Part 17

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 in _course_ Ann 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 a _nurl’s daughter_ than 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—_I_ say 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

ELEANOR

Coffee was 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 in _The 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 your _trousseau_.”

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, of _course_,” 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 her _trousseau_, 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—