. A plate of beef was given her and butter and bread. Stout was poured into her glass. They bade her eat and drink. She did so obediently. If they had bade her sing, she would have lifted up her voice. She was beaten. She had passed the end of her tether. Her spirit was broken down.
The meal proceeded.
The presence of the Allens was providing a merciful distraction from her estate. She had not the heart to be grateful. It was, she knew, only a temporary release—a postponement, big with hell. Satire was playing with her, as a cat plays with a mouse.
Conversation warmed. The output of geniality was amazing. Righteousness and peace kissed each other.
Aunt Harriet expanded. Uncle Tom broadened. Bob began to laugh indiscriminately. With increasing difficulty, Mr. Allen remembered bygone days.
As the joint reconstruction of a more than usually side-splitting episode was concluded—
“Dearie me,” croaked Aunt Harriet, wiping the tears from her eyes, “ ’ow many years is that ago?”
Mr. Allen regarded Uncle Tom. To survey and measure the past was beyond his powers.
“Now, don’t go addin’ up milestones,” said Uncle Tom. “I’m an optimis’, I am. There’s a good few tides come in since that little lark, but I don’t feel no older.”
“You would if you lived i’ Plaizow,” said Mr. Allen.
“No, I shouldn’t,” said his host. “ ’Cause I should blow down to jolly ole Suet a bit more often—an’ ’ave one with me ole pals.”
He laughed jovially.
“Yes, you would,” said Mr. Allen. “The iron o’ the city would enter in-in-injerso.”
He looked round defiantly.
“I don’t know about the iron,” said Uncle Tom hilariously, “but I’ld see the Scotch didn’t. I bet that’ld go the right way.”
“Trust you,” said Aunt Harriet.
“Yes, an’ touch the spot, too,” added Uncle Tom, shaken with merriment.
“Oh, did you ever?” said Mrs. Allen, deliciously shocked.
“Yes, you would,” said her husband, throwing back. “When you saw the people bein’ groun’ to powder an’ the rich swillin’ idow.”
The reference was obscure. Possibly Mr. Allen was imperfectly remembering the fate of the Golden Calf and confusing his allusion with the imagery of oppression.
For all that, it carried.
“That’s true,” said Uncle Tom soberly.
“Is the distress very prenaounced?” said Aunt Harriet.
“Wicked,” said Mr. Allen. “Women an’ children’s life-blood is bein’ suggaway.”
As though to neutralize such drainage, he drank deep and mournfully.
“Wot’s four poun’ ten?” he continued. “ ’Ow far does that go? ‘Ho,’ they says, ‘but look at wot you ’ad before the War. Why, we’ve doubled your pay,’ they says. Per’aps. But wot they don’ say is, ‘An’ we’re chargin’ you double, too, for the necesserities of life.’ An’ you ask if there’s blussuggy goanon.”
“But surely,” said Bob, “it ain’t the blokes as pays the wages as shoves the prices up. They ’as to fork out, too.”
Mr. Allen braced himself.
“So they says,” he said darkly. “That’s their bettle-cry. But it’s a deliberate ’ave. They’re all in league, they are. The rich man’s ’and is agains’ the pore, an’ always ’as been.” He smote upon the table. “Walk down Bon’ Street, brother, an’ take a look at the cars. See ’ow the idle rich lives an’ moves an’ ’as their vile bein’. Caount the Rolls-Royce.” He paused dramatically. “But don’t you go gettin’ in their way. You may ’ave ’elped to pave it wiv blood an’ teers, but it’s not your street—’cause you’re only a common man.”
There was a frightful silence.
Suddenly May burst into ecstatic laughter.
Mr. Allen, who was about to drink, stared at her, tumbler in hand.
As the transport subsided, he set down his glass.
“An’ wot ’ave I said,” he demanded, “that you fin’ so ’ighly divertin’?”
“Oh, nothin’,” said May, looking to the cornice, as though for help to fight her mirth. “I was only laughin’ at me thoughts.” She hesitated. Then, “I ’appened to pass the same remarks this afternoon—an’ got ticked orf for them.”
Uncle Tom shifted in his chair.
“You said your granpa was a common man,” he said uneasily. “You said——”
“I said ’e wasn’t a nurl,” retorted May. “An’ you said it wasn’ for me to speak disrespec’ful of urls ’cause I wasn’ a lady born, an’ you’ld rather ’ave the opinion of anurl’s daughterthan your own’s any day.”
Before Uncle Tom could focus this perversion sufficiently to discern the lie upon which a distasteful knowledge of his first-born told him it was depending—
“A nurl’s daughter?” said Mr. Allen, glaring at Ann.
“Oh, that’s all over,” said Aunt Harriet nervously. “She’s one of us now. After all, burf’s an acciden’.”
“Oh, she’s one of us, of course,” said May. She laughed spitefully. “I’m sure it’s a privilege—the way she shares our food an’ gentlemen friends.” Her voice began to quiver. “An’ I’m sure she’ld ’ve brought ’er Rolls-Royce coopy down—if she’d ’appened to think of it.”
Mr. Allen’s forehead and cheeks approached the colour of his nose. He began to breathe stertorously.
“Rolls-Royce?” he said hoarsely. He pointed a shaking finger. Instinctively Ann recoiled. “She ’as a Rolls-Royce? An’ I’ve been breakin’ bread at the same table wiv one ooze fathers ’as graoun’ the pore to ’eap up riches?” He threw himself forward. “Where’s yer Rolls-Royce come from? Aout of the pennies earned by toilin’ slaves. Aout of——”
“ ’Ere, shut yer face,” said Bob, rising. “Wot d’you know about it? Jus’ ’cause she’s a lady——”
Mr. Allen started to his feet.
“Wot do I know?” he repeated, with blazing eyes. “I know the terruth. That’s wot I know. I say ’er wealth ’as bin stole aout o’ the maouths of starvin’ baibes. The widder an’ the orphin ’as bin robbed to——”
“An’ I say you’re a liar,” roared Bob.
Ada began to cry, and Aunt Harriet laid a hand upon Bob’s arm. He shook her off. Everyone was on their feet. Uncle Tom was at Allen’s shoulder. Trembling in every limb, Ann clung to the back of her chair.
Bob continued furiously.
“She never robbed nor stole in all ’er life. Nor ’er father before ’er. It’s easy enough for those as don’ want to work to ’oller an’ carry on ’cause there’s dukes an’ earls ooze fathers ’ve made good an’ saved, instead o’ blindin’ their money at the nearest pub.”
Mr. Allen surged forward, blaring.
“I’m a liar, am I?” he mouthed. “Jus’ ’cause I’m not afraid to strip the troof? She never stole, nor ’er father? P’r’aps not. You wouldn’ ’ave no call to steal if your gran’father ’d bin a thief . . . an’ murdered an’ stole an’ saved so as she could ’ave a Rolls-Royce to ’ide ’er nakedness.”
Bob hit him on the mouth. . . .
Uncle Tom was between them—shouting. He had Mr. Allen round the waist. The two were lurching and struggling violently. Mr. Allen was cursing in a thick guttural. Blood was welling from his lip. Black in the face with rage, Bob was labouring fiercely to shake himself free. Ann, frantic, was hanging on his arm, beseeching him to come away. Aunt Harriet, who had been something of an expert and knew that dead weight told, lay upon his breast with her arms round his neck. Ada, whimpering, had him by the coat.
Finger to lip, May watched the affray with gleaming eyes. Remembering her husband’s prowess as an indifferent heavy-weight, Mrs. Allen regarded Ann with a supercilious stare.
“Get ’im away!” yelled Uncle Tom. “Out o’ the room—upstairs! Now then, Joe. Don’ lose yer dignity. ’E’ll be sorry to-morrer.”
“ ’E’ll be sorry ternight,” howled Mr. Allen. “You saw ’im strike me. You saw——”
“Yes, I saw,” shouted Uncle Tom. “But, you know, you arst fer trouble, Joe. You ’adn’t got no call to make it personal. Never min’. You siddown an’ ’ave a drink.” He screwed his head round. “Will you get ’im away?” he raved. “I ain’t a ’Ercules.”
“Oh, Bob, Bob!” wailed Ann. “Bob, for God’s sake come away. Surely, if I don’t mind, whyever should you? What does it matter? We know it isn’t true. Bob, if you love me, leave him and come away.”
Bob never heard her.
“ ’E’s insulted my wife,” he raged. “You ’eard ’im. That dirty red-nosed skunk ’as laid ’is tongue to my girl. Lemme go, Aunt ’Arriet. I tell you, it’s me or ’im. An’——”
Ann’s voice rang out.
“D’you want to kill me? D’you want me to die of shame?”
Her husband stopped struggling and turned.
“Look ’ere, kid,” he expostulated. “You can’t expec’ me to sit still an’ ’ear——”
“You haven’t. You’ve hit him on the mouth. And I say that’s enough—Isay so.”
The pronoun stood up above the uproar.
Uncle Tom started: an oath Mr. Allen was savaging died on his lips. Aunt Harriet released her nephew and stood up, staring.
Ann continued steadily.
“Are you going to question my right?”
Bob’s eyes fell.
“Of course,” he said clumsily, “of course, if you like to——”
“I do. I want to go. It’s my wish. I want you to take me away—out of the house—now. Come, please.”
“Out of the ’ouse?” said Bob.
“Out of the house,” said Ann. “And—at once. Come.”
She turned to the door.
No one said anything at all. The quiet, cold air of one having authority tied up their tongues. They felt suddenly diminished. A wave of detestable respect had swept them off their feet. Blood had told.
Without turning, Ann passed out.
Bob followed his wife, crestfallen enough. . . .
There was a moment’s silence.
Then—
“Dear me,” said Aunt Harriet, trembling with rage and mortification. “Might be a craowned queen. ‘Take me away—aout of the ’aouse—naow . . .’ ”
She laughed hysterically.
“Woddid I say?” cried Mr. Allen, smearing the blood from his lip. “Dirt. That’s wot we are—dirt. Dirt for ’er to shake orf ’er gilded feet. Wot if we ’ave——”
“Yes, I notice you didn’t say that when she was ’ere,” snapped Aunt Harriet. “Very quiet you was. Anyone might ’ve thought you was frightened.”
“Frightened?” screamed Mr. Allen. “Gimme my ’at. I’ll show yer whether I’m frightened.”
With a filthy oath, he flung Uncle Tom aside, clapped his hat upon his head and lunged to the door. . . .
They heard him ricochet down the passage and bawl up the area steps.
“Naow you’ve done it, ’Arriet,” breathed Uncle Tom.
Bob heard him bawl, too, and stopped in his tracks. He was on the pavement perhaps two houses away.
Ann heard the challenge, too, and lost her nerve.
She caught at Bob’s arm and tried to pull him along.
“Come on, Bob! Come along. Don’t take any notice of him.” Bob resisting, she tried to drag him with her. “For God’s sake, Bob . . .”
Before the terror in her voice the last vestige of her authority collapsed. She became again the weaker vessel, meet to be protected—and avenged.
Bob shook her off and turned.
She flung herself upon him, but he tore her hands away.
She reeled against the railings, shaken and fainting. . . .
She saw the two men meet and heard the smack of a blow. They parted—then drew together again, assuming grotesque postures like animals about to spring. Again they closed for an instant, ducking and slamming like madmen. Broken spurts of cursing were jerked to her ears. . . .
They were in the road now—immediately opposite ‘Pier View.’ A street-lamp showed her the blood on Allen’s face. His mouth was smothered. . . .
Figures began to rise out of the shadows. The light of the lamp was illuminating some of their heads. Somebody panted past her hotfoot. A little bunch was crammed in the area gate—Aunt Harriet and . . .
Bob seemed to lift himself up. Then he fell headlong backwards, towards the pavement. His shoulders reached the gutter, and his head just made the kerb. This brought his face forward, with a click. For a moment he lay as he had fallen—as one who wishes to remain recumbent and yet, ridiculously, to regard his feet. Then his head slid slowly sideways. . . .
As the crowd surged up, Ann stumbled forward and fell on her knees beside the corpse. Then she asked for water and began to loosen its tie.
People were nudging one another. She knew it. She could feel their curious stares and the awkwardness of the hush that fell wherever she went. She did not care at all. This was quite different. Bob had need of her. . . . Bob . . .
Two police came hastening. One was a sergeant. The crowd fell back respectfully.
The sergeant fell upon one knee and flashed his lantern on the dead man’s face.
“Who done this?” he cried, looking up.
Again the crowd parted to reveal Joe Allen holding on to the railings with his coat-sleeve across his eyes.
The sergeant addressed his subordinate.
“Take ’im,” he said shortly.
He drew a whistle and blew five or six short blasts. Then he turned to Ann.
“Was he your friend, lady?”
Ann started violently at the tense, staring open-mouthed into the sergeant’s eyes. Then she caught the groom’s head and peered at the quiet face. For a moment she held it between her palms; then very gently she suffered it to roll back into its old position. . . .
Ann sank back on her heels and stared at the sky.
Slowly the Morland took shape—the spreading oak and the cottage and the jolly brown horse . . . the girl standing in the doorway, holding the little boy . . . and the man on the horse, smiling . . . all alone and happy—under the spreading oak . . . very poor and simple, but very, very happy. . . .
A dry sob shook Ann—the first of many.
Presently the tears began to stream down her cheeks.
She continued to stare steadfastly up into the sky, till the bystanders followed her gaze and tried to see something.
ELEANOR
Coffeewas served. Finally, liqueurs were offered. A moment later the servants withdrew silently, leaving the quartette to their cups.
The six shaded candles threw down upon the table a gentle light. This the silver and rosewood gave back vastly enriched. From a decanter before the host a fine old port rendered a comfortable glow. An onyx ash-tray and a match-box flashed by each painted plate; at either end of the table was a gold box of cigarettes; between the two men lay cigars; fruit was within reach; the board was not crowded, yet seemed to be pleasantly full; upon the sideboard were remaining champagne, water, coffee and the little group of liqueurs.
The dinner had been perfect, the service superb; but then you had come to expect that at 20 Park Place. It was the Willoughbys’ fault; from the day they were married they had always spoiled their guests.
Herrick looked across the violets at Eleanor Cloke.
“Kitchen, cellar, table and service,” he said, “all one long last word. Nell, how do they do it?”
Miss Cloke shrugged her white shoulders.
“You can search me,” she said hopelessly. “But don’t dwell on it, or I shall burst into idle tears.”
Madge Willoughby set down her cup.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Same as the Queen of Sheba,” said Herrick hastily. “You know. She thought she knew how to live; but when she saw Solomon’s idea of comfort——”
“Tell her,” said Eleanor Cloke.
“I am,” said Herrick. “Give me a chance. . . . Well, what really broke the Queen’s heart was the poisonous reflection that for the rest of her life the King of Sheba would be saying, ‘My dear, why can’t we have so-and-so?Solomon has.’ ”
His hostess leaned forward, with parted lips.
“D’you mean that you’re . . .”
David Herrick swallowed.
“Don’t rush him,” said Crispin Willoughby. “The roof of his mouth’s dry.” He turned to his faltering guest. “Moisten the lips, old bean, and let it come with the breath.”
“I mean,” said Herrick desperately, “that we’re—we’re thinkin’ of joinin’ up.”
His hostess sighed contentedly.
“At last,” she said.
Crispin turned to Miss Cloke.
“My dear,” he said, “be careful. Have you ever seen him unshaved?”
“That,” said Eleanor, “is a pleasure to come.”
“Pleasure?” said Crispin. “Oh, she has got it bad. Never mind. Was you took ill gradual like, or was it all of a sudding that you came over queer?”
“To be perfectly frank,” said Eleanor, “I’ve always liked the look of him.”
Willoughby put up an eye-glass and inspected his prey.
“There is something rather winsome about that sheepish grin of his, isn’t there? D’you see what I mean, Madge? That David’s-my-name-but-call-me-Boris-look.”
“What a shame,” said his wife. “David, if I were Nell, I should be very proud.”
“I am,” said Eleanor. “When he seized me——”
“Oh, you story!” said David. “I never——”
“Shut your face,” said Crispin. “Go on, Nell. When he seized you . . .”
“I never seized her,” cried Herrick. “I—I hadn’t time. Your butler——”
“You see,” said Eleanor, “we arrived together to-night. I was just going to ring when he said that I looked like a fairy-tale. Well, that was all right, so, instead of ringing, I gave him a baby stare.”
“Oh, the hussy!” raved Herrick. “The——”
“Be quiet,” shrieked his host and hostess.
“The next minute,” said Eleanor coolly, “it was all over. And, when I came to, the door was open and I was in his arms.”
“Oh, she’s slurred it,” said Crispin. “She’s slurred it. What was all over?”
Eleanor smiled bewitchingly.
“You must ask your butler,” she said.
Crispin lifted his glass and looked at his wife.
“My sweet,” he said, “your very good health. There’s no one like you in all the blinkin’ world.” His guests cried their approval, and the tenderest look stole into Madge Willoughby’s eyes. He drank, smiled and set down his glass. Then he turned to Miss Cloke. “Nell,” he said, “you’re a darling. I’ld rather have you on my right than any woman I know. Yet, sweet as you are, you’re a fortunate child. David may be peculiar, but he’ll never let you down.”
“What d’you mean—‘peculiar’?” said Herrick.
“That,” said Eleanor, “is what I’m burning to know.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. Be careful of him when he’s in beer, and if ever he says he’s a life-belt and tries to put himself on, don’t argue, but send for the police.”
“They say,” said Eleanor, gurgling, “that marriage tends to shatter all sorts of illusions.”
Crispin laid a hand upon his heart.
“My dear,” he declared, “I’m sure that yours will but substantiate your dreams.”
“With which,” said Madge tremulously, “we grey-beards look towards you.”
Solemnly she and her husband toasted their guests.
Herrick cleared his throat.
“Nell,” he said, “I give you the verb ‘to love.’Je t’aime, tu m’aimes, il s’aime, mais nous aimons Madge tous les trois.”
He raised his glass.
“ ‘Il s’aime’?” said Crispin. “Put down that port.”
“We’d better include him,” said Eleanor. “Besides, he’s—he’s rather a dear.”
She blew her host a kiss, and the toast was honoured.
“A little more of this,” said Mrs. Willoughby, “and I shall break down.”
“I—I’m sure I should have seized her,” said Crispin brokenly.
“Well, now,” said Herrick, squeezing the end of a cigar, “what’s the first thing to do?”
“Broadcast your folly,” said Crispin. “Put a notice inThe Times, announcing her unaccountable determination to become your wife. If I were you I should kill two birds with one rock and add that you won’t be responsible for her debts. You never know.”
“The next thing,” said Madge, “is to decide roughly upon a date. Let’s see. This is March. What about some time in May?”
“That’s all right for me,” said Eleanor. “As at present arranged, I get back from Nice——”
“My dear good child,” said her hostess, “you can wash Nice out. You’ve got to get yourtrousseau.”
The lovers regarded one another.
“Can’t she get that at Nice?” said David. “I mean, I’d thought I’ld go too. Give the east winds a miss an’ play a little pat-ball an’——”
“Nice?” said Crispin. “You won’t have time to get to Worthing and back. You haven’t the remotest idea of what you’re up against. As a rule, a full-dress wedding takes over two months to produce, and that means going full blast the whole of the time.”
Herrick shifted uneasily.
“Must—er—must it be full-dress?” he ventured. “I mean——”
A shriek from Madge and Eleanor cut short the protest.
“But, ofcourse,” cried his hostess. “You must be married at St. Margaret’s, with six bridesmaids.”
“That’s right,” said Crispin. “And flowers on the organ. I’ll order the confetti. The best way is to get it by the hundredweight.”
Herrick tugged his moustache.
“You’re sure,” he said humbly, “you’re sure, Nell, you wouldn’t like quite a quiet show? You know. Sort of hidin’ our light under a bushel.”
“Positive, darling,” said Eleanor. “I want to splurge. Besides, we can go to Nice any old time. Can we have a guard of honour?”
“There you are,” said Crispin. “They’re squabbling already.”
“Look here,” said Madge, laughing. “Within limits of reason each of you’s anxious to do what the other wants. Am I right?”
“My heart’s desire,” said David piously.
“Liar,” said Eleanor. “Go on, Madge.”
“Very well. I’ve got a plan. Certain things, like hertrousseau, are left to the woman, and certain other things are always left to the man. Now, that’s a bad arrangement, because the woman gets what she wants and the man pleases himself.”
“Why’s that bad?” said Eleanor suspiciously.
“Because, if they’re to be happy, the woman should get what he wants, while the man should please her.”
Finger to exquisite lip, Eleanor regarded her swain.
“Yes, I’ve got that,” said the latter. “It’s rather subtle, but——”
“It’s love,” said Madge. “That’s all. If Nell gets a frock and you don’t like it, she’ll loathe the sight of it.”
“That’s right,” said Crispin. “And if you get a pair of boots and they frighten her, the very thought of the swine’ll make your gorge rise.”
“Therefore,” continued Madge, bubbling, “the usual practice must be reversed. The things that a man does will become Nell’s business, while David must choose and manage what’s usually left to the girl.”
There was a pregnant silence.
Then—
“My dear,” said her husband, “I take my hat right off. What a truly tidal brain-wave. David, we’ll go and look at chemises to-morrow morning.”
“No, you won’t,” said Madge. “But we shall—David and I. And you and Nell will go and get David some boots.”
“But I don’t want any boots,” cried David. “Besides——”
“What d’you mean?” said Crispin. “You can’t be married in your socks. To-morrow morning Nell and I are going down the Edgware Road to choose your wedding foot-joy—a good-looking pair of roomy, elastic-sided, banana-coloured boots; and if we should see a nice pair of trousers . . .”
The rest of the sentence was lost in a roar of laughter.
When order had been restored—
“They must each,” said Madge shakily, “make a list of what they need and where they’ld like the things got. Who’s your bootmaker, David?”
“Stoop.”
“Very well. Nell and Crispin’ll go to Stoop, and Nell’ll order some boots. Stoop’s got your last, and Crispin, being a man, will keep her straight. In the same way, you and I’ll go to Zyrot’s and you shall pick out some hats. They can be tried on me, and I’ll supervise your choice.”
“That’s all very well,” said David, “but I know Crispin’s ideas of humour, and——”
“I give you my word,” said his host, “I’ll do you a treat. Nell shan’t get a blinkin’ thing I wouldn’t be glad of myself. It’ll be for her, of course, to choose the engagement ring.” He turned to Eleanor. “Oh, you shall have a snorter.” The unfortunate Herrick blenched. “I think, perhaps, you’d better have two—just in case you lose one.”
Madge Willoughby began to shake with laughter.
“If she does,” blurted David, “she’ll have all grey flannellingerie—with brass buttons.”
“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t do that,” said Eleanor. “That would be unkind. Besides, a sponge-bag kilt wouldn’t suit you.”
So soon as he could speak—
“It’s all off,” cried David wildly. “I absolutely refuse to agree to this lop-sided idea. I won’t have anything to do with it. Her—her imagination’s too vivid. And with that overfed serpent to egg her on . . .”
It was fully two minutes before his protest was overcome.
“As for the jobs,” said Madge tearfully, “that they usually do together, we can be a Court of Appeal. Take the wedding, for instance. Well, I think it should be full-dress—not because Nell wants it, but because it’s only decent.”
“I agree,” said Crispin warmly. “I’ve been through the hoop; why shouldn’t David?”
Herrick raised his eyes to heaven and set his teeth.
“Madge,” he said weakly, “why did you marry the brute?”
His hostess rose with a laugh.
“Love,” she said. “He wanted me to, you see, and I wanted to do as he wanted.”
The absurd arrangement worked well.
The Willoughbys’ taste was irreproachable.
Madge had learned how to dress in Boston, Mass., and possessed an uncanny instinct for anticipatingles modes. Crispin’s sartorial opinions were respected in Savile Row. He had, moreover, a genius for organization. Under his direction the ‘production’ of the wedding proceeded like clockwork. An eye to colour made Madge a born decorator, and, where furniture was concerned, while they were yet herded in the showrooms, she could tell the sheep from the goats. David’s half-timbered cottage at Hammercloth Down began to look as it had looked when James the First was young.
Herrick and Eleanor Cloke were admirably served.
As for their patrons, they were tickled to death. Whether sitting as a Court of Appeal or supervising the lovers’ selection of the wherewithal to take the matrimonial field, they called an hilarious tune. Born with large ideas, they indulged them generously. Happily for theirprotégés, the latter were rich. . . .
If Crispin and Madge made the running, David and Eleanor were well up. An afternoon at the dressmaker’s suited Madge down to the ground, but the lady herself made such a dazzling mannequin that David would not have been human if he had found the hours long. In the same way, Crispin shouldered his burdens with the most infectious good humour, continually reducing Miss Cloke to a condition of mirth which verged upon abandon and throwing shop after shop into sniggering confusion. The climax was reached at the hosier’s, when Willoughby suddenly found himself unable to speak anything but the most imperfect English, enthusiastically supported by an excited flow of French. Indeed, but for his solemn promise never to repeat such simulation, their pilgrimages would have ended that day, for, as Eleanor observed that evening—
“The laws that seem to govern men’s clothes are difficult enough without any international complications.”
Herrick inspired audibly.
“That’s a good one,” he said. “I suppose the laws (sic) that govern women’s clothes (sic) require rather less intelligence than does the sucking of eggs. Of course, my office is a complete sinecure. I’m not dressing you at all. Apparently I’m not—not competent. A woman’s headgear alone seems to be a life study. If I make the most patent suggestion, all the women in the place nearly burst themselves with laughter: and when I ask why, the only answer I get is that I ‘shouldn’t like it like that.’ And sometimes Madge adds that ‘the line’ld be wrong.’ And when I ask, ‘What line?’ she says, ‘The line of the hat.’ Not ‘lining,’ mark you, but ‘line.’ ”
“Well, I expect it would.”
Herrick put a hand to his head.
“ ‘Et tu, Brute,’ ” he murmured. Then, “Look here. Supposing I was an architect, and you wanted to choose a house. And every one you liked I said, ‘You can’t have that because the point’s wrong.’ And when you said ‘What point?’ I said, ‘The point of the house.’ Well, after about thirty, you’ld want to lie down and scream.”
“Your wretched things,” wailed Eleanor, “are every bit as bad. Yesterday I chose a grey suit—at least, I chose the cloth. And I said I’ld bring them the buttons. As it happened, I’d seen some that morning—blue pebble buttons——”
“Good God!” said Herrick.
“Exactly,” said Eleanor. “That was what Crispin said. And when I asked the cause of the excitement, I was told that I ‘didn’t understand.’ I ask you.”
“At least,” said Herrick faintly, “we don’t change our rubric once a year.”
“Once a month,” corrected Willoughby. “You wait. How many hats did you get to-day?”
“Three,” said David. “One’s a topper—all blue and white straw. Looks as if someone had rolled on it and then bought it half a pint of gooseberries to keep it quiet.”
“What?” screamed Eleanor.
“It’s all right, darling,” cried Madge. “It’s a dream. They’re not gooseberries at all. They’re cherries—blue cherries, and the shape’s rather like one—I wonder if you remember; I wore it at Henley last year, and it had a crushed strawberry——”
“Time,” said Crispin. “Maudlin memories of discarded headgear are bad for my heart. I only introduced this ghastly topic to illustrate the fugacity of women’s raiment. The hats you chose to-day will be out of date before they’re married.”
“I don’t think so,” said Madge. “I’m trying to buy well ahead. Of course——”
“One moment,” said David. “D’you mean to say that there’s even a possibility of such a thing?”
“Well, I’m a little bit anxious about that velvet toque. You see——”
A howl of dismay interrupted her.
“My favourite?” cried David. “The wicked one that dips over the left eye?” He threw up his hands. “Why, properly cared for, there’s years of wear in that hat.”
“Years of wear?” shrieked the girls.
“Years,” yelled Herrick. “An’ then it could be done up.”
There was a roar of laughter.
“You see?” said Crispin. “He hasn’t the remotest idea. Never mind. To-morrow Nell and I are looking at furnished flats.”
Eleanor made a little mouth.
“Much,” she announced, “against my will. A house would have been much nicer. Still, I accept your ruling.”
“My dear,” purred Madge, “I know what servants are. You’re sure to strike some wash-outs in your first twelve months—real old soldiers, I mean. They’re like vultures. They can smell a newly married couple five miles off. And a house is so unwieldy.”
“I know, but——”
David put in his oar.
“Give me an undress wedding, and you shall have your house.”
“Not on your life,” said Eleanor. “Besides, if you really loved me you’ld do as I want.”
“Ugh,” said David, “she’s wheedling me.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing doing,” he said sternly. “Besides, if you worshipped me, you’ld—you’ld hang upon my lips.”
“I think,” said Eleanor demurely, “I think I—I might . . . in a house.”
“I’ll back the lady,” shouted Crispin. “I’ll lay five to one—six—ten . . . ten sovereigns to one sovereign the lady gets her way.”
“Taken,” said Madge. “David, stick to your guns. The Court of Appeal’s behind you. Besides, I’ve had some. If you take a house before you’ve got the right servants you’ll be buying trouble in red.”
Eleanor gave herfiancéa melting look.
“David darling,” she murmured, “don’t you think that this once we could upset the Court of Appeal? After all, we’ve got to live in it—you . . . and I.”
She blushed exquisitely.
Herrick writhed.
“Be strong,” shrieked Madge, “be strong. Think of the housemaids saying they can’t stick the stairs and the cook complaining of the damp and the charwomen——”
“Ch-charwomen?” stammered David.
“Charwomen. Relays of them—when all the servants have gone. And the silver at the Bank because you’ve no one to clean it, and poor Nell in tears counting your shirts, and answering the back-door yourself. . . . At least, a flat has only one door.”
David addressed himself to Eleanor.
“My sweet,” he said, “not even for an undress wedding will I give you a house. In your own interest——”
Here a salted almond hit him upon the nose.
Mrs. Willoughby regarded the ceiling.
“Ten sovereigns to one,” she murmured. “Dear me, this is very fortunate. David, how much was that hat you didn’t like?”
“What, not ‘The Lost Chord’?”
“That’s right.”
“Nine and a half guineas,” said Herrick. He turned to Crispin. “Nine and a half guineas for a piece of rope—wound round and round—painted red and white—with a chunk of wood on each end.”
“But how ravishing,” said Crispin. “Was it real rope, or only imitation?”
“It was a gem,” said Madge. “We’ll get it to-morrow, David, before we look at the cooks.”
The conference was typical and one of several.
The four fleeted the time pleasantly, hunting in couples, conferring perhaps twice a week. Once Madge had protested that the arrangement was false, that her jest was being carried too far. The betrothal, she hinted, was being shorn of its rights; the privacy of courtship was being invaded; halcyon days were being stolen away. Her objection was tumultuously quashed. With one consent Eleanor and David insisted that all was well. They declared that they were not children, that chances of present discord were being eliminated, that future harmony was being assured. They also expressed their gratitude in certain terms. Madge was reassured. Crispin, being a man, said and thought nothing at all. And, as is always the way, some people, who were not concerned, said and looked volumes.
This was inevitable.
The engagement had attracted attention to a notable pair.
Miss Cloke had been bridesmaid to Royalty, was immensely liked and of great beauty. Herrick had played polo for England, and was known and respected on the Turf. His beautiful filly, Cretonne, was fancied for the Derby. Her victory would undoubtedly be cordially received.
As for the Willoughbys, they were celebrities pure and simple. They had been conspicuous as man and maid. Captain Willoughby, bachelor, was a V.C. Miss Madge Dinwiddy had been the darling of New York. The two had married for love and nothing else. Two personalities—one brilliant and the other steadfast—had made two simultaneous mutual appeals, each of them too powerful to be withstood. Before the respective onslaughts Crispin Willoughby and Madge had gone down incontinently.
Mayfair had roared its approval then and there, and its approval had never waned.
So far as the two were concerned, the result of their union was natural enough. Each began to assume something of the other’s outstanding quality. A sheen stole upon the nap of Crispin’s steadfastness. The charm of Madge’s brilliance began to crystallize.
American by birth, the lady would have graced any company. She was tall and beautifully made. Some said her neck was too long, but I do not think so. Be that as it may, it was the neck of a goddess. The Willoughby emeralds had never looked half so well. Soft brown hair and laughing eyes, a fine colour and an exquisite mouth went to the making of a countenance you never forgot. Her air, her easy dignity, her flow of excellent talk—above all, that precious radiance which could coax flame from smoking flax would have ennobled a hunchback. Wherever she went, Madge Willoughby was constantly aerating the wine of life. Often enough she turned it into champagne.
Crispin was thirty-five and a handsome man. Tall, quiet, pleasant, grave-faced, he suggested a strength and depth of character not to be met every day. The suggestion was true. The deeper you dug, the finer the ore you came to. But, until his marriage, the mine had to be worked. His style, his manners were perfect—and always had been; he inspired astounding confidence. But he had been reserved—shy. Only among his familiars would he let himself go. . . . Five years with Madge had altered everything. The man had shed his reserve and given his spirits their head. His humour came bubbling. Invariably he led the dance. And Madge watched him leading with the gentlest light in her eyes. . . .
The opposition of two such fair planets, no less than their several conjunction with stars almost as bright, was bound to excite remark.
Eyebrows were raised; whispers were repeated; nudges were covertly exchanged. Soon an impatient confidence that smoke so thick must be the greasy harbinger of conflagration set tongues wagging.
It was on the evening of the nineteenth of April, as Mrs. Willoughby and Herrick were returning by taxi from choosing a breakfast set, that the latter threw his cigarette out of the window, took the lady in his arms and kissed her upon the mouth.
“David!”
She shook him off and shrank into her corner, trembling violently.
Herrick took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. This was unnaturally pale.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I beg your pardon. I—I don’t know why I did it. I think—I think it was your perfume. I shall smell it all my life, dear . . . your faint perfume.”
“David!”
The horror of the girl’s tone was reflected in her beautiful eyes.
The man nodded.
“Yes, it’s true,” he said. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“Oh, David . . .”
She began to wail tremulously, twisting her fingers as though in an agony of mind.
“I’m only human, Madge; and if you could see yourself I think you’ld understand. I’ve tried, dear. I know all it means. I’ve tried and fought and jammed my nose to the stone. But it’s not the slightest good.”
“But Nell,” cried Madge. “Nell . . .”
Herrick shrugged his shoulders.
“I know. It can’t be helped. I’m sorry. She’s awfully sweet. But—— Oh, Madge, there’s something about you that takes a man by the throat . . . something that——”
“Stop, David, stop! You must be out of your mind. You can’t mean—— Oh, for God’s sake tell me you’re only pulling my leg.”
“I wish to God I could,” said Herrick miserably. “But I can’t, my lady, I can’t. I love you, and there you are.” Madge caught her breath and clapped her hands to her face. “I’m wild—crazy about you, and that’s the truth. Of course it’s hopeless—grotesque. You’re Crispin’s wife, and Crispin’s one of the best. But I don’t suppose I’m the first that’s loved his wife. . . . You’ll tell him, of course. And say if he wants to kick me, I won’t try and cramp his style. He’s every right in the world. But I don’t think he will, because he’ll understand. He’s a man, you see . . . and he knows that it’s pretty easy to fall in love with you.”
“But Nell, David, Nell. . . . Don’t you see what this means to her? You’re letting her down most frightfully. Why, man, it’ll break her heart. If it wasn’t for Nell, I wouldn’t care a kick. We’ld have a straight talk, and after a month——”
“Month?” echoed David, with a bitter laugh. “Shows how much you understand. ‘After a month.’ . . . Good God, Madge, this isn’t an evening out. I’m finished . . . bent . . . broken. . . . You’ve shown me the precious fountain. I’ve drunk its water out of your blessed palms. I’ve drunk—drunk, my lady. . . . And you only drink once. I’m badged—branded, Madge, branded as your man. With me you stand for womanhood. Your smile, your voice, your hair, the light in your wonderful eyes——”
“Oh, stop, stop,” wailed Madge. “How can you talk like this? You know it’s not the game. You know you’re wronging Nell . . . and Crispin . . . and me. If I’ve given you cause, God knows I never meant it. If . . .”
Her voice broke, and she began to weep silently.
Herrick set his teeth.
“We’re nearly home,” he said. “Shall I tell him to drive round the Park?”
“Yes—no—yes,” sobbed Mrs. Willoughby. “And—please don’t talk any more.”
David gave the order and flung himself back in his seat. Presently with a shaking hand he lighted a cigarette. . . .
By the time they were back at Park Place, Madge was reasonably composed.
She descended quickly, waved her hand, and let herself in with a rush.
Herrick told the cabman to go to the Club.
Crispin was in the library, seated upon the floor, with a pipe between his teeth, brushing the Sealyham.
His wife burst in tempestuously.
“Crip, the most awful thing has happened.”
“Impossible,” said Crispin calmly. “My word, how lovely you look. Of course, the way to see you is to sit at your feet.”
His wife sat down by his side and put an arm round his neck.
“Crip,” she said, laying her cheek against his. “David’s gone off the deep end.”
“What?” cried Crispin. “Gone and got sozzled by day?”
“No, no, no. Far worse, Crip. He thinks he’s in love with me.”
“The devil he does,” said Crispin. “Not that it isn’t natural, but what a stew and a half! Where’s Nell come in?”
“He swears she doesn’t,” cried Madge. “That’s the frightful part. Whatever are we to do?”
Her husband knitted his brows.
“Of course, he’ll get over it,” he murmured. “That’s certain enough. Just as the others have. But in this case we’re up against time.”
“Exactly,” said Madge. “Right up against it. A week in the country might help, but he can’t have a couple of days. Whatever happens, Nell must never suspect.”
“By Jove, no.” He turned and looked at his wife. “Hullo, you’ve been crying, sweetheart.” His lips tightened. “Did he—make a fool of himself?”
“Only for a second. He caught hold of me and kissed me. But I didn’t mind that. Besides, he apologised directly. And he told me to tell you that if you wanted to kick him he was at your service.” Crispin grinned. “But he said he didn’t think you would.”
“Why?”
“He said that, being a man, you’ld understand.”
“Ah.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then Crispin kissed his wife, smiled into her eyes and fell again to brushing the terrier, who was patiently lying on his back with his legs in the air.
“Where is, er, Paris, at the moment?” he demanded lazily.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Probably at the Club.”
“And Œnone?”
“Probably at home. Why?”
“I was thinking they’d better not meet till David’s got his orders. Of course, the marriage must go through. They’re perfectly matched and they’ll be ridiculously happy. If there were anything doing—I mean, if you were on, it’ld be a different thing. Nell wouldn’t stand an earthly—no woman would.” Mrs. Willoughby squeezed his arm. “But as you’re not, old lady—well, unrequited love doesn’t wear as well as it did when ‘burning Sappho loved and sung.’ Personally, I’m not at all sure that it was ever very durable. But that’s beside the point, which is that our job is to knock it out quick.”
“I agree,” said Madge, abstracting her husband’s case and taking a cigarette. “But how on earth can we do it?”
“Ask him to dinner to-night. I’ll go out. Somewhere about the fish tell him tenderly that you wouldn’t be seen dead with him. That’ll put him off and, what’s far more important, wound his pride. Add, for instance, that you don’t like the way he eats.” Madge began to shake with laughter. “And say, ‘to be perfectly frank,’ that you’ve always been much surprised that Nell didn’t seem to mind.”
“I can’t, Crip. Besides——”
“You must. It’s the only way. Then, having got so far, say, ‘as a matter of fact,’ you’re not at all sure that she hasn’t noticed something. That’ll make him sit up. It’ll also make him ask questions. You’ll beat about the bush till you get to the sweet. Then say you’ll tell him when the servants are gone.”
“Go on,” said Madge, bubbling.
“When you’re alone, extract his word to say nothing, and then tell him bluntly we’ve a sort of idea that she’s looking at somebody else. Refuse to say who it is—that shouldn’t be difficult—but say he’s a pretty strong man. Add casually that of course it isn’t everyone that could hold a girl like Nell and that, ‘to tell the truth,’ you and I’d always said that the one thing we were afraid of was that he wouldn’t be strong enough to hold her affection.”
“Yes, yes,”—excitedly.
“Well, that’s all. He’ll snort and blow a bit. He may even grind his teeth. But if you do it well, you’ll bring it off. First you wound his pride and then you slap its face. No matter what he says, I’ll bet he leaves this house mentally swearing he’ll show us whether he can hold Nell. . . . As for his loving you, sweetheart, you’ll have blotted that frenzy out.”
For a moment his wife looked thoughtful.
Then she got upon her feet.
“Crip,” she said, gently smoothing his hair, “you’ve got a lightning brain.”
“I’ve got a peach of a wife,” said Crispin Willoughby. He smacked the Sealyham’s flank. “Haven’t I, Boodle?”
The terrier sneezed his assent.
Husband and wife laughed.
Then—
“I’d better telephone now,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “There’s only one thing you haven’t thought of, Crip. Obviously David and I can’t continue our raids. How’s that to be explained? Nell will want to know why.”
Crispin removed his pipe and regarded its bowl.
“I know,” he said. “We’ll say Aunt Millicent’s ill and burst off to Como at once. A couple of weeks in Italy’ll suit me down to the ground.”
“And me,” said Madge. “Give me the home of romance.”
“But not its occupant?”
“No—unless she can show a good title.”
Husband and wife smiled.
Arrived at the door, Madge paused.
“I suppose you must go out,” she said wistfully.
“I must, my darling. This is a one man show. Besides, I think my job is to get hold of Nell. You don’t want her blowing in to spoke your wheel.”
“My word, no,” said Mrs. Willoughby.
“I’ll say you’re tired and take her to see the play.”
“Right.”
The door closed.
For a moment or two Crispin continued to brush the Sealyham. Then he rose to his feet and picked up the letter on which he had been sitting. He re-read it carefully.