“Oh, ’aughty,” said someone. “Sten’ beck fer the Lady Ermyntrude.”
There was a stifled giggle.
Her face flaming, Ann stepped to her hostess, who was palpably
intoxicated with the prospect of communion with her guest and determined
unmistakably to adorn a plane upon which lack of opportunity alone had
hitherto prevented her from ambling. It was important that her new niece
should at once appreciate that there was not the slightest necessity for
her to step down. Here and now she must be made to realize that her aunt
was fully qualified to step up.
Out went her hand chin-high.
“’Ow-de-doo, Lady Ann. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I ’ope you
aren’t very fatigued, but it’s so ’ot for travellin’.” She turned to
rend the bystanders. “Stare a bit ’arder, won’t you? An’ where’s your
kemp-stools? Albert, ketch up that dressin’-case before it’s pinched.”
The small boy sprang to do her bidding. “An’ don’ beng it on the steps.
Come in, Lady Ann.” She began to descend, driving the girls before her.
“I ’ope you left ’is lordship well.”
“Very—very well, thank you,” stammered Ann.
“Oh, I’m gled of thet,” said Aunt Harriet ecstatically. “It’s so nice to
think of one’s deer ones——” She swung round to glare at the railings.
“Albert, go back an’ see who threw them srimps. . . . ‘Orrible, vulgar
brutes!” She stood fairly heaving with rage. “Reelly, the people that
comes to Suet nowadays, Lady Ann—well, I don’t know where they was
born. I didn’ know there was such people. Push you as soon as look at
you. Reelly, one’s better at ’ome. Walkin’ out’s no pleasure at all. But
come in, deer. Come in an’ meet the girls.”
She guided Ann through the passage and into a parlour.
The table was laid for a meal and there were covers for eight.
Standing uneasily together as though for protection were the two girls
and two young men.
The sour-faced girl was adopting a nonchalant air. Hand on hip, eyebrows
raised, lip curled, she sought self-consciously to veil her
self-consciousness. Her jolly-eyed sister appeared to be upon the edge
of hysteria. Her face was set in a nervous frozen grin, her hands were
twitching, her eyes riveted upon the floor. The youths were, if
possible, still less at ease. Both were tall and weedy. One was dark and
throaty—a quality which his belief in a tennis-shirt Byronically open
at the neck, with the collar carelessly arranged above that of his coat,
served to accentuate. His long hair was unparted, oiled and brushed
straight back. Two inches of close-cut side-whisker and an amazing
length of finger-nail argued æsthetic tendencies which the soulful
expression of his sallow face was intended to declare. He gave the
impression of being able to groan efficiently. The other had a jaunty,
more worldly air. His tiny moustache was waxed, his fair hair parted in
the middle and curled into twin horns. He was clearly conscious of his
superiority and, that there might be no mistake about it, was languidly
sucking his teeth. His collar—a soft creation of broad black and white
stripes—his red and chocolate tie, the golden kerchief flowing from his
breast-pocket showed that he knew how to dress.
“These are me daughters,” explained Aunt Harriet, “an’ their
gentlemen-frien’s. May . . .”
The sour-eyed girl advanced and shook hands—then turned, flushing
violently, to toy with a book.
“Ada.”
The jolly-eyed girl gulped, giggled, started forward, missed Ann’s hand,
tried again, clutched it anyhow and withdrew.
“Mr. Barnham.”
The æsthete thrust forward, stumbled, bowed over Ann’s fingers and
turned confusedly away.
“Mr. Alcock.”
Mr. Alcock delighted in showing how things should be done. Here was a
brilliant opportunity of at once asserting his superiority, astonishing
Ann, who would be thankful to find such unexpected _savoir-faire_, and
dispelling any skulking idea that to carry off such an encounter was
beyond his powers. He stepped forward briskly.
“Pleased to meet you, indeed,” he said warmly. “’Ow’s Piccadilly?”
It was a difficult question to answer.
Before Ann had found a reply, there was the appalling explosion with
which laughter which has been denied its usual channel forces the
narrows of the nose. The strain had been too great. Nature had asserted
herself. Ada had broken down.
Before her relatives’ horrified gaze, she abandoned herself to
succeeding paroxysms of mirth, to which, to his undying shame, Mr.
Barnham began sniggeringly to subscribe.
The devastation of gentility was too awful.
Mr. Alcock blenched, recovered, turned slowly purple and broke into a
gleaming sweat. Ann regarded him as though fascinated. Two red spots of
dishonour burned upon May’s cheekbones. Aunt Harriet was making a
rattling noise. . . . All the time convulsion after convulsion shook the
destructive to her foundations. And Mr. Barnham shook also.
“_Aida!_”
The rasp in her mother’s tone brought her up short. The former was
glaring unutterably.
As her daughter’s abominable emotions began to subside, Aunt Harriet
turned to her guest.
“Hoverwrought,” she said in the tone of one who is publicly excusing
whom she intends privately to flay alive. “Takes after ’er father. Shell
we go upstairs, Lady Ann? I’m sure you’ld like to take a look at your
room, an’ we can ’ave a quiet chat.”
“I’ld love to,” said Ann.
As she came to the door, she glanced round.
Mr. Alcock had slunk to the window and was savagely employing a
service-dressed brother of the golden kerchief. Ada, red-nosed and
bloated with exertion, stared blearedly upon the ground. May was
regarding the cornice with smouldering eyes. Mr. Barnham appeared to be
about to prophesy no good, but evil.
“So—so long,” said Ann pleasantly.
The others stared back.
“Me deer,” said Aunt Harriet, labouring up the stairs, “I want you to
feel that this is a nome from ’ome. Merriage is a wrench. One leaves a
lovin’ ’ome for a strange country. An’ you do feel strange. I remember
me own merriage. Down we goes to a little one-eyed place with never a
soul as knew wot a lady was. I tell you I felt that lonely I could ’ave
cut me throat. But you’ve no call to do that. You’re among frien’s ’ere
that feels as you do an’ likes the ways you like. I give you me word,
Lady Ann, vulgarity makes me sick. An’ there’s so much of it to-day.”
Arrived at a door upon the first floor, she opened it and passed into a
large, dingily furnished bedroom facing the sea. The brown wallpaper was
bruised and soiled: the threadbare carpet was overlaid with cheap rugs:
a voluminous muslin valance swaddled the dressing-table: wardrobe,
washstand and bed recalled the several sale-rooms whence they had come:
a rusty horse-hair couch sulked in a corner: spotted engravings of
Royalty being baptized or married or churched hung upon the walls: a
cord of one of the Venetian blinds had broken, and the slats were
splayed: a window of the bay was open and admitting something of what
seemed to be the uproar of a gigantic fair.
“There,” said the proud hostess, mechanically laying folded hands upon
the abdominal wall. “Simple, but tasty. I remember so well the firs’
time the Countess of ’Ampshire was ’ere. ‘Mrs. Root,’ she says, ‘people
’as an idea that we titleds must ’ave display. Completely wrong. Now, my
bedroom at ’Assocks is jus’ like this—quiet, but distanggy.’”
“It’s delightful,” said Ann, looking round. “I—I don’t feel strange at
all.”
“Couldn’ if you tried,” was the triumphant reply. “It’s so—so res’ful.”
She sank on to a chair. “An’ now, me deer, make yourself at ’ome. This
is your private room in ’Oliday ’Ouse.”
“You’re very kind,” said Ann.
“Don’ mention it.”
The abrupt injunction was disconcerting. It was not meant, of course, to
be obeyed. On the contrary. . . . After searching desperately for words
with which to flout its blunt authority—
“I—I wonder where Bob is,” faltered Ann. “If I could have my
dressing-case . . .”
“Now, don’t you go makin’ any toilet,” said Aunt Harriet. “We’ll be
goin’ out presently. Not that I don’t like changin’,” she added hastily,
“because I do. But Tom—my husban’s that slack. In course I’m afraid
I’ve fell away, but there you are. Where’s the good of me makin’ meself
tidy, when ’is idea of dressin’ is to take ’is collar orf?” She sighed
heavily. “But there, there,” she added. “We all ’as our crorse to bear.”
“Well, I’ll just wash my face and hands,” said Ann. “One gets so dirty
in the train.”
“Just as you please,” said her hostess. “I’m afraid it’s waste o’
time—the pier’s that filthy—but it’ll freshen you up.”
She fought her way past the dressing-table and thrust her head out of
the window.
“Albert,” she yelled.
“’Ullo,” rose the small boy’s voice.
“Don’t say ’Ullo’ to me,” snapped Aunt Harriet.
“Whatsay?”
His great-aunt drew in her breath.
“Where’s Bob?” she demanded.
“Gone to ’ave a drink with the driver.”
“Well, leave that there trunk an’ fetch up Lady Ann’s dressin’-case.”
“Whatsay?”
Albert’s inability to hear unwelcome tidings was a maddening complaint.
His great-aunt looked volumes.
“You ’eard well enough jus’ now,” she said in a shaking voice.
“Bob tole me to wait ’ere.”
“An’ I tell you to fetch up Lady Ann’s case.”
“Whatsay?”
Aunt Harriet left the window and erupted from the room.
Albert put the road between himself and ‘Pier View.’
Ann took off her hat and flung herself face downward upon the bed. . . .
“Why didn’t I think of all this? _God knows._ How can I possibly bear
it? _I must._ What shall I do—do? _Nothing._”
It occurred to Ann suddenly that it was all intensely funny. The comedy
of the situation was rich. Albert—Aunt Harriet—Mr. Alcock alone would
have brought down the house. Surely, her sense of humour . . .
Somebody laughed—wildly.
Ann perceived that here was another of Satire’s subtleties. Nothing so
obvious as tragedy was to be her portion. She was to be tormented by a
roaring farce—a farce that was founded on tears and broken dreams and
all the cureless agony of passionate regret. It was the Dance of Doom,
if not of Death.
When Aunt Harriet reappeared, lugging the dressing-case, she was
manifestly conscious that, but for her guest’s whimsy, she would have
been spared great provocation, distasteful exercise and—most important
of all—a menial task. She certainly managed to smile, but it was a
crooked business. She felt that her mask had slipped.
So soon as Ann was ready, the two descended—thoughtfully. The ladylike
bond of union which Aunt Harriet had forged seemed to have stretched.
All Ann’s efforts to contract it but served to emphasize its
slenderness.
Mercifully, Bob was in the parlour, exchanging cheerful reminiscences
with a jolly, fat man who proved to be Uncle Tom.
Her husband presented Ann, with shining eyes.
For a moment the fat man looked at her. Then he inclined his head.
“Your servant, me lady,” he said respectfully.
“Rot,” said Ann. “You’re my uncle,” and kissed him then and there.
“Oh, you peach,” said her uncle, and kissed her back. With his arm about
her, he addressed the rest of the company. “Jus’ leave us alone a few
minutes, will you?” he said. “There’s one or two ’ymns we want to run
over together.”
This allusion to a recent scandal in which a local pillar of the
nonconformist church was involved naturally evoked great merriment.
Ann tried to be thankful.
It also inspired Mr. Alcock.
“Break away, break away, there,” he cried.
Uncle Tom screwed round his head.
“Percy, me lad,” he said, “you ’aven’t a chance. This little girl likes
’em fat.”
Squeaks of delight contributed to another explosion of mirth.
They sat down to tea hilariously. . . .
“Do you ’unt at all?” said Mr. Alcock, presenting a dish of shrimps.
“I’ve given it up,” said Ann.
“’E means by night,” said Uncle Tom.
The laughter was renewed.
“Oh, give over, pa,” wailed Ada. “You’ve give me the ’iccups.”
It was too true.
Seats were left: remedies were commended: the victim was conjured—to no
purpose. Spasm succeeded spasm with sickening regularity.
“’Old your breath,” said Bob.
Ada inspired and sat like a graven image.
The others watched her in a silence pregnant with expectation.
Her eyes began to protrude. . . .
“Stick it,” said Bob. “Stick it.”
A dusky flush began to steal into her face: sweat gathered on her brow:
she was squinting. . . .
At last she let her breath go with a loose rush.
For a moment she breathed peacefully. Then a belated spasm convulsed her
frame.
There was a rustle of consternation.
Suddenly, with a blood-curdling roar, Mr. Barnham smote upon the board.
In a second all was confusion.
Ann started to her feet: Aunt Harriet screamed: May recoiled against the
wall: Bob and Mr. Alcock regarded their compeer open-mouthed: Uncle Tom,
who had been in the act of drinking, was coughing and cursing and
wringing tea from his moustache.
What was more to the point, Ada stopped hiccuping.
When Mr. Barnham pointed this out, the fact was coldly received.
“Enough to make anybody stop anything,” snarled Aunt Harriet. “Don’t you
know ’ow to be’ave?”
“In course I do,” said Mr. Barnham. “You never see me do that before.”
“No, an’ don’t you never let me see you do it again,” was the tart
reply. “Nasty, vulgar ’abits.”
“But I done it to stop ’er ’iccups,” protested the ill-used youth.
“I don’t want to know why you done it,” observed his hostess. “You done
it—an’ that’s enough. You oughtter be ashamed of yourself. . . . May,
give Lady Ann a cut of beef.”
With goggling eyes, Mr. Barnham proceeded in some dudgeon to the
consumption of a hunk of dry bread, presumably with some vague idea that
this mortification of the flesh would stimulate a recognition of his
injury.
Conversation revived.
Mr. Alcock spoke of sport, commending the pursuit of lawn tennis with
the air of one who has tried everything and come to the reluctant
conclusion that that pastime is a better antidote to _ennui_ than any
other.
Uncle Tom recounted a dispute which had arisen in the saloon bar of _The
Goat_ regarding elephantiasis. His narrative slid naturally enough into
a vivid comparison of such cases of this complaint as had come under his
notice or that of the other patrons of the saloon bar. Aunt Harriet,
even more naturally, proved able and willing to supplement his list with
personal experiences so distressing as to suggest that an inscrutable
Providence had chosen her among women to be harrowed in this peculiar
way.
May related how someone had ‘passed the remark’ that a new char-à-banc
service was to be instituted between Suet and Lather, and asked Ann if
she was fond of motoring.
Ann replied with enthusiasm.
“I think it’s tremendous fun.”
“D’you ’ave the Blue Fleet in Dorset?”
“I—I don’t know,” stammered Ann. “Do we, Bob?”
“Yes, dear,” said Bob. “That bounder wot ’it your coopy was one o’ the
Blue Fleet.”
There was an awful silence.
“Your coopy?” said Uncle Tom.
“Er, yes,” said Ann desperately.
“Nice, tight little car, too,” said Bob. “Wish I could give ’er one
now.”
“A.C.?” ventured Mr. Alcock.
“‘A.C.’?” said Bob. “Forty-fifty Rolls.”
There was another silence.
“Must ’ve bin delightful,” said Aunt Harriet shakily. “Still, there’s
things beside cars.”
“Rather,” said Ann heartily.
“Such as wot?” said Uncle Tom.
“Well, all isn’t gold as glitters,” snapped his wife.
“That’s true,” said Mr. Barnham sagely.
“Woddyer mean?” said his host. “Wot’s true? A Rolls moter coopy’s good
enough fer mos’ people.”
“Well, an’ who said it wasn’t?” said May.
“Look ’ere,” said her father. “Your mother said there was things beside
cars.”
“So there is,” said May. “Fine clothes an’ fine relations.”
She laughed spitefully.
“Shut up, May,” said Ada. “She never said she ’ad a coopy. It was Bob
wot started it.”
“That’s right,” said Bob, red in the face. “I said it, an’ where’s the
’arm?”
“No ’arm at all,” said his aunt silkily. “If the troof was known, I
spec’ she ’ad two or free cars.”
Her husband suspended mastication and stared at Ann. Then he spoke
through the cud.
“Didjoo?” he demanded.
“No, indeed,” said Ann swiftly. “I think I was jolly lucky to have one.”
Uncle Tom nodded approval.
“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.