“All serene, kid. I’ve got the goods,” panted Bob. He turned to a
shambling porter, thrusting a truck. “Say, mate, where d’you keep your
taxis?”
“Not ’ere,” said the porter. “Might get a keb.”
He preceded them wearily.
“You—you’ve got rooms, Bob?” faltered his bride.
Her husband’s eyes shone as he slid an arm beneath hers.
“Course I ’ave, kid.” He hesitated. Then, “I didn’ mean to tell you, but
. . . I won’ be able to give you the ’ome you ought to ’ave—servants
an’ cars an’ whatnot. More’s the pity. But jus’ this once—for this
fortnight I’ve done my lady proud.” His voice began to tremble with
excitement and pride. “You’ve got the bes’ room in Suet, darlin’—the
best on the ’ole parade. There ain’t a fine lady in the town that’s got
such a room. The Countess of ’Ampshire used to ’ave it, an’ all the ’igh
muck-a-mucks ’ave bit an’ scratched to get it whenever they come this
way. Firs’ floor—looks right over the pier. . . . An’ not a chair
moved, nor a picture. You’ll ’ave it jus’ the same. You see, my aunt she
keeps apartments—the best in Suet: an’ when we fixed things up I wrote
to ’er, told ’er on the Q.T. an’ said I wanted ’er firs’ bedroom—jus’
for you. An’ she wrote beck an’ said that you should ’ave it if she ’ad
to turn people out. She’s a good ’eart is old Aunt ’Arriet. Givin’ it us
at a cut price, too—season an’ all. An’ we’ll grub with ’er an’ the
girls an’ Uncle Tom—I tell you, kid, they don’t ’alf know ’ow to live.
Why, you’ll be as fat as butter ’fore we go beck to Town.”
Ann’s brain reeled.
‘Grub with her and the girls and Uncle Tom. . . . Grub with . . .’
The station-yard faded, and the Morland above the mantelpiece stole into
view—the spreading oak and the cottage and the girl standing at the
door . . . and the man on the horse smiling . . . the humble intimacy of
the scene—the simple happiness—the precious privacy . . .
_privacy_. . . .
She was outcaste, of course—excommunicate. The order had been made that
morning. She had signed it herself deliberately—with open eyes. More.
She had done it gladly. She wanted to be expelled, that she might live
with Bob—_but under a spreading oak_ . . . _in a cottage_ . . . _alone,
as outcastes live_ . . . not—not at Suet . . . not ‘grubbing with Aunt
Harriet and the girls and Uncle Tom.’ . . . She thought Bob had
understood that. She had told him so plainly—a child could have
understood. And yet . . .
The pathos of his failure hit her between the eyes. He couldn’t grasp
that she didn’t want ‘a show’—couldn’t appreciate such heresy. Her
words had meant nothing. Because she was his great lady, she must have
as fine a show as he could compass. Other women must be made jealous of
her fortune. Others could skulk in cottages and under spreading oaks;
but she must go to Suet—fashionable Suet, and have the best room in the
place . . . looking over the pier. . . . It was the most loving
compliment he could pay.
By a supreme effort Ann drove the consternation out of her eyes, shook
off the cold clutch of Horror and squeezed her husband’s arm.
“You’re very good to me, Bob,” she said steadily. “I think you were
wonderful to think of it all. We shall—shall be grand having the best
room in Suet.”
Bob coloured with delight.
“Oh, it’s nothin’ much,” he said awkwardly. “I ’spect you’ve often ’ad
rooms pretty near as good. But I—I like to think I’ll be giving you the
best . . . jus’ for once.”
He broke away and made for a cabman, who, learning his applicant’s
vocation, might see his way to take them on trade terms.
Ann watched him dazedly.
Nothing, it seemed, was to be spared her—nothing.
The discovery that she had made one grand, imperishable mistake stunned
her: the savagery of the penalty she was to pay made her soul blench:
but the ghastly, mocking irony of poor Bob’s solicitude cut like a cold,
wet lash. Foul tongue in cheek, the spirit of Satire was possessing his
honest heart. Beneath this hideous influence, thought, word and loving
deed emerged grotesque, cross-gartered. He ushered some tender travesty
with every breath. The eager pride with which he strove to make Fate
split its sides tore at Ann’s heart. It was pathetic—with the pathos of
the dying dog that whimpers to think it cannot rise to make its master
sport. And just because it was so heartrending he could not possibly be
told. Blow, lash, claw had to be suffered unflinchingly. He—he could
not be told.