“Dear me,” said Aunt Harriet, trembling with rage and mortification.
“Might be a craowned queen. ‘Take me away—aout of the ’aouse—naow
. . .’”
She laughed hysterically.
“Woddid I say?” cried Mr. Allen, smearing the blood from his lip. “Dirt.
That’s wot we are—dirt. Dirt for ’er to shake orf ’er gilded feet. Wot
if we ’ave——”
“Yes, I notice you didn’t say that when she was ’ere,” snapped Aunt
Harriet. “Very quiet you was. Anyone might ’ve thought you was
frightened.”
“_Frightened?_” screamed Mr. Allen. “Gimme my ’at. I’ll show yer whether
I’m frightened.”
With a filthy oath, he flung Uncle Tom aside, clapped his hat upon his
head and lunged to the door. . . .
They heard him ricochet down the passage and bawl up the area steps.
“Naow you’ve done it, ’Arriet,” breathed Uncle Tom.
Bob heard him bawl, too, and stopped in his tracks. He was on the
pavement perhaps two houses away.
Ann heard the challenge, too, and lost her nerve.
She caught at Bob’s arm and tried to pull him along.
“Come on, Bob! Come along. Don’t take any notice of him.” Bob resisting,
she tried to drag him with her. “For God’s sake, Bob . . .”
Before the terror in her voice the last vestige of her authority
collapsed. She became again the weaker vessel, meet to be protected—and
avenged.
Bob shook her off and turned.
She flung herself upon him, but he tore her hands away.
She reeled against the railings, shaken and fainting. . . .
She saw the two men meet and heard the smack of a blow. They
parted—then drew together again, assuming grotesque postures like
animals about to spring. Again they closed for an instant, ducking and
slamming like madmen. Broken spurts of cursing were jerked to her
ears. . . .
They were in the road now—immediately opposite ‘Pier View.’ A
street-lamp showed her the blood on Allen’s face. His mouth was
smothered. . . .
Figures began to rise out of the shadows. The light of the lamp was
illuminating some of their heads. Somebody panted past her hotfoot. A
little bunch was crammed in the area gate—Aunt Harriet and . . .
Bob seemed to lift himself up. Then he fell headlong backwards, towards
the pavement. His shoulders reached the gutter, and his head just made
the kerb. This brought his face forward, with a click. For a moment he
lay as he had fallen—as one who wishes to remain recumbent and yet,
ridiculously, to regard his feet. Then his head slid slowly
sideways. . . .
As the crowd surged up, Ann stumbled forward and fell on her knees
beside the corpse. Then she asked for water and began to loosen its tie.
People were nudging one another. She knew it. She could feel their
curious stares and the awkwardness of the hush that fell wherever she
went. She did not care at all. This was quite different. Bob had need of
her. . . . Bob . . .
Two police came hastening. One was a sergeant. The crowd fell back
respectfully.
The sergeant fell upon one knee and flashed his lantern on the dead
man’s face.
“Who done this?” he cried, looking up.
Again the crowd parted to reveal Joe Allen holding on to the railings
with his coat-sleeve across his eyes.
The sergeant addressed his subordinate.
“Take ’im,” he said shortly.
He drew a whistle and blew five or six short blasts. Then he turned to
Ann.
“Was he your friend, lady?”
Ann started violently at the tense, staring open-mouthed into the
sergeant’s eyes. Then she caught the groom’s head and peered at the
quiet face. For a moment she held it between her palms; then very gently
she suffered it to roll back into its old position. . . .
Ann sank back on her heels and stared at the sky.
Slowly the Morland took shape—the spreading oak and the cottage and the
jolly brown horse . . . the girl standing in the doorway, holding the
little boy . . . and the man on the horse, smiling . . . all alone and
happy—under the spreading oak . . . very poor and simple, but very,
very happy. . . .
A dry sob shook Ann—the first of many.
Presently the tears began to stream down her cheeks.
She continued to stare steadfastly up into the sky, till the bystanders
followed her gaze and tried to see something.