The bedroom was in a state of disorder. The floor was strewn with hairpins, the chest of drawers vomited forth its contents, the basin was full to the brim of ice-cold soapy water. May's party clothes were thrown across a chair; her slippers, toeing in, lay in the middle of the floor, her pink cotton stockings, like fabulous pink snakes, beside them. Only the bed was decent, undisturbed. Delight longed to cast herself upon it, just as she was, half-undressed, and sleep, snatch a little rest, if only an hour, before the day's work began. But she must put on the neat black dress and white apron, and hurry down to the dining-room. Already she was late. She heard the factory whistle blowing for a quarter to seven. Annie would be waiting on the boarders, out of temper, too, and no wonder, having Delight's work put on to her.
She dipped a corner of the towel into the ewer and scrubbed her face and neck, and gave a hurried wipe with the other end.
"That's what Granny used to call a lick and a promise," she said, aloud, trying to be company for herself. She felt very lonely now it was morning, she hardly knew why, and she added—"Didn't you, Gran?" to bring her grandmother into the conversation.
She took out the earrings, very cautiously, for her ear lobes were inflamed and sore, and hid them as usual in the apple-green tea-pot. A sudden impulse made her cuddle the tea-pot to her breast, then passionately imprint a kiss on its shining round belly.
"Well, you're a silly, if ever there be's one," she said, in her grandmother's voice, and a tear splashed into the sugar basin.
At last she was ready, going down the stairs on swollen feet that had had to be forcibly compressed into unyielding, cheap shoes. In the kitchen, Mrs. Bye was glaring into a pot, from which issued a smell of burning. Queenie was sitting on the bottom step of the backstairs, a handkerchief bound about her head.
"I got a poh 'ead," she explained, raising her face, as Delight stepped over her.
"Got a sore head, have you? Pore little kid. One 'ud think you'd been to the ball. Well, I've got sore feet. How does your feet feel, Annie?"
"All right," replied Annie curtly.
Then she added, turning away with her tray in her hands:
"I've waited on your table. There's no need for you to come into the dining-room."
"But, Annie—"
"I say there's no need." She passed out of sight through the serving pantry.
Delight went and stood by the cook. "What's ailing Annie?" she whispered, so that Pearl would not hear, and putting her arm about Mrs. Bye's waist.
"Oh, I don't know, except that her heels are blistered."
"But she said her feet felt all right. And she won't let me go in the dining-room, and me hastening to dress oop and all."
Mrs. Bye spoke cryptically from the cloud of steam in which her head was enveloped. "She's in a state that's best left alone. You might go and wipe the dishes for Pearl. She's in a kind of maze this morning. Drat these parties anyway, I say. Everything's at sixes and sevens after them."
Delight picked up a large, soapy platter from the heap of dishes beside Pearl, and began, mechanically, to dry it on a moist tea-towel. Out of the corner of her eye she timidly regarded the plump, pigeon-like girl. It was apparent, even to her, that, though Pearl's hands were stewing in the dish-water, that her spirit dwelt on some remote plane. Her clear, hazel eyes were wide but they saw nothing; her tender, affectionate mouth hung loosely open as though she slept.
"Good gracious," thought Delight, "of all the unnatural places this is this morning! I hope May hasn't been taken queer, too."
She asked, on a note of assumed lightness:
"Where's May this morning?"
A slight smile curved Pearl's mouth; she made a somnolent slushing in the dishpan but uttered no word.
"Where's May?" repeated Delight, loudly and desperately.
"Clea'ing pih," replied Queenie, pressing one tiny hand to her brow. "I got a poh 'ead."
"She says May's cleaning fish," said Mrs. Bye. "Come now, my poppet, you must get ready for school, head or no, if you're going to get an edication." She took the child on her lap and began to lace the heavy boots that dangled below the thin little legs. Queenie turned her face, as though she would shut out all the world, against her mother's floury breast.
"I shouldn't send her to school this morning," said Delight pityingly.
"Bless you, her daddy 'ud never tolerate her wastin' her time. He's all for edication, Charley is. He's got a good edication, himself. To be sure, I say to him sometimes—'Well, your learning hasn't made much of you.' But then he says—'Think what I might have been without it.' Nobody can dispute that; and, as teacher says, the only way we can overcome this impederment in Queenie's speech is by edication. Come, come, dearie, raise your head and let mammy put on your pretty hair ribbon."
"De poy puh my 'air," whined Queenie.
"Well, well, tell them you've a sore head this morning and they'll leave you be."
Queenie looked unconvinced but, with folded hands, resigned herself to her toilet.
When Annie came to the kitchen, Delight did not raise her eyes. Annie's coldness perturbed her. She preferred a quick-tempered girl like May who said what she thought and had it over. She was ravenously hungry. The cold meats and cake and coffee of the ball seemed distant memories. She took a piece of buttered toast from the plate that stood in the open oven, snatching bites as she wiped the dishes. The melted butter oozed through to the table, making a little oily square. "How delicious!" thought the girl. "I never had such good food in my life, and so much of it. I'll be getting fat. Now I smell bacon. How I wish I were a commercial, sitting in there at the best table, and Annie waiting on me! I'd keep her moving—'make it nippy,' I'd say. Blistered heel and all. I'd blister her."
The door softly opened and Edwin Silk entered. His cheeks were hollowed by weariness. He might have been in his bed sleeping soundly, but he could not rest because of his love for Pearl which made his lips red and his heavy eyes glisten. He came and stood by the table, resting his hands on it and staring into Pearl's face. His evening clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, and, in the daylight, showed green and shiny. To Pearl he was an exquisite. She noted his long pointed chin, the little dab of dark whisker before each ear, and his slender tapering fingers.
Two respectable unmarried sisters denied themselves things that they needed in order to send him the remittance that kept him out of England. He was always months behind with his board money. Mrs. Jessop would have turned him out but Bastien had a tender spot in his heart for Silk. He was proud of him, too. He was an institution, and travellers would ask after him when once they had made his acquaintance. Not every hotel could afford to keep an elegant derelict, such as he, drifting about its corridors and bar. At The British American House, for instance, everyone had to pay at the tick, but The Duke of York could afford to be open-handed.
So Silk stayed on, mysterious, out of a mysterious past, sickly, cringing, arrogant in turn. Leaning towards Pearl, he looked like a drooping fungus growth beside a blowsy pink peony.
"My dear, beautiful girl," he said thickly, "I can't bear to see your hands in that dreadful dish-water—that—er—obscene dish-water."
"Oh, that's all right." She smiled into his eyes.
"No, it's all wrong," he mourned. "That little rosy palm from which I drank pure cold water should not be polluted by filthy washings from unspeakable plates, licked by factory hands."
"Oh, Mr. Silk, they don't lick them. They'd be insulted if they heard you say such things."
"I want to insult them. I want to insult everyone in the world but you."
Pearl's head drooped towards him. "You'll make me break the dishes if you go on. I feel as weak as a kitten."
He put his arm about her and laid his cheek against her hair. "So do I," he sighed. "Weak as kittens, both of us." Taking her wrist in his sallow fingers, he lifted her hand from the dishpan and held it tenderly aloft, while greasy drops hung from every finger tip.
"Pearl, Pearl," he repeated. "What a beautiful name. Delight. Lovely name. Lovely names. Lovely girls."
"I think I'll go," said Delight. They made no reply.
She passed into the scullery where Mrs. Bye was blacking Queenie's boots, grasping her frock between the shoulders with one hand to prevent her being overthrown by the onslaught of the brush wielded by the other.
"I had to come away," exclaimed Delight. "That Silk's too comical for me. He's making love to Pearl over the dish-water just like an orator or something. They were getting so mooney I couldn't put up with it."
Cook sucked in the air under her projecting tooth. "I'd never trust that man. I wish Pearlie'd keep clear of him. Is Annie needing me?"
"No. The top-floor boarders are gone. I think there's just the Hair professor in there now. Annie took up the bacon for him herself. She never seemed to notice them."
"If Mrs. Jessop should notice them, I pity them. She never did like Mr. Silk, and she won't have spooning in the kitchen."
Delight snatched up Queenie and kissed her. Her heart was filled with tenderness this morning. "If any boys pull your hair just tell me and I'll attend to them," she enjoined.
"I luh oo," cried Queenie, hugging her. "I onh wan a go a poo. Poy puh my 'air."
May was scraping the scales from a large salmon trout on a bench outside the scullery door. Grasping the shiny wet tail in one hand, with energetic strokes she wielded the short black knife in the other, sending a shower of silver scales in all directions. They clung to her frizzy fringe and to the short hairs on her arms, one even glittering against the down on her cheek.
"Hullo, May," said Delight, in a conciliatory tone. She felt that, for some reason, she was not a favourite this morning.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Moth and the Flame," replied May, not looking up.
Delight thoughtfully considered this greeting.
"What do you mean moth and the flame?" she asked. "Which am I, then?"
May turned the fish over and skilfully slit its belly open, disclosing the curious tangle of inwards. "Both," she returned. "You're like the flame 'cause all the men go dancin' abaht yer, like crazy bluebottles, and you're like the moth 'cause you're goin' to singe your silly wings, see?"
"Oh, May," cried Delight. "Don't you go and turn on me! They're all after me this morning."
"Who d'ye mean, all?"
"Why, Pearl won't hardly speak, and when I went to go into the dining-room Annie gave one perishing look and said she'd done all there was to do, and to keep out."
"And no wonder, the w'y you went on wiv Bill."
"I didn't go on with him. I just danced with him. It wasn't my fault if everybody stood staring. Oh, I think you're cruel, May, and me always treating you the very best I know how." Her voice broke and tears filled her eyes. She moved close to May.
May, having gutted the salmon, now espied some scales remaining near the tail. She made some vicious passes with the knife, sending a shower of them over Delight's face and head. Flaming with anger, Delight caught her wrist and stayed the knife.
"You're doing that a-purpose," she said bitterly. "You ugly little devil."
"You'd devil me, would you?" cried May. "You're a nice one, you are! You're a nice one to devil anyone, you are! I tell you the 'ole town's a 'otbed of gossip abaht you. Didn't Fergussen, the fishmonger, jus' tell me this minute. 'E says 'e never seen the like o' you and Kirke stampin' abaht each other like a mare an' a bloomin' stallion! Gemme my knife, or, by Gawd, I'll stick you wiv it!"
She twisted and writhed, bending her body double over their hands welded on the knife. Two primitive women, filled with fury, fighting, they hardly knew why. Delight was larger, stronger, but May's little body was like wire.
"Leave go that knife," she hissed. "Leave go, I tell you, or I'll put my teeth into you!" Her head was down, her shoulders humped. Delight, looking down on her, was afraid of her ferocity, and, deep within her, was a feeling that, after all, May was her dear friend, her only friend in the world, that, somehow, little May was fighting her because there was no one else on whom she could vent the fury of her jealousy of Ada. If you couldn't do things to one person, well, the next best thing was to do them to another.
The back of May's neck was crimson, the fish scales sparkled like pretty spangles in her hair. . . . Suddenly came a sharp sound of some small china-like object striking the ground, a tiny snap, a relaxing of May's body. Delight released her, and they both stood staring at something of red rubber, edged with little white porcelain squares. Whatever it was it was broken. . . .
"Me teeth," said May bleakly. "You've busted me teeth." Her face twitched. Her upper lip was sunken, pitiful. "That Adar's comin' to call on me this afternoon and you've busted me teeth."
Delight, heavy with the catastrophe, picked up the two fragments and fitted them together. A shiver ran through her. It was like holding one of her friend's organs in her hands, exposed to the ruthless light of day. What if May were dead! Oh, she had no one else but May! and here were her poor teeth. Tears rained down Delight's cheeks.
She handed the teeth back to May who took them in her little red paw that smelled so of fish. The head of the salmon lay on the bench beside them, staring up with a look of shocked surprise. It was all very well for it to be surprised, thought Delight; it had never had any teeth. It didn't know what it was suddenly to be bereft of them.
"Quit yer blubbin'!" said May, but not unkindly. "What we've got to do is to think of a w'y out o' this."
We! Delicious word. It melted all the volcano of anger between them into a flowing lava of sympathy and comradeship. Once more they were May and Delight, two English girls, with this Canadian Ada to deal with.
"Now I'll tell you, May—I'll tell you—" began Delight. She was so anxious to be helpful, to think of a plan before May could.
May looked searchingly at her. "Well, tell aw'y, then. There's no need to linger over it. Wot's your plan?"
"Why, look here, May, say you're sick."
May shook her head. "That won't do. We'd 'ave 'er up, nosin' abaht me bedroom. Besides, the laundry's just come back and I've got to go over the sheets and pillercases wiv Mrs. Jessop. She'll need me up to four o'clock when Adar comes."
"Perhaps you might just act a bit haughty and keep your face turned away."
May snorted. "Look 'ere, Delight. If you can't think o' something besides baby-talk, don't try to 'elp. The very idear, as though I could be 'aughty wiv me lip all caved in. Keep a stiff upper lip! 'Aven't you ever 'eard o' that saying? Well, 'ow d'you s'pose I'm going' to keep a stiff upper lip when me teeth's busted?" She dropped her teeth into her apron pocket, picked up the fish and the knife, and faced her friend belligerently.
A man crossed the stable-yard driving a team of heavy draught horses. He had left his waggon in the shed and was taking the horses to water. Their sleek sides shone like chestnuts, they lifted their large, hairy legs jauntily. In a moment they plunged their thirsty lips into the trough. The man leaned against the flank of the nearest and stared at the girls.
"I know," cried Delight, inspiration coming when she had ceased to seek for it. "You must say you've a face ache. Wrap your face up with a great bandage and say you've a gathering tooth."
It was lucky that Mrs. Jessop sent Delight to get some camphor for her that morning. The dentist's office was over the chemist's shop, so it did not take her long to fly up the narrow stairway and timidly present the broken plate to the dentist. He was a fatherly man, staring over his spectacles at the bright vision obtruding into his dingy domain. She explained that the teeth had been broken when she and her friend were having a little tussle, nothing much, only play, but the teeth couldn't stand it. He promised that he would try to have them mended by the next day.
May had rushed through the kitchen, her hand to her face, groaning as she ran to her room. Mrs. Bye had prescribed a poultice of hot salt to be bound on the cheek, and Delight had run after her carrying it, her brow dented with concern.
"That's what comes of these overheated halls and draughts," observed Mrs. Jessop, when she encountered her with the lower half of her face swathed in a bandage, the poultice giving a lifelike imitation of a swelling. "I suppose it's one of your unders, seeing your uppers are not your own. Well, take it a little easy this afternoon. Delight can do some of your work. You don't look very good."
In truth, May's eyes had an anxious expression. She looked forward with some dread to the call from Ada. Yet, intrenched behind the bandage, her thin lips had a malicious twist of pleasure. This was play-acting, she thought, and it was fun to fool Ada, fun to fool everybody, and she wasn't going to display her face with her mouth all sunk in. She did not sit at the table with the others at dinner but carried a bowl of soup and bread to the scullery, and lounged in a rocking-chair to eat. She had a devil-may-care, picnic feeling as she flung fragments to the fowls that collected outside the door. Suddenly she wasn't afraid of Ada any more. Lack of sleep, the fight with Delight, the accident had combined to stimulate her brain. She was a hotbed of desires and plans, as she swung to and fro in the rocker which gave forth a loud crack with each backward plunge, mingling a spice of danger to its soothing.
At four Ada was announced at the kitchen door by Charley in a pompous voice:
"Mrs. Masters to call on Miss Phillips."
Charley liked announcing this strapping young woman in her dashing clothes. He had the sensation of being a butler in a great house. He swelled his chest grandly and his voice deepened to an organ-like sonorousness, as he repeated:
"Mrs. Masters' compliments to Miss Phillips. Mrs. Bye, send a maid to find Miss Phillips."
The cook was making scones for tea. She felt flustered at this formidable arrival, and stood with the pan of sweet-smelling hot cakes in her hands, while her lashless blue eyes blinked excitedly.
"May's out. At least, she's not well. She's in the scullery. Queenie, run and tell May there's a lady to call."
"May goh a poah tooh," whined Queenie.
Cook ran to the scullery herself (Annie, Pearl, and Delight were snatching a nap), and said:
"Goodness me, it's your cousin's wife, May, and you so out of sorts. That's always the way. Don't do your hair of an afternoon, and a partic'lar caller comes." She still held the hot pan of scones, and Queenie, standing on tiptoe, was able to snatch one, with an inarticulate exclamation of glee. She danced about the women, tossing the hot cake from one hand to the other, blowing on her burned fingers.
"My word," said her mother, "if I slapped your hands till they tingled like that we'd hear some whimpering."
May said casually: "Send 'er out 'ere."
"All right," returned Mrs. Bye, and loped back to the kitchen. "May'll be pleased to see you," she told Ada who was uneasily shifting from one foot to the other. "She's resting a bit easier. She's in the back sitting-room. Queenie, lead Mrs. Masters in."
Queenie pranced ahead, holding her scone aloft. "Miha Maha," she announced shrilly.
May turned her head on the back of the rocking-chair, her eyes staring inscrutably over the bandage. "'Ow d'ye do," she said, in a muffled tone. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable." She gave a weary gesture toward a yellow kitchen chair.
Ada seated herself, setting her feet well out before her. They were dressed in patent leather high-heeled shoes, the thick ankles glistened in imitation silk. On her red pompadour perched a black velvet hat with a drooping white plume. She wore a green and white plaid ulster and white kid gloves.
She did not know what to make of this queer little cousin of Albert's. There was some mystery about her, something not quite straight. One could never be sure of a husband who had come from a great city like London. There was something shady about May, and, whatever it was, Albert knew it. She had tackled him about it one night, a terrible quarrel followed, and he had closed one of her beady eyes for her. "Nah, you cursed Canuck," he had said wrathfully, "I'll teach yer to cast narsty insinooations on my family." It was all very well for Albert to get annoyed, fussed up about his family and all, but Ada believed May was not all that she should be.
She felt immensely superior, sitting opposite May in her fine clothes. She placed her feet a little further forward, glancing at May's blue cotton stockings and red felt slippers with a pitying smile.
May began to rock. Instead of drawing her hideous foot-gear under the chair from Ada's sight, she thrust her feet out before her, striking the floor with her toes, and rocking violently so that the insistent explosive sound in the chair's anatomy cracked like defensive guns.
"It must be awful to be swelled up like that," commented Ada. "I thought your teeth looked real good when I met you at the ball."
"It's a wisdom tooth," said May. "I'm just cuttin' it. Onct I get it through I'll 'ave done wiv worryin'."
"Goodness, I used to have toothache and earache, too, but since I'm married I never have so much as an ache. Happiness is a great beautifier, they say." She hunched her shoulders, giving a mischievous smile to Albert's image that rose between them.
May's eyes above the bandage were not to be fathomed. "Yes," she agreed. "That's wot's swelled me fyce. It's just puffed out wiv 'appiness."
"Lord," said Ada brutally. "What have you got to be happy about? Albert always speaks as though you was a mopey little thing."
May rolled her head on the back of the chair. "I am," she said. "I like to be mopey. That's the w'y I'm made."
Ada regarded her doubtfully. She thought she would change the subject. "How is it you and Albert are related? I've never reely understood."
"Our fathers were brothers. Twin brothers."
Ada pounced. "Why isn't your name Masters, then, same as Albert's?"
May rocked, "'cause I was adopted by a rich gentleman, nime of Phillips, when I was a little nipper."
Ada mocked. "Rich gentleman! I like that. Where's he gone to? Leavin' you to work in a hotel?"
"Well, yer see, he died," said May softly, "and me hated guardian wanted to marry me, when I was seventeen, so, one dark night, at midnight, I crept down the stairs of the mansion in Mayfair, an' out into the world to seek distraction. The fancy took me lately that I'd like to see Cousin Albert. Dear me, I'd 'ardly 'ave knowed 'im in those workingman's clothes. 'E used to look such a little toff. As true as I sit 'ere I'd 'ave passed 'im by if 'e 'adn't rose 'is 'at to me."
A shock ran through Ada's solid form as she sat on the kitchen chair. The scullery reeled with her. Her bosom was a battle place for jealousy, disbelief, credulity, yet her tone was only surly, as she said:
"You don't seem to go in much for good clothes yourself." Her eyes travelled scornfully over May's felt slippers, her crumpled serge dress, and soiled apron.
May rocked harder than ever. "Ow, clothes don't matter to me in this 'ole. Besides I'm stony broke, 'aven't the price of a 'airnet. But just you wait till I come inter my fortune when I'm of age! Oh, you'll see some dressin' then, if yer 'appen to be in Mayfair!"
"Of age!" cried Ada. "I thought you was thirty if you was a day."
"Just tike ten years off that, Adar. I 'ope to be back in London for my comin' of age party in November. I must not forget ter send you and Cousin Albert an invite."
Ada could not guess the fine sweep of May's designs, but she became almost humble before this magnificence.
"You must come and call on me," she said. "Not tomorrow, because I'm goin' to my aunt's funeral in Milford. I'll be staying the night. But come the next day, and I'll show you my china cabinet and we can run the phonograph. It's likely my aunt'll be leavin' me something pretty nice. I'm her favour-ite niece."
Mrs. Bye came out carrying a tray, set with a pot of tea, four cups and a plate of hot buttered scones.
"I thought you and your friend would be ready for a cup of tea, May. Will you mind if my husband has a cup with us? He always seems to get a little faint about this hour and the sup and bite revive him."
Charley shortly entered the scullery with the impressive air of a churchwarden.
A gentle April rain was falling on Brancepeth, dimming the lighted windows, seeming to draw the houses more closely together in a delicate net of intimacy. The lights on the wharves and on the boats anchored in the little bay were blurred like drowsy eyes, and over where the lagoon slept, was blackness indeed, and in the wood where the crows crowded on moist pine branches, was blackness still more profound.
The two girls might have been in bed, sleeping, as Annie and Pearl were. They must have needed rest, for, though they were young, they had danced all the night before and worked all day. But May could not settle down; she wanted the air, and to feel the sweet rain on her face after being swathed in a poultice for, it seemed, a lifetime. And she wanted Delight with her. She could not make enough of the girl. Delight was glad in her heart that they had had the fight, for since then they had been more happily intimate than ever before. Why, when they were in their room, changing to their outdoor things, May had simply grabbed her in her arms and kissed her for nothing at all. Delight thought that if Granny could look down and see her little girl out walking so happy with a friend like May, instead of a man, she would have been very pleased with her. Granny seemed very near tonight. Delight could almost feel her hand pressing her arm as she walked rather heavily beside her. Not that Granny was weak, but just a little stiff with the rheumaticks, and, oh, the rosy cheeks and lovely blue eyes of her! Delight gave a little gulp.
May peered up at her. "What's the matter, lovey? Did yer sigh or something?"
"No, May, I just swallowed a little lump that was in my throat."
"A lump! Not a homesick lump, was it, Delight?"
"N-no. It just comes there when I feel good and suddenly think of Gran."
"You're a rum little toad. Just you rivet your intentions on me, for you may not always 'ave me with you, see? Now, I'm goin' to tell you one thing, Jimmy is a good boy; you stick to 'im. 'E'll never 'arm you. It isn't in 'im. But steer clear of Bastien, and Lovering, and Kirke. . . . I do wish you'd have let Jimmy give you the ring 'e wanted to, 'stead of a watch and chain. Still the watch and chain'll cost 'im more, unless 'e gave you a diamond, and even some of them's not to be depended on to keep their shine against the wear and tear of life, and then there's no reason the ring shouldn't come later. . . . My advice is, get all the lasting things out o' men you can. Small, costly things like joolery that is easy to carry 'round, and can always be pawned, if necessary."
"Goodness, May, you're wise."
"I'd need ter be. I never 'ad anyone to advise me. I've allus 'ad to be my own traffic perliceman, and my own correspondence school, et cetera, and depend on no one. But you're different. You're a beauty. You can't nip around without bein' noticed sime as me. You needs guardin'."
They were swinging lightly along the pavement, arm locked in arm, in a secluded street, where the houses stood closely together near the pavement, with only a bit of lawn between. Sometimes the blinds of a window were up, revealing the interior of a cozy room, with people sitting intimately together in the lamplight, and once a young man playing the flute to an old, old deaf lady who leaned forward with one hand to her ear to listen. They lingered as long as they dared at that window.
"Isn't it lovely out, tonight, May?" whispered Delight, as though she feared the houses would hear her. "Shouldn't you like to run and run through the rain like a little old fox till you'd come to your burrow, an' then run down into it with your mate and your cubs, and all snuggle up together, nice an' dry and warm? May, you'd ought to hear the funny things Jimmy was telling me about the crows that live in the woods beyond the lagoon. He took me there to see them—was it last night—or this morning? I'm getting all mixed up with the time. Well, d'ye know, Jimmy can tell every dodge they're up to. They've got girls, and they call 'em by name—Kate, Maggie, an' all the rest. And they're terrible fond of 'em, too. . . . I say, May, I believe I'm getting comical like Jimmy, listening to his talk and all. But, honestly, shouldn't you like to be a fox—a real she fox, I mean, not an old boy fox—running through this warm rain?"
"You are ratty," said May. "No, I don't want to be a fox. I'd rather be who we are, and meet a couple o' nice boys and 'ave a bit of a lark wiv them. We could do it, too, if it wasn't for me teeth. A girl can't be 'arf jolly when she knows 'er smile's a mockery."
Delight squeezed her arm. "What's in this window?" she breathed. "Let's look in here. It's where the schoolmaster lives. Jimmy told me one night, I remember, because he said he wished he had his learning. There he sits at his table, studying."
There was a green shade on the lamp in the room. There were small, black-framed pictures on the wall, and, on the table before him a little statue with wings and no head.
"I'll bet 'e's busted the 'ead off that orniment one time in his rage," whispered May. "Schoolmasters is all evil dispositioned."
"Oo, May, I think he's lovely. Look at his white hands, and his long pointed thumb—"
"Ho!" snorted May. "Admirin' of a man's thumb! I never heard the like."
They both shook with smothered laughter.
"I don't care," persisted Delight. "I think he's lovely. That black lock like the letter J on his forehead. I wish he'd come out into the rain with us. It'd do him good."
"Ask him, then. Run in and tap on the pane and say—'Come along out, schoolmaster!' I dare you."
In the mild darkness of the night, in the intimate rain, anything might be dared. The blood in their veins was filled with unnamed desire. May pushed Delight towards the window. The schoolmaster threw his arms above his head, stretching himself, tired to death of the pile of Easter examination papers before him. He opened his mouth wide in a great yawn.
Delight darted across the strip of drenched grass to the window. She struck her palm sharply on the pane.
"Coom along out, schoolmaster!" she shouted.
The man sprang to his feet. Some young devil of a boy trying to torment him. Wouldn't he cuff him! He did not go to the window but darted through the hall and out the front door. May ran squealing down the dark street, but Delight stood motionless, her long dark eyes peering out of the night at him.
"Why did you do that, girl?" he asked sternly. She imagined a cane behind his back.
Her head drooped. "Ah, just for fun. You looked so lonesome like."
"Are you the girl that danced at the Firemen's Ball?"
Her chin went up and down.
"Well, you're a very forward girl. Let me tell you, you're not the sort of girl we need in Brancepeth. There is enough looseness here already. Everyone is talking of you—even the schoolboys—"
Delight had moved closer to him into the pale shaft of lamplight from the hall. He could only see her indistinctly, as the figure of a girl under water, her features pale, her eyes imploring. She seemed like a drowning girl. He suddenly imagined white limbs struggling in the water. He longed to save her. The rain dripped from the eaves like tears of pity for her. . . . He stepped out into the rain beside her.
"You called me," he said accusingly, yet something in his eyes caressed her.
"I felt sorry for ye," she breathed, and a delicious trembling seized her.
"I am to be pitied," he muttered, and drew her into his arms and kissed her. . . .
May was waiting at the corner, full of amused curiosity. "Whatever did he say? Was he very cross?"
"Yes, he was cross. But he got over it. He says he's to be pitied, poor man. I'm real sorry for him, May. He's stern, and yet, just like a little child. Ain't men the comical things? One minute they make you shake in your shoes and the next minute you could laugh in their face. Just the same a girl needs to be careful with them, May."
"Keep that idear planted in your 'ead, Delight, and I'll rest easier about yer."
"Lord, May, don't talk like that. One 'ud think you was going to die like Gran."
Squeezing her arm, May thought: "Oh, if the pore child only knew what's in me mind to do!"
The rain began to pour down on them, hurrying them back to The Duke of York.
It was almost factory closing time the next day. May stood at the back door of Albert's rough-cast cottage, one arm full of small packages, a huge bundle under the other. Her breath came in short gasps, her parted lips showed rows of little white teeth like sails of errant boats anchored safely once more in their harbour.
The door yielded, creaking on its hinges. A cat appeared out of the dusk of some gooseberry bushes and, pressing past her with little coaxing noises, led the way into the kitchen. A good omen, May thought, and black, too. Black cats were lucky. "Puss, puss," she said, "'ere I am. . . . My word, wot a dismal 'ouse!"
It was all but dark. She shuffled cautiously across the floor, and laid her packages on the table. She closed the door and stood alone in Albert's house, every nerve alert; desperate resolve smouldering in her sharp eyes. She lifted the stove-lid and stirred the grey coals with a poker. A tongue of flame shot up. She opened the draughts, and, with a wisp of paper, lighted the oil lamp that sat on a bracket above the stove.
She must fly about and no mistake. There was a good deal to be done before the temple would be prepared and the feast laid for the hungry god of love. How she flew! The cat flew before her and after her, tail straight up in the air, green eyes glowing. He seemed to say: "I understand what you're about. After all, there is nothing like love."
May scrubbed the table; she put a pot of potatoes on to boil. A pan of sausages, smeared with drippings, was soon sputtering in the oven. She found another lamp in the bedroom, trimmed the wick, and polished the glass with the corner of a red shawl that hung on the kitchen door. She set the lamp on the table and flung the shawl in a corner. With a purr of delight the cat pounced on it, and, with arched back and ardent claws, began to prepare a bed for himself. He thought: "At last the bed that suits me. Colour and softness. All along of this new female."
As she drew the blinds and laid the table she was rehearsing what she would say to Albert—how she would get him going—first a full stomach—and then the two of them in the rocking-chair. Everything was ready, she wished he would hurry. Her eyes swept over the table spread for two: mounds of buttered toast, slabs of cheese, a pot of strawberry jam. Ah, the delicious smell of stewing tea!
A step crunched on the gravelled path. A hand fumbled at the latch. Albert entered.
He stood blinking in the unaccustomed brightness of the lights. May had stuck her head in the cupboard.
Albert spoke then, in a sarcastic drawl: "Well, an' wot's the matter wiv you, Mrs. Orstrich?"
No answer.
"Might I arsk wot brung you 'ome so bright an' hearly, I dunno?"
Silence. But she wondered that he did not hear her heart pounding.
"So you've turned narsty again, 'ave yer?" And he added, in a complaining tone: "If you 'ad some men to deal wiv, you'd get a good smack on the jor."
A titter came from the head in the cupboard but the body did not move. Albert threw his cap on a peg and came towards her, snarling: "Come out o' that and I'll learn yer manners, yer blarsted red 'ead!"
Slowly, with a fixed grin, May turned her face over her shoulder to him.
Albert's jaw dropped. He began to shake. "Wot's the matter, any'ow? I've gone balmy. Adar's body—an' M'y's 'ead! I've gone balmy orl right. Two in one—one in two—oh, s'y, can't you speak?"
May's hands shot out and clasped him to her. Her fuzzy hair was against his mouth.
"Don't yer be scared, Awbert"—she used his old pet name—"it's only M'y, come to get your supper. I knew Adar was orf to a funeral and I thought you'd be lonely like. I thought: 'Wot's the 'arm in my doin' for 'im just once like in the old d'ys?' An' I've bought a bit of a treat for us. An' I've scrubbed 'er tyble an' polished 'er lamp as weren't wot you'd call sparkling. Where's the 'arm in one little evening together?"
He rocked her blissfully in his arms, fear giving way to relief, to warm well-being, to sweet recollections of other nights together.
"'Arm! There's no 'arm at all. Oh, lovey, I needed yer tonight. I was that depressed—comin' 'ome to a empty 'ouse! Not but wot I'd about as soon come to an empty 'ouse as to 'er! Oh, M'y, wotever got me tangled up in this 'ere ruddy mess? Lovey, lovey—" he stroked her cheeks with his, pressing her to him.
"The saursages!" she cried. "I smell them burning! Quick, Awbert, let me go!"
She sprang to the oven and drew out the pan.
"Saursages for supper!" He loudly smacked his lips. "This is a bit of orl right! Wot does she give me for supper, can you guess? 'Otted-hup pertaters and apple-saurce. Apple-saurce and 'er saurce—that's wot I get?"
"Never you mind, ducky! You'll 'ave one good supper anyw'y. Draw up yer chair. Don't let's wyste a minute of this precious evening."
She set the plates before him where four and twenty sausages bubbled as though they would fain burst into song like four and twenty blackbirds.
She drew her chair close to his. As he helped her to sausages and mashed potatoes he plied her with questions, his eyes raised every moment to feast on the sight of her there beside him, on her frizzy hair, her blazing cheeks, and her blue eyes bright with resolve. When his mouth became too full for speech he leant towards her and slapped her playfully on the wrist, or stamped rhythmically under the table with his feet.
At last the meal was over. The cat was given the platter to lick. Albert pulled May out of her chair on to his knees. She had to light his fag. He filled her mouth with smoke in a long close kiss and chuckled when she coughed and the smoke puffed out through her nostrils.
She grew suddenly limp and sad in his arms. Her head lay heavy on his shoulder.
"Wot's up, lovey? Too many saursages? Sleepy? Wot about stoppin' the night? Oh, I'm goin' to tyke care of you. In spite of 'er."
"Do you mind the old 'op-pickin' d'ys in Kent, when we first met, Awbert? Those were the times! Do you mind the warm soft evenin's and the nights when the pickers danced and sang 'arf the night through? And we—aoh, let's forget it!"
"No, no! Tell some more, M'y! Lor', those were the d'ys!"
"Will yer ever forget the nights in old London at the music 'all, and goin' 'ome in the starlight singin' the songs we'd 'eard? They don't do much singin' and dancin' in this country, do they?"
"Noa. The song is froze in their 'earts wiv the cold, and the dance dried up their bones wiv the 'eat. Wot's the use?"
"Awbert, d'you mind the Bank 'Olerd'ys at 'Amstead 'Eath? The donkeys, and the cocoanut shies, and the swings?"
"And wasn't I waxy, when I caught you dancin' the Mazurker wiv a Jacky?"
"Jackies allers dance better than Tommies somew'y."
"That's because they've the 'ole deck to practise on."
May snuggled closer, pressing her shoulder under his armpit. She breathed: "Awbert, d'you mind the time you knocked me about so? I lay in a swound and—there was blood—"
He hid his face against hers. "Aoh, M'y, don't! You know I was sorry."
"I bet you was! W'y you bought me a hyercinth and it—bloomed."
"M'y, are you goin' to stop the night?"
"No. I've come to s'y good-bye, ducky. I'm leavin' for 'ome on the midnight train. I've got all I'm goin' to tyke in that bundle. I'm goin' 'ome."
He threw her from him and sprang to his feet facing her.
"Goin' 'ome! Ter leave me! M'y! 'Ave yer gone balmy? Leavin' me 'ere in this bloomin' 'ole! Wot's got inter you, anyw'y?"
"I'm finished. That's wot." Her eyes were flaming. Her voice cut like a knife. "Wot d'you think I'm myde of? Wot d'you tyke me for? Do you fancy I'll drudge my life out in that hotel wiv 'er flauntin' 'er plumes in me fyce? Do you think I'll be pitied by the other servants for my starved looks wiv 'er gettin' fat on you! Do you think—oh, 'ave you no 'eart?—that I'll soak my pillow wiv my tears every night, and 'er red 'ead a-snugglin' where mine should be?"
She panted like a caged thing struggling to be free.
"You think I'll sneak around 'ere bein' yer mistress while she pl'ys the wife! Well, you're wrong. I'm finished. I'm goin'. I'll be on the ocean in two d'ys. I've the money. I earned it, and earned it honest. I didn't tyke up wiv' anyone. I could 'ave earned money wrongfully. But I'm honest and—I'm goin'—damn you!"
He was groping towards her, his eyes swimming in tears, his mouth contorted. His voice came in a strangled sob.
"Me too. Me too, M'y. I want to go 'ome. S'elp me, I'll desert 'er, if you've passage money fer two!"
*******
May had not yet drained the cup of triumph, though Albert's bag was packed and they were almost ready to steal into the night. She cleared the table of dishes and, with a charred stick, wrote clearly on its clean surface:
Ada, Canadian Ada,
I have come and took my own.
English May.
******* The cat watched the feverish preparations for departure. He saw the lights put out. With brilliant green eyes, he beheld the two dark figures become one with the outer darkness. The door was closed, and he was alone in the hot little room. He rubbed his furry cheek against a table leg, then the length of his supple body. With tail erect he caressed himself, and thought: "After all, there's nothing like love."
Delight was disconsolate without May. How could May have had the heart to leave her so? She did not blame her for taking Albert from Ada, though some did, for Ada had come to the hotel and talked and cried before the men in the hall and the women in the kitchen. The whole town was by the ears. The two had disappeared as if by sorcery. The sleepy old station-master remembered selling two tickets for York to a young female. The midnight train it was, too, but he didn't know her and didn't see the man with her. Delight had found a note under her pillow from May. It was a loving note, and May left Delight the clothes she could not get into her bag. Her new necklace, too, but even that could not make up for the loss of May. She had a bereft feeling, and even Jimmy's arms about her, and his new gold watch tucked under her belt with the long chain about her neck, only made her gently happy. The new gravity of her expression added a fresh charm to the beauty of her face. The boarders, the transients could not eat in peace because of this disturbingly lovely presence. Once a tear dropped from her cheek into the soup of a young dye works hand, and, not knowing which spoonful contained the tear, he sat trembling and choking over the whole plateful, until Kirke leant over him and snarled:
"Swallow it, you cursed fool, or I'll duck your soft heid in it."
By degrees a friendship sprang up between Delight and Pearl. She could not lean on Pearl as she had leant on May, but still the plump, pretty girl was a comfort to her.
Pearl was passing through deep waters, too, those early spring days. Silk's elderly sisters had died within a few days of each other and he had found himself possessed of the tiny fortune which they had by pinching and privation kept intact for him. Where he had been formerly dependent on charity for much of his good cheer, he now found himself the centre of a flattering group, always ready to listen to his endless stories and laugh at his confused jokes. Where he had hung over the most wretched little tannery hand while he drank his beer, in the hope of being treated, he now ordered sherry with his dinner, and thought nothing of treating a dozen at a time in the bar. A new eloquence fired his love scenes with Pearl. Night after night these took place, in the dim streets, in the park, where other shadows haunted the willow-fringed lagoon, or sitting on the decrepit sofa in the hallway on the third floor. He held her plump, red hands in his slender, pallid ones; his puffy eyes burned into the hazel depths of hers. She must be kind to him! What was the good of anything if lovely girls were not kind to poor lonely devils of Englishmen in a strange land? He would take her to England—by God, he would!—and make a lady of her one day. But he did not ask her to marry him. His ardour fanned her own love into a flame that made her toss about the bed all night, and ache with longing in the pale dawn when she dressed. A lady! A lady in England! Oh, if he would only ask her to be his wife. Otherwise she couldn't be a lady. . . . She asked Delight, and Delight said that in her opinion Silk was a proper villain and that Pearl had need to be careful of herself.
Pearl was angry. She would confide no more in Delight. She wondered if any other girl had been so tempted. That night sitting on the sofa, the seat of which sank in two deep holes where the occupants had to fit their own seats, she looked down at Silk's head lying against her shoulder and wondered if life were as strange and difficult for other women as for her. She decided that it could not be, for there was only one Edwin and he loved her.