Part 16

“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 sing _Cease 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.

“For _six_,” 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—_his_ ways. Of course. His ways. He saw no harm—there _was_ no 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.

The _salle de danse_ was 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 ’as _got_ to 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.

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.