Beggars May Sing

by Sara Seale

  "You don't believe me! But it's true, I swear it. A door banged and he went away, but tonight he'll come back.—Julie, I'm frightened."

  Then Julie turned round, and her eyes were blazing.

  "Once and for 'all, Gina, I've had enough of your soft little tricks," she said. "I've watched you with Victor. Running after him as you run after Mark—"

  "Julie, stop it!"

  "—You stand talking to Victor in nothing but a towel, and then lose your head if he shows you a little admiration. What else do you expect?" She had worked herself into a cold fury, and she rose to her feet, now, confronting the distraught girl, and continued, "If he came to your room last night, it was because you expected him to. You said yourself you locked your door. Was that an innocent action? Oh, no, Gina, you may fool Mark, but you can't fool me. You deserve all you get."

  She stopped at last, and Gina gasped out, "I think you're mad, Julie. Why do you say such terrible things? Why do you hate me so?" She began to cry, a painful tearless sobbing which hurt her. "I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead."

  Julie stood regarding her dispassionately for a moment or two, then she looked suddenly very tired. "Oh, go away and leave me," she said more wearily than roughly, and Gina, feeling she was choking, ran unseeing from the room and down the staircase. It was only a little after seven by the clock in the bend of the stairs, and Gina met Sweeny coming up.

  "The master's returned," he said. "I was just coming to tell the mistress, Miss Gina—och! goodness me, what's the matter now?" For Gina, not having heard a word he was saying, had fled past him and across the hall to the study. Half-blind with sobs and terror, she ran straight into Mark's arms as he turned at the sound of her flying feet.

  "Good gracious! child, what's happened to you?" he exclaimed in alarm.

  Gina scarcely even realized who he was, but could only gasp for breath, then she became aware of firm hands supporting her, and suddenly the hard tearing sobbing changed to stormy weeping, and she collapsed in his arms.

  III

  For a long time she could only cry distractedly, and as he held her he caught phrases here and there.

  "Why . . . why . . . she hates me . . . she doesn't know . . . I was afraid ... I wish ... I'd never come here ... I wish . . . dead."

  "Steady, Gina. My dear—try and stop. Don't cry like this. What is it? Tell me," said Mark, distressed beyond measure. There was something desolate in her weeping which moved him unbearably. "Poor child. Poor little sweet." He picked her up in his arms and carried her over to a chair. There was something so slight and immature about her thin body in its flimsy frock. She was so light and small. He put her into one of the big leather chairs, and sat beside her on the edge. The leather struck chill on her bare arms, and she huddled against him.

  "It's cold," she said, and her tears suddenly became the easy relaxing tears of childhood, which bring only relief, and she leant against him, exhausted and sobbing but released from anguish.

  "Now what is it?" he asked gently, when she was quieter.

  Wearily she began to speak. "I had a frightful row with Julie. She said dreadful things to me. I was frightened. . . ."

  "What was it all about?"

  "I'd rather not tell you. I don't want to make any more scenes," she said.

  "Supposing I ask Julie?"

  "I don't think she'll tell you. It doesn't matter now you've come back. I didn't know you were coming. I wish I had."

  "Nobody knew. You don't feel inclined to confide in me, then?"

  "It wouldn't do any good."

  "Are you sure? I might be 'able to help, you know."

  "But it would be the wrong way," said Gina unhappily.

  He was a little puzzled. "Had Swann anything to do with it?"

  She made no answer, and he said gently, "All right, my dear. I won't force you. Perhaps you'll tell me later on."'

  "Oh, Mark, why does Julie hate me so?" cried Gina desolately. "I never knew until tonight quite how much she did hate me. Why? I've never done anything to her. She doesn't hate Sebastian."

  "Poor child! I'm terribly sorry," he said, slowly ruffling up her hair. "People are so strange, Gina. You can't tell what queer forces may be working underneath. I've never, myself, understood Julie's attitude. But 'after this, I'll speak to her, of course."

  "Oh, don't," she said quickly. "She doesn't like you standing up for me."

  "How do you know I do stand up for you?"

  "Well, you do sometimes, don't you?"

  He smiled. "Sometimes. But, Gina, I'm not going to have this sort of thing happening again. You'll make yourself ill. I shall certainly speak to Julie."

  She pushed back the tumbled hair from her forehead and sniffed. Her pointed face was pinched and tired with weeping, her lips very white. In spite of the enchanting frock and Mark's necklace, she looked plain.

  "I can't go in to dinner like this," she said. "The Swann would notice." She shivered a little, and Mark got to his feet and rang the bell.

  "Of course you can't. I tell you what. We'll both have something in here together—chicken or something, and a bottle of wine. We'll consult Sweeny. Would you like that?"

  "It would be lovely. You're a dear, Mark."

  "Good, that's splendid. Now we'll have a fire."

  Some logs were already laid in the grate, and he struck a match and soon had flames roaring up the chimney.

  Sweeny knocked at the door, and Mark gave him his Orders. "And a bottle of the Perrier-Jouet too, Sweeny."

  He came back before very long with a laden tray, and set it on a small table before the fire.

  "Does Mrs. Gale know I'm back?" Mark asked.

  "I tould her alright, but she tuk no heed. I declare to God the house is broke up entirely. The mistress in her room with a boulted door, and that Swann and Master Sebastian in the dining-room glowerin' at each other with their four eyes acrost the table so that anyone would think there was murther about." Sweeny went out of the room, muttering and shaking his head, and Mark poured out a glass of champagne for Gina.

  "Poor child! You look all in," he said as he handed it to her. All through the intimate little meal he fussed over her, coaxing her to eat when she said she couldn't, making her laugh when she looked unhappy.

  When finally the table was pushed back and they lit cigarettes, Gina curled up in her chair with a feeling of relaxation. There was no need now to worry about the night. Victor wouldn't dare to molest her with Mark in the house. She wondered if he and Julie had fought things out. It rather looked as though something of the kind had happened. She grinned with a return of her old spirit at the thought of Sebastian and the Swann dining tete-a-tete.

  "Feeling better now?" asked Mark, who had been watching her.

  She nodded. "Much; only awfully tired. I didn't sleep very well last night."

  "Well, you must do better than that tonight. I'm going to pack you off to bed really early, and I'll send you up something to make you sleep," he told her.

  "You are kind to me," she said.

  "You're only just beginning to let me be," he replied with a tiny grimace, and she laughed. "You don't dislike me so profoundly, do you?"

  "Oh, Mark! I never disliked you in a personal way," she protested. "I disliked you as a benefactor. I hated being dependent. I don't mind so much with Julie. After all, she married Father, so she's responsible for us in a way, but we've no claim on you."

  "I see. But what will you do when you marry, Gina? You'll be just as dependent on your husband. You'll have nothing to bring him, you know," he said slowly.

  "I shan't like it," said Gina frankly. "But after all, I'll be marrying him, and that ought to be enough for anyone."

  "Bravo! So it ought!" he laughed. "Don't be in too much of a hurry though, will you? There's plenty of; time."

  "There isn't," she replied swiftly and unexpectedly. "There's no time at all. Sebastian's going to Oxford. Julie may marry again. What's going to happen to me? I shall have to marry because I haven't got a
career. Sebastian and I ought to have changed places really. It would have been much more suitable."

  He reflected that this was in all probability true. She had more staying-power than her brother. But the thought of Gina married for want of any better occupation, perhaps to the first man who asked her, was intolerable, and he said abruptly:

  "What nonsense, Gina. You shouldn't be considering such things at all. And don't you dare think of marrying anyone without asking me."

  She looked at him in surprise, observed his frown and the straight set of his lips, and suddenly liked him enormously.

  "Why did you come back today, Mark?" she asked him curiously.

  He hesitated a moment then replied, "Last Sunday you sounded rather as if you might have liked me to be here. I just wondered how the Swann was behaving himself, that's all. I think it's a good thing I did come, don't you?"

  "It was terribly nice of you," she said gratefully. "I wish I didn't look quite so frightful for our champagne party, though."

  He got up and crossed over to her, standing for a moment looking down at her slight figure, the firelight putting live colour into her shining hair. He smiled Nlowly.

  "You foolish child!" he said softly, and stooped to kiss her. But he was quite unprepared for the impulse which made her suddenly fling her arms round his neck and hug him. "That was charming of you, Gina," he said. "Now you're going to stay quietly here by the fire while I have a word with Julie, and then I shall send you to bed."

  He threw another log on the fire and left her. He met Victor and Sebastian leaving the dining-room, one looking as sulky as the other, and said shortly, "Good evening, Swann. Please don't either of you disturb Gina. She's not feeling well, and I've left her in the study. I'll be down later."

  "Lord, lord! Everyone's crazy!" he heard Sebastian mutter, and the sound of the piano being played rather viciously followed him up to Julie's room.

  CHAPTER VI

  I

  MARK knocked, saying, "It's Mark, Julie. Can I come in?"

  There was a short pause, then he heard his sister move across the room, the key turned in the lock and she threw open the door.

  "Well?"

  She stood confronting him, very straight in her blue wrapper. Her hair was still falling about her shoulders, and her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she, too, had been crying.

  "Well?" she said again.

  Mark came in and closed the door behind him. "I want to talk to you," he said.

  "You've seen Gina—naturally."

  "I don't like that 'naturally,'". he said quietly. "Yes, I've seen Gina."

  "Well—"

  "I found her almost hysterical," he said deliberately. "She tells me you and she had some sort of a row. I'd like to know what it was about."

  "Didn't Gina tell you?" 'asked Julie incredulously.

  "No, she wouldn't. But I should like to know all the same what could justify such a condition. The child was in a terrible state," he said watching her face.

  She turned away from him and went back to her dressing-table, where she sat down, and, taking up a little ivory buffer, began to polish her nails.

  "If Gina hasn't told you the reason for our disagreement, it's quite clearly because she realizes she has been very foolish," she said. "So, if I were you, Mark, I wouldn't ask any more questions."

  "Julie!" he exclaimed impulsively. "What's happened to you since you came back from Ireland? You were perhaps always a little hard—even in the old days—but I don't remember this bitterness of spirit which seems to have possessed you lately."

  She paused abruptly in her polishing, then went on again, with the same leisurely strokes. "You forget, quite a lot has happened to me since the old days, Mark," she said quietly.

  "My dear, of course I haven't," he replied. "But surely not enough to make you so bitter."

  "I'm not bitter," she said wearily. "Only disillusioned."

  "Your marriage wasn't a great success, was it?" he said gently.

  "No."

  "Oh, my dear, it was a mad marriage, anyway. You of all people to undertake a ready-made Irish household and two stepchildren. What made you do it, Julie? I've often wondered."

  There was a silence, then she answered, still quietly polishing, "Perhaps it never occurred to you, Mark, that I might be in love with my husband."

  He was silent. Oddly enough it never had occurred to him. He knew that Julie had wanted a home of her own, and had imagined that to be the main reason for her sudden marriage nearly five years ago. For all her good looks, she had never been very attractive to men, and Denis Gale, at the time she had married him, was a man of over forty-five, still with the charms he must have possessed to a very great extent as a young man, but weak and lazy and unreliable. Sebastian was very like him.

  "I thought I could change things. I thought when you cared enough you could do anything."

  Julie stared at her reflection in the glass and spoke 'as if somehow impelled to. It was the first time she had ever alluded to her brief married life in any but a purely practical way.

  "I was a fool. I didn't understand the Irish shiftlessness. They give everything because they've nothing to give. They can afford to be beggars, because they've nothing to lose." She threw the buffer with a little clatter among the brushes and bottles. Mark was silent, and she said, with complete self-control, "Denis was passionately in love with his first wife—to the end. Gina is very like her, I'm told. She was with him when he died. He thought she was her mother."

  "And you take it out on Gina?" Mark said very gently, understanding at last.

  She wheeled round upon him. "Gina, Gina!—always Gina!" she cried, and he saw that her eyes were bright with tears. "Can you think of no one else? Gina is young—she has all her life before her, and if you fall in love with that girl, Mark, you'll be a bigger fool than I was."

  He regarded her steadily for a moment in silence, then he said quietly, "That's a very rash thing to say, Julie."

  She scrutinized his grave face, trying to find there the exact meaning of his words, then turned back to her mirror and took up a comb.

  "Will you leave me now, Mark?" she said in her usual tones. "I shan't come down as it's after nine. I'm rather tired."

  She began to plait her hair for the night, and Mark

  took a step towards her. "Julie "

  "Good-night, dear," she said, and smiled at him in the glass.

  II

  Gina leant propped against the stable door and watched Sweeny clipping the Southern Belle. Tomorrow was the day of the opening meet, and the early November sun shone brightly on the newly cleaned saddlery waiting in readiness.

  "Which of yous is riding tomorrow?" Sweeny asked.

  "We haven't decided yet," said Gina. "I expect Sebastian will."

  "We'll toss for it," said Sebastian. "Lend me a penny, Sweeny. Heads you lose, tails you win—heads it is. You lose, Gina, and I'm glad that I was unable to deprive you of the pleasure you so unselfishly wished me to enjoy."

  "If I'm killed I shall haunt you," said Gina gloomily.

  Gina rode to the meet in white-lipped endurance. Nervous anticipation spoilt, as always, any pleasure she may have felt at being on a horse, 'and she experienced that sick sensation in the stomach which invariably comes from nerves and the want of a proper breakfast.

  Both the young Gales had always suffered from this particular shrinking, and in the stubborn fashion of their generation continued to do what they intensely disliked, sooner than admit their reluctance. Sebastian, the better rider of the two, put up the poorer show. He was afraid of falling. Gina, who fell frequently, was afraid of something far more intangible. The whole atmosphere of hunting alarmed her, from the first sinister burst of music from hounds to the final check.

  The meet was well attended, and Gina, viewing the long rows of cars stretching away down the road, thought with unsportsman-like satisfaction that it didn't look as though they would get much sport today. She could see Colonel Hunter on a hireling
and farther on Sir Charles Napier attending to his wife's stirrup-leather, while a groom led his magnificent chestnut up and down. Nancy Pratt was there, riding 'a new grey mare. She looked well on a horse, sitting side-saddle in a perfectly cut blue habit, and Gina watched her coquetting with a couple of young men, who were plainly enchanted.

  The Southern Belle, newly clipped and cold, looked bony and camel-like. Her neck arched aggressively, 'and she showed her contempt for everyone by kicking a hound. Gina, feeling herself the centre of cold displeasure, hurriedly removed herself and the mare farther away, and presently the Master arrived, looking a little cross, and the field moved off to their first draw.

  As Gina had hoped, there were far too many spectators to permit of much sport, and they were still cantering from covert to covert at half-past two. Gina, feeling that at three o'clock of a blank day she was justified in turning her face homewards, was just beginning to think that hunting after all was not so bad, when someone viewed a fox a couple of fields away.

  Gina, astride the Belle, shortened her reins, and clung on for dear life. Three fences safely over—a fourth. At the fifth she went flying over the mare's head, and, squat-ting in the mud, watched the Sprat sitting firm in the saddle, come sailing over the fence with the utmost ease. Someone caught the mare and put her up again.

  "Why don't you ride in a side-saddle, Gina?" Nancy said when they checked for 'a moment. "Women have no grip astride. You wouldn't fall nearly so often—really you wouldn't."

  Gina gave her a glance of hatred, and turning the Belle's head, sent her at the next fence with all the force her failing spirit could command. The Belle jumped protestingly, tangling her hoofs in a last spasm of petulance, and took a header on the other side, hurling Gina to earth.

  It was Sir Charles Napier who came to her aid. "What a very mettlesome young lady you are!" he said with a twinkle, as he helped her to her feet and assured himself she wasn't hurt. She limped a bit, having bruised her thigh on a stone, but the mare was caught for the second time, and Gina hoisted herself into the saddle with a sigh of relief, and departed for home.