Ann put a hand to her head, as though to focus the truth.
Her passion for Bob was gone. The flax was not even smoking. The fire
had been quenched.
Ann felt cold with shame.
Bob had been so fearful, and her love had cast out his fear. He had
never doubted her love, but only whether that love could survive the
strain. And she had fought to convince him, till he had been convinced.
He believed heart and soul in its ability . . . heart and soul. . . .
And now—Bob had been right. Her dauntless love had not endured eight
hours—_not eight hours_. . . .
Of course she hadn’t appreciated. There had been a misunderstanding. She
had assumed——
The excuses leaked like sieves. The truth poured out of them.
_It was she—she only that was to blame._ She hadn’t thought of all
this. Her father had. So had her aunt. So even had Bob—poor, weak,
unsophisticated Bob. With tears in his eyes, he had begged her not to
smash his life; and she had smiled and kissed him and smashed it and
smashed hers too.
The Sting of Death sank to a pin-prick, the Victory of the Grave to an
unfinished game—beside the horror of the fare which Life was serving.
It seemed, indeed, that she was to be spared nothing.
Bob returned beaming. His wooing of the cabman had prospered, for, as
luck would have it, the latter was in a holiday humour. He had been upon
the point of returning to his stable, and ‘Pier View’ was on his way. He
would drive them for nothing. He was, as Bob put it, ‘a proper sport.’
It soon appeared that he was a wag also.
In these circumstances it was most natural that his consent to oblige a
pal should automatically promote him to the standing of a familiar. He
celebrated his elevation heartily by a series of jocular allusions to
nuptial bliss and intimate reminiscences of his own union, by tying a
posy to his whip and desiring lustily to be informed of the shortest way
to the Abode of Love.
The bystanders roared.
Encouraged by this reception, he stopped outside the station, and
acquainting a policeman with the facts, begged the loan of his white
gloves, his own, as he explained, ‘bein’ put away by me valet wiv me
’untin’ things. You know wot these servants are, officer.’
He was really extremely funny.
For the rest of the way he contented himself with a lively and
affectionate communion with Lady Ann’s trunk—an effort which, to judge
from the scandalized shrieks of mirth which followed them, went very
well with such pedestrians as they passed. Indeed, their progress was
triumphal.
Bob enjoyed it thoroughly, as one enjoys being rallied upon a possession
of which one is justly proud. He was all sheepish smiles. Ann was all
smiles, too. Her face ached with the strain. Every nerve in her body was
squirming. She was upon the edge of hysteria.
“God knows . . . I must . . . _Nothing_. . . .”
Satire spat upon his hands and laid fresh hold of her tail.
Upon arrival at ‘Pier View’ it proved unnecessary for three several
reasons, all of which were evil, to ring the front-door bell. In the
first place, they did not and were not expected to use the front door.
Secondly, a small boy, who was at once wearing a tight green blazer and
dirty flannel shorts, swinging idly upon the area gate and contemplating
the seething pageant of pleasure-seekers under the comfortable auspices
of a generous complement of butterscotch, took one look at husband and
wife and then fell down the steps, bellowing, “’Ere they are!” Thirdly,
the little knot of passers-by which would long ago have collected, had
the equipage but halted, began to give the driver an appreciative
hearing.
Bob was out of the fly and stooping to set Ann’s dressing-case by the
area gate; as he turned, the small boy reappeared, followed by a large
business-like countenance which gave the impression of being able to
look extremely unpleasant but was at the moment wreathed in winning
smiles; flanking this, rose two other feminine faces, open-mouthed,
peering—one fat, snub-nosed, jolly-eyed; the other discontented and
pinched; the little knot of bystanders was swelling into an obstruction;
the cabman was relating an anecdote which pointed the wisdom of the
removal of boots before retiring. . . .
Ann saw it all as in an ugly dream.
It occurred to her that the train-journey and this were but the
prologue—the induction to the play she had commanded, the devilish
comedy in which she was to play the lead. The induction had been
startling, but the play . . . The play was to be the thing. Of course.
Plays were. The prologue was nothing. So far she had hardly appeared.
When the curtain rose on the play . . . She found herself wondering if
there would be an epilogue.
Suddenly, with a frightful shock, she realized that the curtain was up,
that the stage was waiting . . . _waiting_ . . . that
this—was—her—cue. . . .
_Crowd laughs at cabman’s sallies. Aunt Harriet and the girls reach the
top of the area steps. Bob is busy with her trunk. Gramophone next door
starts ‘YES! We have no bananas.’ Cabman stops his discourse, listens
intently, and then says, ‘’Ark! The ’erald angels sing.’ Crowd yells
with delight._ Enter _The Lady Ann Minter. . . ._
Ann pulled herself together and got out of the cab.
Then she turned to the driver and put out her hand.
“Thank you so much for bringing us,” she said most charmingly.
It was a fatal gesture—because it was the act of a lady.
The laughter snapped off short: the grins faded: the genial atmosphere
stiffened with a jar.
The cabman’s assurance fell from him like a shirt of mail. His drollery
collapsed before a mountainous wave of respect.
He took off his shabby hat and touched the slight fingers.
“Thank you, m’m,” he said humbly.
Amidst a gaping silence Ann turned to the steps.
She could hear the breathing of the bystanders, feel their resentful
stares burning her face. She had spoiled sport, embarrassed, turned the
frolic she should have led into a ceremony they could not follow. She
had drawn the whip of her superiority, flourished it, laid it across
their shoulders. Only the gramophone continued to spout its ghastly
pleasantry, like a clown mouthing in a death-chamber.
‘_We’ve broad beans like BUN-ions, cab-BAH-ges and HON-ions . . ._’
Before this master-stroke of Satire Ann could have burst into tears. She
had striven wildly to rise to the occasion, only to shatter—to let the
whole thing down. . . . The awful hopelessness of her position flamed.
Envy, Hatred and Malice, then, had been appointed her equerries. Not
only was she to suffer: she was to cause suffering, breed discontent,
induce ill-will. The efforts which she must make were doomed before they
were made not only to fail but to turn to her condemnation. And she
could do nothing, because there was nothing to be done. She had sold her
birthright, but she could not sell her birth. Her style, her speech, her
plumage could not be doffed. She was a peacock in daw’s feathers—and
the daws would fiercely resent her condescension.
‘_But YES! We have no bananas. . . . We have no bananas to-day._’
‘Would resent’? _Were resenting. . . ._