Peggy read the reports with some amusement. 'You seem to have done quite proud by Lady Helen,' she told Mr Franklin. 'I hope she appreciates that but for your evidence she probably wouldn't be a free woman this morning. Did you see her afterwards?'
'Yes, briefly - but I doubt if she's very appreciative. For one thing, she wants to be a martyr, and for another, I doubt if she cares to feel under an obligation to anybody.'
'I shouldn't imagine so.' Peggy was studying a pictorial display which contrasted Millicent Shore, looking drab and haggard, with the debutante study of Lady Helen, under the heading 'Gruel . . . and caviare'. `Gosh, she looks a stuck-up piece. The kind who always had beautifully-made and spotless clothes for dancing lessons at school, and couldn't add two and two. The Delys girl looks nice, though.' She giggled. 'I should think the ha'penny rags will be selling well to the Pall Mall clubs today - most of them have got the Matania picture of her. Lovely figure - Lady Helen probably won't care for that, either. I see she's billed as the star attraction - Pip Delys, not Lady Helen - at the Savoy do next week; it doesn't take the charities long to hop on the roundabout, does it?'
'Which Savoy do is that?' wondered Mr Franklin. He was a little astonished; Peggy seemed not in the least curious about his association with Pip, which must have come as news to her and, in the circumstances, he supposed would at least have aroused her interest, if nothing more. But she obviously thought nothing of it; if he detected a hint of feminine jealousy at all, it was in her references to Lady Helen.
'The midnight ball, silly,' said Peggy. `You know, for the National Institute for the Blind. We're going with the Stewarts - it's the great attraction of the season, and everyone's going to be there. Well, your friend Pip is to be one of the top turns in the cabaret - I suppose they signed her up as soon as they saw the early editions yesterday; perhaps earlier. Lots of the leading theatricals are going to be there, as well as the whole of society. You bought us tickets ages ago.'
'Did I?' said Mr Franklin; he seemed to remember something of the sort, from that happy period before the arms-running. In that moment, it came on him again like a physical blow: this isn't real - that awful business between us, and here we are chatting cheerfully about midnight parties as though nothing had happened. He tried to order his thoughts, and said:
'Well, it sounds like a big affair. I suppose we won't get home till morning.'
'If then,' said Peggy. 'It's fancy dress, you know,' and Mr Franklin lowered his paper in dismay.
'You know I've never been to a fancy-dress ball in my life,' he was beginning.
'Oh, come on,' said Peggy, 'you went to the Peace Ball just a fortnight ago.'
'Sure, in plain clothes, like a lot of other people. But I'm not dressing up like a ... a Roman emperor or a Chinese mandarin, not for anything.'
`You don't have to,' said Peggy brightly. 'I've been thinking about it. I knew you'd kick at the idea of fancy dress, so I hit on just the costume for you.'
'Go on,' said Mr Franklin heavily. 'And if it's Pierrot, the answer's no’
'Not Pierrot,' said Peggy. `Something far more exciting than that.'
'Well?'
'You've still got those American pistols, and that cartridge belt, down at Lancing, haven't you? And that lovely old hat, with the big brim - what do they call them? Wideawakes. And your boots. Well - any theatrical costume shop could get you a shirt and breeches or whatever is right, or the woolly trousers and those big handkerchiefs for round your neck. You can go as Deadwood Dick. It won't be fancy dress at all, really - since it's what you must have worn in America.'
Into his mind, for no reason, came the picture of Sir Harry's suffused face and knowing look. 'You've got gunfighter's eyes.' Deadwood Dick - that was the name that would spring to Peggy's lips as it did to everyone's when the West was mentioned. The romantic figure, the frontiersman, the man with the six-shooters, which no one ever bothered to think of in its unromantic reality. Cassidy and Deaf Charley and Big Ben Kilpatrick. He sat looking at her across the top of his paper.
'Well, it's perfect, isn't it? And so much better, because you've got the real things. I remember that old cartridge belt, full of those shiny brass bullets it would be splendid. D'you know,' she added, as she picked up her paper, 'I've never seen you as you must have looked when you were roughing it. Well, of course I haven't. But I'm sure it would suit you. I'm going as something Marie Antoinettish - you know, the big silk gown, and a wig and a mask and a fan. What d'you think?'
'Oh, you'll look fine - that's proper fancy dress,' said Mr Franklin. 'I'm not sure about the Western rig, though - '
'Now don't be difficult,' said Peggy. 'You can't go in tails - no one else will. And your objection has always been to dressing up like a guy. Well, this won't be dressing up - it'll just be putting on your old clothes. We'll get you a proper fringed shirt, like Buffalo Bill, and Samson can polish up those boots with the high heels - '
'All the gear is down at Lancing, though.'
'Well, Samson can collect it in a day, easily. And the ball isn't till next week. So you needn't start trying to make excuses - unless you really want to go as Pierrot.'
After all, he thought, why not? It was the easiest sort of fancy dress, if he had to wear one. It would be kind of odd, though, after so many years - even back before Tonopah and the diggings, before the cattle-drives, back fifteen years to Hole-in-the-Wall and waiting in that eating-house in Cheyenne - it was Cheyenne, wasn't it, not Casper? - watching Tracy across the street. And he would wear it at the Savoy Hotel, among the bright young things and the bright old things, among the cavaliers and pirates and dancing-girls and Maid Marions and the circus clowns. Pierrots, certainly. There was something crazy about it, but comic, too.
'All right,' he said. `Deadwood Dick.'
He gave it little thought in the next few days, as June turned into July, and the brief sensation of the Cessford trial vanished from the papers and the public mind. A brief paragraph in one of the last stories on the subject mentioned that Lady Helen Cessford had retired to her father's country seat - the journalist did not fail to remark in passing that Millicent Shore was then completing her first week in the stone tomb of Holloway, with only one hundred and fifty-five weeks to go, in none of which was she likely to visit Biarritz or Nice, or enjoy even a morsel of foie gras or overripe pheasant. But it was the last squib on the subject, a mere afterthought to the story of the next suffragette outrage, in which a hammer was taken to Millais' portrait of Thomas Carlyle. There were wits who suggested that this could only improve the sepulchral features of the sage of Ecclefechan and Chelsea, and one even proposed that when the perpetrator was sentenced, her punishment should be rendered more severe by imprisoning her, not in Holloway, but in the Royal Academy.
The public were, in fact, tired of suffragettes; there was fresher sensation in the trial of Madame Caillaux in Paris - she who had taken a pistol to the editor of Figaro with fatal effect - and in the arrival in England of another French notable, the handsome and charming M. Carpentier, who was due to fight Gunboat Smith for the world cruiser-weight title, an occasion which promised to attract to Olympia not only the sporting fraternity, but the flower of society as well. Wimbledon was breaking out again, the sun was shining brilliantly, Ireland might be an impending crisis but there was no doubt that it was also a thundering bore, and only the more sober readers, or the chronic pessimists, paid any attention to the vaguely disquieting news from Eastern Europe, where Austria was expressing indignation at the assassination of her Archduke. Mr Lloyd George quieted the anxieties of that small section of the public which was listening by talking of a rapprochement between Britain and Germany, it was emphasised that in the highly unlikely event of any crisis in Europe, Britain was under no commitment to France, and that Persia was a far more pressing question anyway, since Britain's oil interests in that country were vital to the maintenance of her huge petrol-driven Dreadnought fleet.
And on the evening of the Fourth of July, which
struck him as appropriate, Mr Franklin eased on his well-worn but highly-polished boots, buckled the cartridge belt with its glittering brass rounds (specially burnished by an excited kitchen-maid) round his waist, tied the holsters down to his thighs, put on the old broad-brimmed Stetson on which Samson had spent at least two hours' brushing, picked up his Remingtons, checked that their cylinders were empty, slipped them into the holsters - and looked at himself in the mirror.
His immediate reaction was that it was ridiculous. His sensations were precisely those that he had felt almost five years before when. he had stood in the Waldorf Hotel, surveying with revolted disbelief his first full suit of white tie and tails. And then, as now, Samson was at his elbow, glancing critically at his reflection; Mr Franklin gave a snort of derisive amusement and turned on his tall heels, rested his thumbs in his belt, and said to his valet:
'All right, go ahead -what are you going to find to straighten about this lot?'
Samson shook his head with gentle gravity. 'I'm afraid, sir, that I can be of no assistance. The breeches are cut for service rather than style, and the hat . . .' Words failed him about the hat. 'Perhaps I might refold the neckerchief - '
`You leave it alone,' said Mr Franklin. 'I want it nice and sloppy so that when shame overcomes me I can slip it up over my face, like a dime-novel desperado.' He looked at himself again, and decided that it might have been worse; it was gratifying that the broad belt with its heavy brass buckle was only one notch farther on than it had been all those years ago - an inch on the waist wasn't bad, between thirty-five and forty. But it was still a shock to see that outlandish figure, tall and straight enough, but so out of keeping with the Indian carpet and electric light and modern furniture-and the weight of the weapons on his hips seemed enormous. Had he ever carried them without noticing? He slipped his hand on to the polished butt of the left-hand gun, drew it and spun it deftly on his forefinger before sliding it back into the holster. It was an automatic movement, like straightening his tie or flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve; he had performed it without conscious thought, and he realised that Samson was watching him. They looked at each other for a moment in the glass.
'Yes,' said Mr Franklin quietly, and knew they were both remembering the same thing.
'I'll have to practise walking in these damned boots,' he said. 'At least I can thank Mrs Keppel that I don't have spurs to worry about - I could see my wife thanking me if I put one of those rowels through her dress. Heavens above, Samson, I'm never going to be able to dance in
these!'
They were debating this important point when sounds from the landing announced that Peggy had completed her transformation into a lady of the ancien regime, and Mr Franklin stalked out to look, and have his breath taken away. She looked incredibly beautiful in her high powdered wig, sparkling with little paste jewels, and the delicate pink embroidered gown, with its huge sweeping skirt; her body seemed to emerge from it like some perfect statue, white-shouldered and slender-necked, with the angel face above it, touched with a tiny black beauty spot high on one cheek. She fluttered her fan and sank into an elaborate curtsey, murmuring, 'Serviteur, monsieur'; Mr Franklin, equally in character, touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat and said gravely, 'Evenin', ma'am.' At which Peggy's maid went into peals of laughter, and even Samson deigned to smile.
Mr Franklin rode in the front seat of the car, for the simple reason that there was room in the back only for Peggy and her spreading finery. They went by way of Grosvenor Square, where the Stewarts lived; it was a considerable consolation to Mr Franklin, as he got out to help Lady Stewart into her own automobile, after the obligatory squeal of recognition had been exchanged between her and the temporarily imprisoned Peggy, that she was attired either as Boadicea or Lady Macbeth, he couldn't be sure which, and that Sir Cecil, who was tall and slender almost to vanishing point, had unwisely decided to impersonate Sandow the Strong Man, in leopard skin and grotesquely wrinkled tights. A fringed shirt of imitation buckskin might be bad enough, but at least he didn't look like that. And while they waited for other members of the party to emerge, and Sir Cecil could only clutch his huge cardboard dumb-bell and gawk foolishly while pretending not to notice the amused stares of passers-by, Mr Franklin could lounge against the side of the limousine with his ankles crossed, striking a match on his boot-sole and lighting a cigarette with his hat tilted over his eyes, as to the manner born.
The Strand was choked with late-night traffic as they drove along, and turned into the glittering entrance of the Savoy, which had been transformed for the great occasion. Crowds of sight-seers were being held back by lines of uniformed police as the guests and celebrities arrived; there were oohs and ahs at every fresh extravagance of costume, as maharajahs, highwaymen, Columbines, gladiators, Cleopatras, Cossacks, and ballerinas crowded into the great foyer, each testifying to the steel-nerved resolution of the British upper classes in the face of disaster - for nothing, in Mr Franklin's opinion, could have been more catastrophic than the appearance which some of them presented. Sir Cecil Stewart in his leopard skin and knobbly knees was grace itself compared with the spectacle of an angular and elderly gentleman in horn-rimmed glasses who had chosen to impersonate Nero in the briefest of tunics and an enormous laurel wreath, or the sheer monstrosity of an obese dowager who had clothed herself in wisps of gossamer as Scheherazade. 'Do yet dance, Salome!' pursued her as she waddled hastily through the great doors, and there were raucous requests to Nero to 'sing us a song, guv. !' However the commonalty were cheered by the appearance of the younger society ladies as Bacchanals and nymphs, and there was thunderous applause for a daring young gentleman who made his stately entrance on foot from the Strand, in full fig as Charles II, with a buxom Nell Gwynn on his arm, and even a pack of spaniels trailing at his heels.
Downstairs the noise at the gaily decorated supper tables was deafening; the Stewart party were comfortably ensconced in a corner, Peggy contrived to eat, talk with unbounded vivacity, and preserve her spectacular appearance in spite of the fact that she was seated next to a whiskered Neptune whose enormous trident was a danger to anyone within six feet of him, Mr Franklin resisted gallantly the efforts of a Greek goddess to disarm him of his revolvers so that she could click them at her companions, champagne and Hock flowed in impressive quantities, delicacies of every variety were consumed by the hundredweight, conversation rose to shouting pitch, the orchestra played manfully in spite of the fact that not a note was audible, and it became evident that the guests who had paid exorbitantly for their tickets on behalf of the nation's blind, were going to have their money's worth. Mr Franklin's chief interest was to see if any dancing would, in fact, take place; he suspected that the combination of elaborate costumes and strong drink would lead to some remarkable evolutions when the programme began, and he was not disappointed.
Upstairs the management of the Savoy had risen to the occasion. The entire foyer, restaurant, Parisian cafe and Winter Garden had been turned into one gigantic ballroom by the expedient of flooring them with parquet for the occasion, and taking down all the removable screens and furniture. There were three orchestras, playing in relays, and sometimes, it seemed to Mr Franklin, in unison, even if the tunes were different. He would, he knew, have the grandfather of all headaches in the morning, not from champagne, of which he had partaken sparingly, but from the sheer noise and press and thunderous activity around him. In the meantime, he was rather enjoying himself; he waltzed with Peggy, in spite of the proportions of her skirt and his own high-heeled boots, they sat out a polka which would have been physically impossible for them, and made bets with each other who would subside in an exhausted heap first, Neptune or the gamely puffing Scheherezade; then he bought her handfuls of raffle tickets, and they waltzed again - it was, they discovered, about the only dance which their costumes would permit, although they tried a tango which ended with Peggy having a fit of the giggles and his helping her, laughing, back to their side-table.
There fol
lowed a grand parade past the stage which had been erected between two of the orchestras and draped with patriotic red, white and blue silks, where the dance committee and judges sat to judge the costumes. Peggy, to her intense delight, won a prize in the historical section (ladies); the Emperor Nero, on the other hand, was mortified to receive an award in the comic section (gentlemen), explaining loudly that his garb had been carefully copied from a genuine Roman frieze. More dancing, and the cabaret, followed. Mr Harry Lauder to rapturous applause and enthusiastic vocal support with the choruses, roamed in the gloaming and hailed Caledonia, Mr Peter Dawson silenced all competition with 'A policeman's lot' in a voice that boomed like a great bronze bell, Fokina danced the dying swan, and Miss Pip Delys, sparkling in an entirely silver costume of leotard, tights, and feathers, sang and pirouetted before a chorus line of energetic young men in "Oh, you beautiful doll". As an encore she joined Mr Lauder in "Stop your tickling, Jock", in which she did her level best to steal the limelight from one who had learned that particular business long before she was born, but who tolerantly refrained from proving it. The artistes then joined in a patriotic finale of "Rule, Britannia"; it occurred to Mr Franklin, watching Pip as she stood glittering and obviously bursting with delight between the kilted Mr Lauder and the imposing Mr Dawson, that this, for the former third lead of the Folies Satire, was probably the greatest moment of her theatrical career; the applause thundered to a climax, and the performers bowed and left the stage to join in the dancing or seek refreshment at the buffets.
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