"It's Mamma's. She gave it me." She wanted Mrs. Sutcliffe to know that
Mamma had beautiful things and that she would give them. The scarf was
beautiful. Nothing could take from her the feeling of lightness and
slenderness she had in it.
Her programme stood: Nobody. Nobody. Norman Waugh. Dr. Charles. Mr.
Sutcliffe. Mr. Sutcliffe. Nobody. Nobody again, all the way down to Mr.
Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe. Then Mark. Mr. Sutcliffe had
wanted the last dance, the polka; but she couldn't give it him. She
didn't want to dance with anybody after Mark.
The big, long dining-room was cleared; the floor waxed. People had come
from Reyburn and Durlingham. A hollow square of faces. Faces round the
walls. Painted faces hanging above them: Mr. Sutcliffe's ancestors
looking at you.
The awful thing was she didn't know how to dance. Mark said you didn't
have to know. It would be all right. Perhaps it would come, suddenly,
when you heard the music. Supposing it came like skating, only after you
had slithered a lot and tumbled down?
The feeling of lightness and slenderness had gone. Her feet stuck to the
waxed floor as if they were glued there. She was frightened.
It had begun. Norman Waugh was dragging her round the room. Once. Twice.
She hated the feeling of his short, thick body moving a little way in
front of her. She hated his sullen bull's face, his mouth close to hers,
half open, puffing. From the walls Mr. Sutcliffe's ancestors looked at
you as you shambled round, tied tight in your Indian scarf, like a funny
lady in the bazaars. Raised eyebrows. Quiet, disdainful faces. She was
glad when Norman Waugh left her on the window-seat.
Dr. Charles next. He was kind. You trod on his feet and he pretended he
had trodden on yours.
"My dancing days are over."
"And mine haven't begun."
They sat out and she watched Mark. He didn't dance very well: he danced
tightly and stiffly as if he didn't like it; but he danced: with Miss
Frewin and Miss Louisa Wright, because nobody else would; with the
Acroyds because Mrs. Sutcliffe made him; five dances with Dorsy Heron,
because he liked her, because he was sorry for her, because he found her
looking sad and shy in a corner. You could see Dorsy's eyes turn and
turn, restlessly, to look at Mark, and her nose getting redder as he came
to her.
Dr. Charles watched them. You knew what he was thinking. "She's in love
with him. She can't take her eyes off him."
Supposing you told her the truth? "He won't marry you. He won't care for
you. He won't care for anybody but Mamma. Can't you see, by the way he
looks at you, the way he holds you? It's no use your caring for him.
It'll only make your little nose redder."
He wouldn't mind her red nose; her little proud, high-bridged nose. He
liked her small face, trying to look austere with shy hare's eyes; her
vague mouth, pointed at the corners in a sort of sharp tenderness; her
smooth, otter-brown hair brushed back and twisted in a tight coil at the
nape of her neck. Dorsy was sweet and gentle and unselfish. He might have
cared for Dorsy if it hadn't been for Mamma. Anyhow, for one evening in
her life Dorsy was happy, dancing round and round, with her wild black
hare's eyes shining.
Mr. Sutcliffe. She stood up. She would have to tell him.
"I can't dance."
"Nonsense. You can run and you can jump. Of course you can dance."
"I don't know how to."
"The sooner you learn the better. I'll teach you in two minutes."
He steered her into the sheltered bay behind the piano. They practised.
"Mark's looking at us."
"Is he? What has he done to you, Mary? We'll go where he can't look at
us."
They went out into the hall.
"That's it; your feet between mine. In and out. Don't throw your
shoulders back. Don't keep your elbows in. It's not a hurdle race."
"I wish it was."
"You won't in a minute. Don't count your steps. Listen for the beat. It's
the beat that does it."
She began to feel light and slender again.
"Now you're off. You're all right."
Off. Turning and turning. You steered through the open door; in and out
among the other dancers; you skimmed; you swam, whirling, to the steady
tump-tump of the piano, and the queer, exciting squeak of the fiddles--
Whirling together, you and Mr. Sutcliffe and the piano and the two
fiddles. One animal, one light, slender animal, whirling and playing.
Every now and then his arm tightened round your waist with a sort of
impatience. When it slackened you were one light, slender animal again,
four feet and four arms whirling together, the piano was its heart, going
tump-tump, and the fiddles--
"Why did I think I couldn't do it?"
"Funk. Pure funk. You wanted to dance--you wanted to so badly that it
frightened you."
His arm tightened.
As they passed she could see Mrs. Sutcliffe sitting in an arm-chair
pushed back out of the dancers' way. She looked tired and bored and a
little anxious.
When the last three dances were over he took her back to Mark.
Mark scowled after Mr. Sutcliffe.
"What does he look at you like that for?"
"Perhaps he thinks I'm--a funny lady in a bazaar."
"_That's_ the sort of thing you oughtn't to say."
"_You_ said it."
"All the more reason why you shouldn't."
He put his arm round her and they danced. They danced.
"You can do it all right now," he said.
"I've learnt. He taught me. He took me outside and taught me. I'm not
frightened any more."
Mark was dancing better now. Better and better. His eyes shone down into
yours. He whispered.
"Minky--Poor Minky--Pretty Minky."
He swung you. He lifted you off your feet. He danced like mad, carrying
you on the taut muscle of his arm.