Bruce Carmyle, in the capacity of accepted suitor, found himself atsomething of a loss. He had a dissatisfied feeling. It was not themanner of Sally's acceptance that caused this. It would, of course, havepleased him better if she had shown more warmth, but he was prepared towait for warmth. What did trouble him was the fact that his correct mindperceived now for the first time that he had chosen an unsuitable momentand place for his outburst of emotion. He belonged to the orthodoxschool of thought which looks on moonlight and solitude as the propersetting for a proposal of marriage; and the surroundings of the FlowerGarden, for all its nice-ness and the nice manner in which it wasconducted, jarred upon him profoundly.
Music had begun again, but it was not the soft music such as a loverdemands if he is to give of his best. It was a brassy, clashy renderingof a ribald one-step, enough to choke the eloquence of the most ardent.Couples were dipping and swaying and bumping into one another as faras the eye could reach; while just behind him two waiters had halted inorder to thrash out one of those voluble arguments in which waiterslove to indulge. To continue the scene at the proper emotional levelwas impossible, and Bruce Carmyle began his career as an engaged man bydropping into Smalltalk.
"Deuce of a lot of noise," he said querulously.
"Yes," agreed Sally.
"Is it always like this?"
"Oh, yes."
"Infernal racket!"
"Yes."
The romantic side of Mr. Carmyle's nature could have cried aloud at thehideous unworthiness of these banalities. In the visions which he hadhad of himself as a successful wooer, it had always been in the momentsimmediately succeeding the all-important question and its whisperedreply that he had come out particularly strong. He had been accustomedto picture himself bending with a proud tenderness over his partner inthe scene and murmuring some notably good things to her bowed head. Howcould any man murmur in a pandemonium like this. From tenderness BruceCarmyle descended with a sharp swoop to irritability.
"Do you often come here?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"To dance."
Mr. Carmyle chafed helplessly. The scene, which should be so romantic,had suddenly reminded him of the occasion when, at the age of twenty, hehad attended his first ball and had sat in a corner behind a potted palmperspiring shyly and endeavouring to make conversation to a formidablenymph in pink. It was one of the few occasions in his life at which hehad ever been at a complete disadvantage. He could still remember theclammy discomfort of his too high collar as it melted on him. Mostcertainly it was not a scene which he enjoyed recalling; and thathe should be forced to recall it now, at what ought to have been thesupreme moment of his life, annoyed him intensely. Almost angrily heendeavoured to jerk the conversation to a higher level.
"Darling," he murmured, for by moving his chair two feet to the rightand bending sideways he found that he was in a position to murmur, "youhave made me so..."
"Batti, batti! I presto ravioli hollandaise," cried one of the disputingwaiters at his back--or to Bruce Carmyle's prejudiced hearing it soundedlike that.
"La Donna e mobile spaghetti napoli Tettrazina," rejoined the secondwaiter with spirit.
"... you have made me so..."
"Infanta Isabella lope de Vegas mulligatawny Toronto," said the firstwaiter, weak but coming back pluckily.
"... so happy..."
"Funiculi funicula Vincente y Blasco Ibanez vermicelli sul campo dellagloria risotto!" said the second waiter clinchingly, and scored atechnical knockout.
Bruce Carmyle gave it up, and lit a moody cigarette. He was oppressed bythat feeling which so many of us have felt in our time, that it was allwrong.
The music stopped. The two leading citizens of Little Italy vanished andwent their way, probably to start a vendetta. There followed comparativecalm. But Bruce Carmyle's emotions, like sweet bells jangled, were outof tune, and he could not recapture the first fine careless rapture. Hefound nothing within him but small-talk.
"What has become of your party?" he asked.
"My party?"
"The people you are with," said Mr. Carmyle. Even in the stress of hisemotion this problem had been exercising him. In his correctly orderedworld girls did not go to restaurants alone.
"I'm not with anybody."
"You came here by yourself?" exclaimed Bruce Carmyle, frankly aghast.And, as he spoke, the wraith of Uncle Donald, banished till now,returned as large as ever, puffing disapproval through a walrusmoustache.
"I am employed here," said Sally.
Mr. Carmyle started violently.
"Employed here?"
"As a dancer, you know. I..."
Sally broke off, her attention abruptly diverted to something whichhad just caught her eye at a table on the other side of the room.That something was a red-headed young man of sturdy build who had justappeared beside the chair in which Mr. Reginald Cracknell was sittingin huddled gloom. In one hand he carried a basket, and from this basket,rising above the din of conversation, there came a sudden sharp yapping.Mr. Cracknell roused himself from his stupor, took the basket, raisedthe lid. The yapping increased in volume.
Mr. Cracknell rose, the basket in his arms. With uncertain steps and alook on his face like that of those who lead forlorn hopes he crossedthe floor to where Miss Mabel Hobson sat, proud and aloof. The nextmoment that haughty lady, the centre of an admiring and curiouscrowd, was hugging to her bosom a protesting Pekingese puppy, and Mr.Cracknell, seizing his opportunity like a good general, had depositedhimself in a chair at her side. The course of true love was runningsmooth again.
The red-headed young man was gazing fixedly at Sally.
"As a dancer!" ejaculated Mr. Carmyle. Of all those within sight of themoving drama which had just taken place, he alone had paid no attentionto it. Replete as it was with human interest, sex-appeal, the punch, andall the other qualities which a drama should possess, it had failed togrip him. His thoughts had been elsewhere. The accusing figure of UncleDonald refused to vanish from his mental eye. The stern voice of UncleDonald seemed still to ring in his ear.
A dancer! A professional dancer at a Broadway restaurant! Hideous doubtsbegan to creep like snakes into Bruce Carmyle's mind. What, he askedhimself, did he really know of this girl on whom he had bestowed thepriceless boon of his society for life? How did he know what she was--hecould not find the exact adjective to express his meaning, but he knewwhat he meant. Was she worthy of the boon? That was what it amountedto. All his life he had had a prim shrinking from the section of thefeminine world which is connected with the light-life of large cities.Club acquaintances of his in London had from time to time married intothe Gaiety Chorus, and Mr. Carmyle, though he had no objection tothe Gaiety Chorus in its proper place--on the other side of thefootlights--had always looked on these young men after as socialoutcasts. The fine dashing frenzy which had brought him all the way fromSouth Audley Street to win Sally was ebbing fast.
Sally, hearing him speak, had turned. And there was a candid honestyin her gaze which for a moment sent all those creeping doubts scuttlingaway into the darkness whence they had come. He had not made a fool ofhimself, he protested to the lowering phantom of Uncle Donald. Who, hedemanded, could look at Sally and think for an instant that she was notall that was perfect and lovable? A warm revulsion of feeling swept overBruce Carmyle like a returning tide.
"You see, I lost my money and had to do something," said Sally.
"I see, I see," murmured Mr. Carmyle; and if only Fate had left himalone who knows to what heights of tenderness he might not have soared?But at this moment Fate, being no respecter of persons, sent into hislife the disturbing personality of George Washington Williams.
George Washington Williams was the talented coloured gentleman whohad been extracted from small-time vaudeville by Mr. Abrahams to doa nightly speciality at the Flower Garden. He was, in fact, atrap-drummer: and it was his amiable practice, after he had done a fewminutes trap-drumming, to rise from his seat and make a circu
lar tour ofthe tables on the edge of the dancing-floor, whimsically pretendingto clip the locks of the male patrons with a pair of drumsticks heldscissor-wise. And so it came about that, just as Mr. Carmyle was bendingtowards Sally in an access of manly sentiment, and was on the very vergeof pouring out his soul in a series of well-phrased remarks, he wassurprised and annoyed to find an Ethiopian to whom he had never beenintroduced leaning over him and taking quite unpardonable liberties withhis back hair.
One says that Mr. Carmyle was annoyed. The word is weak. Theinterruption coming at such a moment jarred every ganglion in his body.The clicking noise of the drumsticks maddened him. And the gleamingwhiteness of Mr. Williams' friendly and benignant smile was the laststraw. His dignity writhed beneath this abominable infliction. Peopleat other tables were laughing. At him. A loathing for the Flower Gardenflowed over Bruce Carmyle, and with it a feeling of suspicion anddisapproval of everyone connected with the establishment. He sprang tohis feet.
"I think I will be going," he said.
Sally did not reply. She was watching Ginger, who still stood beside thetable recently vacated by Reginald Cracknell.
"Good night," said Mr. Carmyle between his teeth.
"Oh, are you going?" said Sally with a start. She felt embarrassed. Tryas she would, she was unable to find words of any intimacy. She tried torealize that she had promised to marry this man, but never before had heseemed so much a stranger to her, so little a part of her life. It cameto her with a sensation of the incredible that she had done this thing,taken this irrevocable step.
The sudden sight of Ginger had shaken her. It was as though in the lasthalf-hour she had forgotten him and only now realized what marriage withBruce Carmyle would mean to their comradeship. From now on he was deadto her. If anything in this world was certain that was. Sally Nicholaswas Ginger's pal, but Mrs. Carmyle, she realized, would never be allowedto see him again. A devastating feeling of loss smote her like a blow.
"Yes, I've had enough of this place," Bruce Carmyle was saying.
"Good night," said Sally. She hesitated. "When shall I see you?" sheasked awkwardly.
It occurred to Bruce Carmyle that he was not showing himself at hisbest. He had, he perceived, allowed his nerves to run away with him.
"You don't mind if I go?" he said more amiably. "The fact is, I can'tstand this place any longer. I'll tell you one thing, I'm going to takeyou out of here quick."
"I'm afraid I can't leave at a moment's notice," said Sally, loyal toher obligations.
"We'll talk over that to-morrow. I'll call for you in the morning andtake you for a drive somewhere in a car. You want some fresh air afterthis." Mr. Carmyle looked about him in stiff disgust, and expressedhis unalterable sentiments concerning the Flower Garden, that apple ofIsadore Abrahams' eye, in a snort of loathing. "My God! What a place!"
He walked quickly away and disappeared. And Ginger, beaming happily,swooped on Sally's table like a homing pigeon.
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The Adventures of Sally Page 42