“Mr. Mildmay,” said Lucy, “hoped they’d get your mother back quite soon. Well, go on. This is thrilling.”
“Why, then Owen asked if we couldn’t get you back. He says you are quite a heroine. Apparently there is some legend you were victimised.”
“But how could I come back? They’d never appoint me to the Drama School again. Hayter would see to that.”
“I pointed that out. And Rees stared at me and asked if I hadn’t come to the station to persuade you to stay, that day you went away. So I said I’d thought of getting into the train and going with you to Gloucester. And he said: Man! Why didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Lucy. “Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
She sighed impatiently.
“I think,” he said, “that both Meeker and Rees guess how I feel about you. After they’d gone I thought it all over and decided to come to you. I thought perhaps you might feel differently if you knew I was determined to get this business put right. Because I am determined, whatever answer you give me. I’m not going to let those crooks get hold of a property that my father intended for people like Rees. I’ll do my best, but I’d have much more chance of success with you to help me. You make friends so easily. I don’t. Personally my idea is to buy off Hayter; I don’t know how much he expects to get out of it all, but, if some more promising opening turned up elsewhere, I shouldn’t think he’d stay in Ravonsbridge, and I believe they’d fall to pieces without him.”
“Oh, but that’s cunning craftiness.”
“I know; it wouldn’t build up the kind of confidence and friendliness we’d need before we can get a decent Council. I feel we need you for that. I haven’t told my mother about all these plans. But I have told her that I love you and want to marry you, and she is very much pleased. So … so I’ve come to ask you if you won’t come back … and pull us all together … and make me so happy that I hardly dare to think of it?”
Lucy sat staring at him in agonised perplexity. His appeal moved her and she was delighted at the turn of events in Ravonsbridge. But she had been aware, more than once during their talk, of a want of sympathy between them. And his failure to jump into that train annoyed her. He would always be like that — never be able to get into or out of trains save in the most conventional manner.
“You are … you do love me a little,” he said.
“Yes, I do, Charles. But I don’t know if it’s enough.”
“Then don’t turn me down now. Think it over. I can see you’re hesitating….”
She was hesitating. To send him away in the cold, disappointed and pledged to a task which she herself had urged upon him, seemed very cruel. With one word she could make him so happy, and nobody else wanted happiness from her. She asked where he was staying, and he told her that he had got a room at the Lion, the best of the bad Drumby hotels.
“I’ll try to think it over tonight,” she said, “and let you know tomorrow. But I’ve a feeling that … that a marriage one has to think over is probably a mistake.”
“Oh, no. Most people don’t think nearly enough.”
“I didn’t have to think twice … before.”
“But that ended rather sadly, didn’t it?”
“Ye-es. And perhaps one doesn’t care like that a second time. I don’t know … I must try to think.”
“This evening, could you dine with me at the Lion?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly. I’ve got this party at the Club. I ought to be back there now. But you’ll come, won’t you? It’s a masked ball. Everybody is to come disguised, and take off their masks at midnight.”
“I have no disguise, I’d better not.”
“Oh, borrow a sheet from the Lion and come as a ghost or something. You can’t sit all by yourself there on New Year’s Eve.”
Charles said that he would rather do that than dress up in a sheet, and, when she pressed him, he became annoyed with her. He had forgotten how little sense of dignity she had. During the long cold journey to Drumby he had often wondered how he should spend the evening — had seen himself in bliss or in despair or still racked by suspense. But he had never expected to be told to dress up in a sheet and cut capers with a lot of chemists.
Did he, did he, really want to marry Lucy? She had put on her coat and fur-lined boots and was preparing to go back to the Club. But before she could open the street-door he caught her to him and kissed her angrily.
“I believe you rather hate me,” she murmured.
“I’m not sure that I don’t. But I can’t live without you.”
“Oh, dear … well … I don’t know. I don’t believe we suit … I still don’t … but I hate to see you so wretched….”
She pushed him away and ran back to the Club, stirred by his kisses but still exclaiming under her breath that they did not suit.
3
THE glass forest glittered very prettily, with lights among its branches, and by ten o’clock the upper floor of the Club was crowded with masked dancers. The only member to refuse disguise was the sombre McIntyre, who stood by the radiogram and changed the dance records.
The women took the occasion more seriously than the men, who had mostly dressed up under protest and refused to disguise their voices. A few who had, or believed that they had, some gift for mimicry, observed this rule and were applauded by the wives who, to a woman, squeaked and growled until identities were established or their throats grew sore.
Most of the revellers, remembering how dreary last New Year’s Eve had been, thought it a good party and were pleased with the Club which they had all laboured to secure. But Mrs. Farraday, the newest bride, who intended to cut out Mrs. Beauclerc as the social leader of Drumby, thought it all too dim for words and would have organised a counterattraction had she dared. But Melissa was too popular and there was no getting Larry Quinn away from La Carmichael; nothing could be done until she was reinforced by other newcomers who might also disparage the Club because they had not known what Drumby could be like without it.
“I wanna skate and I’m gonna skate,” said a cowboy to the Venetian lady with whom he danced, “and I’m gonna skate with you, baby.”
“Lasciate ogni speranza” said the lady severely.
“Sister! Ah cain’t speak wop.”
“Nor can I. That’s the only bit I know. It means nothing doing. Not a hope.”
“Ah, Lucy … ah, ye can’t mean it.”
“Yes, I can.”
“All because I told ye wan little limerick.”
“One was too many.”
“I’ll never tell ye another, I swear it. Will ye be starting from Brattle now?”
“Since you aren’t coming, it doesn’t matter where we start.”
“Ah, but I’m coming. Who’s the boyo in the blue coat?”
“How should I know?”
“Ye’ve been peering at um ever since he came.”
“Who brought him?”
“Mrs. Fothergill. She’s dancing with him now.”
“Is that Mrs. Fothergill?”
“Sure it is. Didn’t you know she was coming as Nell Gwyn? Will ye stop turning to look at the man!”
*
The tune changed to a lively gallop and all couples spun apart for a Paul Jones. The Venetian subsided into the arms of a cardinal.
“I see you’ve brought Charles,” she said. “Where did he get those clothes?”
“They’re some Melissa has for a Regency charade she’s getting up. They fit very well, don’t they?”
“They’re magnificent. But what happened? Did you go to the Lion and persuade him to come?”
“I went round and asked him to dine with us and we persuaded him to come, during dinner.”
“Oh, John, how very nice of you. I tried to get him to come but he was stuck about it. Why is Melissa Nell Gwyn? I thought she’d got a Spanish dress.”
“She changed with Mrs. Fothergill for fun. So many people knew what they were going to wear. They�
��re alike in height and build.”
“I know one person who’s been deceived already. But, John … do you … do you like Charles?”
“What? Oh … er … yes!”
“What did you talk about at dinner?”
“You.”
“Oh!”
*
“He, he, he!” tittered the Pierrette to the Regency Buck. “I think you’re marvellous. How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Put on that marvellous voice.”
“I’m not putting on any voice.”
“He, he, he! I know who you are all the same.”
“Who am I?”
“Mike. You’re not sore because I danced with Larry?”
“Oh, no.”
“I couldn’t help it. You know what he is. It was the Paul Jones. He just grabbed me.”
“Quite.”
“Oh, quaite! He, he! That’s marvellous!”
“I didn’t say quaite.”
“Yes, you did. But you see I really think it’s tough on Larry. La Carmichael is a bit of a bitch, I do think.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He, he, he! Ay baig your pahdon! Why ever did you say you couldn’t act? Well, you know how she’s led him on and led him on and taken all she could get out of him, and now it seems he’s out on his ear. She promised to go out with him tomorrow, and now she’s going skating with Cobb and Brett. He’s livid. So I’m going to get Denis to give Cobb and Brett a special bind up at the Hall tomorrow so they won’t be able to go. And Larry’s going up to Brattle instead, and that’ll teach La Carmichael a lesson.”
“Very kind of you.”
“I don’t mind doing poor Larry a good turn, though I think he’s crackers, mind you, to want to go skating with her.”
“Which is he?”
“Haven’t you spotted him? The cowboy, dancing with Mrs. Fothergill in that Nell Gwyn affair.”
“I thought that was Mrs. Beauclerc.”
“Oh, no. La Beauclerc has gone all Spanish.”
*
“You needn’t keep up that mutter for I know who ye are,” said the cowboy to Nell Gwyn. “You’re Mrs. Fothergill.”
“I’ve got laryngitis.”
“I’ll not believe it. Why do I never get a chanst to talk to you?”
“Don’t you?”
“I do not. If it wasn’t for the Paul Jones I’d not be dancing with you now.”
“Very true.”
“Who’s the man in the blue coat you’re after dancing with?”
“You’ll know at midnight.”
“Ah, you’re very crushing. Will I hide in a coke-buckut and feed meeself to the flames? Would that melt ye?”
“Not at all. The stove is too hot already.”
“And who saw to that? Who raked out the cinders this afternoon? Who brought up the coke? Meself. You’d have no party at all, at all, if it wasn’t for Melissa and me. Didn’t we spend the day entoirely getting it all ready?”
“Melissa?”
“Och, yes. Just the two of us. Just Melissa and meeself.”
“I didn’t know you called her Melissa.”
“Ah, sure I do. She’s not half as stand-offish as you might think, when ye get to know her. Ah, bad luck to ut! Here’s Paul Jones again.”
*
“If Paul Jones hadn’t struck up that minute,” cried Nell Gwyn, collapsing into the arms of her cardinal, “there would have been one cowboy less in this Club. He’s unspeakable! How could we ever let such an object into the Club? How can Lucy endure him for a moment?”
“I daresay he’s at his best on a horse.”
“Where’s … oh, good! He’s dancing with her at last. Now do tell me what you think of him. I haven’t had a chance to ask.”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I’m longing to know.”
The cardinal put his mouth close to her little ear and whispered:
“A solemn ass.”
“Oh, no!”
“Well, that’s the impression he made on me.”
“He’s a bit pompous, certainly. But think of the agitating position he’s in!”
“But what is the position? Are they engaged or not?”
“I think not, though when I sent them off to tea this afternoon I thought it was as good as settled. But he wouldn’t be staying on if she’d refused him, so I suppose it’s all in the balance. I think he’s very nice.”
“No, you don’t. You always used to call him the …”
“Ssh! If Lucy marries him we’ll forget about that.”
“You want her to marry him?
“Ye-es. Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“I think it would work very well. He’s an introvert and she’s an extrovert, and that’s supposed to be a good mixture.”
“Nonsense! Lucy isn’t an extrovert.”
“John! She’s the complete extrovert. Always organising.”
“I don’t think it’s her nature. She has a strong effect on people, but that is because they affect her. I don’t think she’ll be happy unless she marries a man who dominates her.”
“Who could? Barnum?”
*
“Mike!” said the Pierrette to a buccaneer. “But you can’t be! Oh, my God!”
“Why all this alarm and dismay!”
“Then who on earth … where … oh, my God! He’s dancing with La Carmichael. Oh, this would happen to me!”
“But what’s happened? I don’t get this.”
“See that man in the blue coat? I thought he was you. And I told him … Oh, my God!”
*
“Lucy, do I say quaite?”
“No. Who says you do?”
“That lady dressed like a pierrette. I danced with her and she thought my accent very funny. She accused me of putting it on.”
“Ha, ha! That’s Mrs. Farraday. Our little bride. She wouldn’t know the difference between quite and quaite. She says quoit herself.”
“So I noticed. Who is Larry?”
“Did she talk about him?”
“Yes. Who is he?”
“A Captain Quinn. He comes from the Breenho camp.”
“Nice man?”
“No. I say, Charles, did you have a nice dinner? Did you have a nice time with Melissa and John? Do you like them?”
“Oh, I do, very much. Lucy! Have you done any thinking yet?”
“No, Charles, I haven’t. I can’t, till this party is over and I get home.”
“I wish I knew just what all this thinking amounts to.”
“I wish I did. There is something I know I ought to see clearly and I don’t. I must think more about your mother.”
“I sometimes wish I was an orphan. It’s always either my mother or my father … what have they to do with your feeling for me?”
“It was so very nice of you, really generous of you, to write to me about her.”
“This dance seems to be over. You’ll have the next one with me, won’t you? I’ve hardly danced with you at all yet.”
“Oh, yes, and we’ll have a waltz. Mr. McIntyre! Put on a waltz this time.”
*
Waltzing with Charles was glorious. Lucy had forgotten how well partnered they were and how intoxicating it could be. If marriage could but have been a prolonged waltz she would have accepted him on the spot. But surely I love him, surely I do, she thought as she drifted round the room in his arms. He excites me and I am fond of him, because he wrote me that letter. I used not to be fond of him, but now I feel a real affection for him, since he wrote me that letter. Passion is not enough unless one feels affection, but I am fond of him, though I see his faults.
People were looking at them curiously. It seemed that they could never waltz together without causing a stir. The news spread through the Club that the man in the blue coat was a stranger and a friend of Lucy Carmichael’s. The pierrette was frequently obliged to call upon her Maker and demand why this sort of thing should
happen to her.
“I think it’s a case all right,” whispered John to Melissa.
“Yes,” said Melissa. “She’s lost to the world. She ought to be downstairs making the punch.”
But when the waltz was over Lucy came to her senses a little and ran off to the kitchen. Charles sought the sympathetic company of Melissa to whom he confided the strange business of Cobb, Brett, Brattle, Larry and the bind at the Hall. He wanted to know what it all meant.
“It’s that odious little Mrs. Farraday!” exclaimed Melissa angrily. “Larry is this Captain Quinn who is pursuing Lucy with no justification whatever. He evidently wants these boys kept at the Hall while he goes skating with her himself. I imagine they are bottle-washers for Mr. Farraday, who could keep them at work tomorrow if he likes, though it’s supposed to be a holiday. He’s mere putty in the hands of that wife of his.”
“Then Lucy had better be warned not to go.”
“Why don’t you go with her? John could lend you his skates.”
Charles was silent.
“You do skate?” asked Melissa in surprise.
He did skate, but not well, and he disliked doing things badly. He reflected that even if Lucy accepted him she might still want to go skating, and his look became gloomy. Melissa feared that he might be jealous of Quinn. There was no knowing what gossip that horrid little woman had repeated.
“I want,” said Charles suddenly, “to go back to Ravonsbridge tomorrow and take Lucy with me.”
“Oh!” cried Melissa, “if only you could!”
“You think that?”
“I’m sure it’s the only way to manage her — to be very decisive and determined.”
“She could stay with my mother at Cyre Abbey till … we could be married in a week.”
“Oh, yes, oh, yes. Get it over. Get it settled.”
He had never mentioned before that he wished to marry Lucy, but they both forgot that he had not.
“We could manage perfectly here without her,” declared Melissa. “It was always understood that she could leave at any time, if a better job turned up. She has got us started; we could manage till we’d found somebody else.”
This aspect of the matter did not trouble Charles. The Drumby Club was nothing to him. He was engrossed in his perception that, if he was ever to marry Lucy, he must do it immediately; she might accept him, after that waltz he was almost sure that she would, and then change her mind because he would not go skating with her.
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