“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.