“Well, Lady Ann,” said Aunt Harriet, “what d’you think of our floor?”
She laid her hand familiarly upon the girl’s arm. “Not so bad for ole
Suet?”
“I—I think it’s very good,” said Ann, observing with horror that the
space, which had momentarily disappeared, was beginning to surround her
again.
Aunt Harriet saw it, too, and raised her voice.
“You know, Lady Ann, I’m so glad to ’ave you at last. I’ve got so much I
want you to ’elp me with. You know, livin’ all the year round in the
country, one’s ideas seem to get into a groove. In course, Taown’s the
’ub. There one’s in touch with things. ’Otels and emporiums is up to
date. People ’as _got_ to move. One’s only to take a walk down the
street or pop into a laounge. . . . But ’ere—nothin’. An’ after a bit,
Lady Ann, stegnation sets in. I tell you,” she added, with a mischievous
laugh, “I’m not goin’ to give you no rest. You’ll be wore out before I’m
through.”
“I’m—I’m sure I shan’t,” faltered Ann, trying to smile and wildly
conscious of an unnatural hush. “Indeed, I——”
Mercifully, the band recommenced its labours.
“Shell we take another turn?” said Mr. Alcock.
Ann lifted up her head.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I’m a little tired.” She looked
round anxiously. “I wonder where Bob is.”
“Gone to ’ave a drink,” said Ada.
“Let’s go an’ fin’ them,” said Aunt Harriet.
They passed out after the manner of Royalty, a lane being made.
Mr. Alcock was dispatched in quest of the revellers, while Mr. Barnham,
now sole warden of virtue, took up a central position and stared about
him with an air of apologetic defiance.
After a suspiciously long absence, his colleague returned to say that
the other squires were not to be found.
“They’re gone to the Arms, the greedies,” decided Aunt Harriet. “That’s
where they’re gone. Never mind.”
A rich clearance of Mr. Barnham’s throat declared that he was labouring
of plan.
“Let’s take a stroll down,” he suggested, “an’ ketch them as they come
back.”
Economy had driven him to speak.
A premature return to their seats meant that the girl who sold
chocolates would offer her tempting wares. This offer he would be bound
in decency to frank. The acceptance or rejection thereof would rest with
May—and Mr. Barnham did not trust May. . . .
His misgivings were well founded.
“Oh, who wants to stroll?” said May. “Let’s get back before the crush.
I’m sure I’ve been trod and shoved enough for one night. Something
crool, people are.”
It was not magnificent: it was not even war: it was pure
oppression—hitting the poor in spirit below the belt.
Aunt Harriet acclaimed the suggestion, and the move was made.
Two minutes later Mr. Barnham was eased of two shillings. He parted,
sweating, with a hunted look in his eyes that went to Ann’s heart.
She found herself wondering what, when he had married his bully, his
life would be like. She saw him mute and shrinking before the eternal
abuse, standing jaded and hungry without his own house, trying to summon
the courage to enter in, dreaming of the happy days when he could buy
exemption with a two-shilling piece. . . .
For a blessed instant her mind left her own tragedy to suck at his. Then
it leapt back, buzzing. . . .
Aunt Harriet was purring hypocrisy, lying, dressing her lies in dirty
splendour, fouling well after well. Ann responded mechanically,
conscious that her spiritless dissembling would not have deluded a
child, physically and mentally unable to play up to such form. An
innocent-looking chocolate had caused Miss Gedge’s jaws to
conglutinate—a comical condition of things which she was turning to
generous account, throwing May and Ada into convulsions of girlish
laughter. Mr. Alcock was confiding to Mr. Barnham confessions of a
well-dressed man. . . .
A frightful feeling of loneliness flung into Ann’s heart—a new kind of
desolation, of which her philosophy had never dreamed. Sympathy was
clean gone. Nobody, nothing within sight meant anything to her—or she
to them. A desert island had animals and trees and skies and yellow
sands: an empty house had silence and memories and dreams to offer: she
had things in common with a wilderness—would have got on with Death.
But this . . . There was an awful emptiness about this crowded hall, a
ghostly dreariness about this blithesome flow of soul which scared and
terrified. ‘As the hart panteth after the water-brooks . . .’ She was
parched—mad with thirst. The muddiest trickle would have served. . . .
But the saving fountains had stopped playing, the once innumerable rills
were dried up.
At last the lights were lowered, and the talk died down.
Ann tried to shuffle her thoughts and find a way.
Instantly her brain told her that there was no way to be found.
She fobbed the tidings off and began again.
A way. She must find out a way. Where to? A way out—_out_. Suicide,
Flight presented themselves and were set upon one side. Flight presented
itself again—almost immediately. Ann permitted herself to consider
Flight. . . . With a shock she realized that now, if ever, was the time.
The hall was in darkness: Bob was not there: before Aunt Harriet could
follow, she would be clear of the place: outside, it was night and there
were crowds to mingle with: pursuit would be vain. . . . With a
hammering heart, Ann began to wonder if there were night trains to
Town. . . . Then, with a hideous leer, Flight faded away. _Her
things—her money—her hat, even, was at ‘Pier View.’_ To get them was
out of the question. The house was locked: Aunt Harriet had the key: if
the charwoman was yet there, she did not know Ann by sight: besides——
Oh, it was hopeless, of course . . . hopeless.
Ann decided desperately that she must talk to Bob. She must try to
explain—teach, if possible, the moment he reappeared, before a worse
thing befell. She could not face that awful parlour again. Aunt Harriet
alone. . . . Besides, the meal would be of the nature of a
wedding-feast. Its prelusive character would be insisted upon. Jocular
references would be made: sly digs administered. It would be
hideous—revolting. Ann’s flesh crept.
The moment Bob came she must ask him to take her outside—away, out of
the crowd to where they could have a talk. Perhaps they could get a room
somewhere, out on the skirts of the town. He wouldn’t understand, of
course. To repulse the kindly advances of his own kin! Deliberately to
jettison ‘the best’! All his instincts would jib at such heresy. But
to-night—for a week, perhaps, she could override those instincts. As
for the future——
Three figures appeared, boggling, at the end of her row. Then they began
to push their way along.
Mr. Mason came first, announcing in apprehensive falsetto that if anyone
pinched him he should call the women police. Uncle Tom followed, heaving
with merriment and inquiring cheerily if there was room for a little
one. Bob came last, laughing very much and repeatedly asking his
companions if they were right for ‘Emmersmith Broadway.’
Cries of ‘Shut up!’ and ‘Sit down!’ resounded.
An attendant came bustling. . . .
Bob subsided into his seat and mopped his face.
Then he laid a hand on Ann’s knee.
“Well, Beauty, ’ow’s things?” he whispered.
He reeked of liquor . . . reeked.
Something deep inside Ann seemed to give way.
“Didn’ min’ my leavin’ you, did you, sweetheart? Just ’ad a quick one or
two to celebrate. They’re a couple of ’earties, they are—’Erb Mason an’
Uncle Tom. I tell you, kid, you’ve got orf with them all right.” He slid
an arm about her and held her tight. “An’ I don’ wonder, by gosh. There
ain’t much left to the others when you’re around.”
Uncle Tom was speaking excitedly—from a great way off. His breath . . .
“Bob, Bob! She’s bin showin’ ’em ’ow to dance. Danced about with young
Alcock, an’ the others give ’em the floor.” He slapped his thigh.
“Glory, but I wish I’d bin there to see ’er put it across them—see my
peach of a niece showin’ ole Suet wot’s wot.” He thrust an arm through
Ann’s and covered her hand with his. “Strike me dead, sonny, but you’re
a lucky dog. I tell you—— Hullo!”
Ann had fainted.
The fresh air revived her immediately, but, though she implored the
others to leave her husband with her and return to their seats, they
would not hear of it. After a little, she abandoned the attempt. There
was no reason why they should not have returned. Indeed, the girls were
obviously disappointed. There was no reason at all—except that she was
doomed. That was most clear. Every slightest chance was to be crushed.
She had signed on and she was to go through the hoop. Resistance was
futile. That terrible ring-master, Satire, knew his job.
They proceeded leisurely towards ‘Pier View.’
Mr. Mason and Miss Gedge left them at the pier gates. Bob parted with
the former effusively, swaying a little as he turned. Could she have
done so, Ann would have begged them to stay. The two were scrupulous:
they had authority: she trusted them. Miss Gedge was kind, human, no
fool. Mr. Mason’s vulgarity was but a pasteboard blade. . . .
As the area steps were won, two figures emerged.
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.