The music struck up, and they went back to the ballroom. He had turned away, when he felt himself pushed a little and heard a faint, laughing thread of sound:
“I wouldn’t be frightened of her money. She’s just a girl.”
Mally slipped away before he could turn round. She was looking on at the dancing, her foot tapping a little, when an arm went round her waist and she felt herself swung into the stream without so much as a “With your leave” or “By your leave.”
The new partner was several sizes larger than Ambrose. He wore a black domino lined with red, and for a dreadful moment she wondered if Mr. Craddock had turned his coat. It was only for a moment, for the wildest imagination would have failed to picture Paul Craddock in a rollicking mood.
The black domino was a very rollicking partner, who swung Mally right off her feet in the best Russian Ballet style, and announced in a horrible growling voice that he was Foxtrotski, the Bounding Bolshevist from Brixton, adding that his friend Bombemoff was proposing to wind up the proceedings with a grand gala display of exploded guests.
Mally enjoyed her dance with him very much. It was about half-way through it that she found something astonishingly familiar about the big hand that was holding hers, and recognized Ethan Messenger. It was strange what a feeling of reassurance came over her; and before she could bridle her tongue, she gave a warm little excited laugh and said:
“How is Dinks?”
The Bounding Bolshevist had answered “Top-hole!” before he realized the revealing nature of this question. He broke off and said, “Hallo—’allo—’allo! Good Lord! Who are you?”
“Cinderella,” said Mally—“or the Beggar Maid—I’m not quite sure which, but I think it’s Cinderella. You don’t really belong to either of the stories, so it’s simply a frightful ana—what’s-his name for us to be dancing together.”
“Do you mean anachronism?”
“I expect so. Anyhow it’s frightfully improper. But you haven’t told me about Dinks. Did he bite you?”
For one surprising moment the impossibility of reconciling a queerly vivid memory of Mally Lee, with straws sticking all over her and a smudge on one cheek, with the rose-red elegance in his arms struck Ethan dumb.
Mally rattled on:
“I took good care he didn’t bite me. I never thought rabbits were ferocious before. Bunty wanted me to put him in his hutch, and I told her you’d do it ever so much better. I do like Bunty—don’t you?”
Ethan took no notice of this question.
“So it’s you!” he said.
Mally shook her head vigorously.
“I’m not me, and you’re not you. I’m a rose-colored domino, and you’re a black one. And we haven’t got any faces—we’ve only got masks. Nothing’s ever happened to us till to-night, and nothing’s ever going to happen to us again. We’re just going to dance and have a frightfully good time until your friend Bombemoff blows us all right out of our fairy tale.”
Ethan swung her round with a laugh.
“I mustn’t ask how you got here, then?”
“Certainly not!”
“Or anything?”
She shook her head again. A moment later, she caught sight of Candida’s black and silver, just clear of the dancers at the edge of the room. Without any warning she twisted away from Ethan and came up to Candida, laughing.
“Shall I tell you a secret?” she whispered.
Miss Long’s partner, a white domino, did not seem pleased, but Mally went on whispering:
“I can tell you something worth knowing.”
The silver hood and black mask turned towards her.
“What can you tell me?”
Mally decided that Candida really had no notion of how to disguise her voice. If she couldn’t do better than this, she might just as well not wear a mask at all.
“I can tell you that the red domino lined with black would like a rich wife. And the yellow domino is so afraid of money that he’ll let the girl he cares for go to a man who doesn’t care for her.”
Candida stamped a silver foot.
“How dare you! Who are you?” And then, rather breathlessly: “How do you know, and who do you mean?”
“Won’t you dance?” The white domino was getting impatient; but Candida just flung him a “No” and came closer to Mally.
“What did you mean? Who did you mean?”
Mally put a finger on the lace fall that hid her lips.
“S’sh,” she said. Then she pointed. “There’s the yellow domino. He’s too proud to tell you that he cares—I don’t think he’ll ever tell you unless you make him.”
“Who is he? What nonsense you talk! You can’t know who he is.”
“Perhaps I can’t—perhaps I can,
For he’s a most particularly proud young man.”
Mally hummed the doggerel on the lowest note she could reach. Then she went on inconsequently: “His name reminds me of amber in the middle of a wood.”
“What nonsense!” Candida gasped a little.
“Yes, isn’t it? And the very tall red and black domino coming down the room now has the same initials as police courts and privy councillors. And he isn’t proud at all—he can swallow a fortune as well as most men.”
Mally gave Candida a little twirl and went chasseing down the room by herself. She really was enjoying herself very much indeed.
She went on dancing with Ethan Messenger, who had apparently been waiting for her. Presently she saw Candida and the yellow domino go by together.
“I know what I am,” she said.
“A witch?”
“Certainly not! Witches are all perfectly hideous, and at least a hundred. No, it burst on me just now—I’m not Cinderella, and I’m not the Beggar Maid; I’m an absolutely up-to-date fairy godmother.”
She went on enjoying herself.
CHAPTER XXIII
“How did you know me?” said Ethan suddenly.
They were sitting out together in a little alcove bounded by screens, and palms in pots.
Mally took up his left hand, which was nearest to her, straightened the fingers in a brisk, matter-of-fact way, and pointed at the top joint of the forefinger.
“That’s where you’d just hammered yourself when I opened the door.”
“What a romantic memory!”
“Yes, isn’t it? You said ‘Damn!’ and I opened the door, and there we were.”
“You had straws in your hair.”
“So would you if you had slept in a hay-loft. It’s warm, but it does prick. O-o-o-oh!”
Ethan’s hand was pinched rather hard. From the other side of the screen on their right a voice said, “Mally Lee?” It was a woman’s voice; what Mally would have described as a dowagery voice—the sort that goes with chins and diamonds.
“Oh, yes,” said another woman. There were sounds as of two comfortably proportioned ladies settling themselves for conversation.
Mally went on pinching Ethan’s hand. What on earth were they going to say?
“You don’t mean to say she isn’t here to-night!” This was the first voice.
The other had a sharper tone:
“My dear Louisa, you don’t mean to say you haven’t heard!”
“Not a word. Is there anything to hear?”
“Oh, yes.” The sharp-voiced lady threw a good deal of zest into the words. “Oh, yes. Why it’s all off.”
“Not really! Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Really, Louisa! As if I should say such a thing unless I had it on quite unimpeachable authority!”
“And you have?”
“Lady Mooring rang me up this morning to tell us. Poor thing, I’m sure it’s a relief to her; for I happen to know she was most unhappy about the engagement. And really you can’t be surprised—a little nobody from nowhere without a penny piece. You know she was Maud Emson’s governess, and managed to catch Roger when he was staying there. Most annoying for both families, because of course it was an open s
ecret that he and Blanche were meant for each other. And such a name too—Mally Lee! Mally!—out of some old song that she made herself ridiculous by singing at those theatricals they had! I know Lady Mooring felt that very much. Such a thing to do!”
Ethan’s right hand came down and covered the little cold fingers that were pinching him. Mally stopped pinching, and her hand began to tremble under his hand.
“I heard she sang charmingly,” said the comfortable, fat voice.
The other lady sniffed.
“A great deal too theatrical. All very well for the stage—but not for one’s daughter-in-law. Lady Mooring was dreadfully upset about it.”
“Well, well, she needn’t be upset now. What happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. But she did say—only don’t repeat it.”
“No, no, of course not.”
The sharp voice sank lower.
“Well, she did say that she could never be thankful enough that Roger had found out the girl’s true character in time.”
Mally pulled her hand away from Ethan and stood up. Her face burned behind her mask, and her eyes stung. How dared they? Oh, how dared they?
Ethan caught her arm and followed her out of the alcove and down the passage. Where the last pair of chairs stood, his grasp tightened. The place was empty, for the music of the next dance had begun.
“Come in here,” he said. “Why should you mind what a spiteful old woman says?”
Mally turned to face him.
“I do mind—I do!” she said, and backed away from him until she stood against the wall between the two chairs.
“Were they talking about you?”
“Yes, they were. You heard them.”
“Then you were engaged to Roger Mooring?” Ethan’s voice was slow and altered.
“Yes, I was.”
“And he broke it off? What a swab!”
Mally brought her hands together with a sharp, exasperated sound.
“No, he didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t! Every one will say that he did. But you’re not to say it—you’re not to think it. He didn’t break it off—I did it. Do you hear? I did it.”
Her hood had fallen back. She put up a shaking hand and snatched off her mask. Ethan looked at her gravely.
“Why did you?”
“Because I chose to—because he didn’t care for me, or know me, or understand anything at all. How dared he make love to me when he didn’t care for me?”
“Are you sure?”
Mally laughed, a very hurt, angry laugh.
“Yes, I’m quite, quite, quite sure. He believed everything that odious, hypocritical Peterson said to him—he believed I’d stolen Mrs. Craddock’s diamonds. People who care for you don’t believe things like that—they don’t.”
Ethan gave a long whistle of dismay. What sort of mess had this child got herself into?
“Why should any one believe such a thing?”
The anger and the defiance went out of Mally; she felt frightfully helpless and alone. She put the backs of her hands to her eyes like a little girl, and said in a low, trembling voice:
“I don’t know.”
And then suddenly—voices, laughter, a dozen couples looking for a place to sit out in. The intimate, passionate moment was over before Ethan knew what it was that he would have said or done. Mally’s hood was up, and her mask on again; her hand rested on his arm conventionally.
“Don’t let’s stay here. Let’s go into the ballroom and guess at who everybody is. I hate dark corners—don’t you?”
Half-way down the corridor Mally saw Candida’s black and silver. As she passed, Miss Long caught her by the arm and pulled her aside, all very imperiously.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I must speak to you. Why did you say those things to me? Who are you?”
“One who knows,” said Mally in a whispering voice.
“I don’t believe a word of it. How can you know? How can any one know? That’s the curse of money—you can’t be sure. Look here, you’ve got to tell me who you are.”
“Can’t you guess?”
“No, I can’t. What made you say those things? What do you know? Do you really know anything?”
Mally dropped the disguising whisper.
“Jimmy Lake’s a great friend of mine. He’s a great friend of Mr. Medhurst’s, too. He told me Mr. Medhurst was in love with an awfully nice girl with a lot of money, but that he was much too proud to ask her to marry him.”
“Oh!” said Candida with a catch in her breath. “Is that true?”
Mally nodded.
“You’re Brown! How on earth—”
“I’m not any one—I’m a rose-colored mask.”
“Brown!”
Mally laughed.
“No—rose-color.”
She ran away, still laughing. As she came out into the ballroom, she heard herself addressed in the correct squeak.
“Will you give me the next dance?”
Mally had noticed the handsome purple domino and remarked that he danced well. She made a mute curtsey. A new partner would give her time to recover. A furious shyness of Ethan Messenger had come down on her. She looked back, and wondered at her emotion. He was a stranger; he was nothing to her. But the anger and the emotion that had swept her off her balance were on his account. If he had not been there, she would not have minded what any one said. Her cheeks burned again. She had not justified herself to Roger Mooring, but she had come perilously near trying to justify herself to Ethan Messenger.
The music of the next dance broke in on her abstraction. She had not given the purple domino a thought; but they had not gone the length of the room before a most dreadful conviction came over her. “Idiot! Why didn’t you guess in time? Idiot—idiot—idiot!” If she hadn’t been wool-gathering, surely something would have warned her that this was Roger Mooring. Suspicion lasted for a moment only, and then became certainty. She had danced too often with Roger not to know his step, the way he held her.
It was when they were going round the second time that they both heard Mally’s name.
“Mally Lee?”—it was a girl’s hard, penetrating voice—“Oh, that’s all off. Didn’t you know?”
Roger steered for the middle of the room, his hand a little stiffer on Mally’s, and the rest of the dance passed silently. When it was over, he gave her his arm and crossed the hall to the study. It was in Mally’s mind to draw back, to plead a torn anything. But when it came to the point she was dumb.
Roger shut the door on them, pushed back his peaked hood, and lifted his mask, disclosing a pale and gloomy countenance. He gazed at Mally in the way that had always annoyed her and said, “Why did you come?”
Mally put her hands behind her and took hold of the handle of the door. She was very angry because her heart would beat so fast. Why should it? Why did it? It was only Roger in one of his glumps.
“Why did you come?”
It couldn’t be Roger who was making her feel so frightened; she had never, never, never dreamed of being frightened of Roger.
“Why did you come?” said Roger. “It was cruel.”
All at once Mally knew that it was her own conscience that was making her afraid. She had cut Roger’s cheek; she had broken a lot of lovely things that had never done her any harm; and she had been glad because she was angry with Roger. She looked at him, and something began to hurt her. He looked unhappy—not just gloomy, but unhappy, and hurt, and hungry.
Then suddenly he said “Mally!”; and Mally twisted the handle she was holding and called out quickly.
“No, Roger—please.”
“Where have you been?” he said in a harsh, jealous voice. “Who’s looking after you? How did you come here to-night?”
Mally pushed up her mask half impatiently. This was a mood that she knew and could deal with; Roger had been jealous so often. In the old days she would have said, “Pouf! Mind your own business.” But she did not want to flirt with Roger now. She felt remors
eful, angry with herself for having come. For once in her life she didn’t know what to say.
Roger came nearer.
“Why don’t you speak?”
“I don’t know,” said Mally in a small voice.
Roger caught her hands. His own were very hot and dry.
“Don’t! No, Roger!”
She tried to pull her hands away.
“Roger, let me go! I oughtn’t to have come. Let me go—and let’s part friends.”
“Friends! We’ve never been friends—we never shall be. I don’t want to be friends with you. I’m mad about you.”
“I can’t think why. Roger, do let me go. It’s no use.”
“I can’t think why either.” He spoke with gloomy ferocity. “Look here, Mally, you’re in the devil of a mess. That man Peterson’s got his knife into you. I don’t know what you’ve done, or why you did it—and I’ve got to the point where I don’t care. I want you, and I’m prepared to stick to you.”
Mally stared at him. Was this the prudent, conventional Roger? She did not know him.
Roger Mooring did not know himself. For forty-eight hours he had been telling himself how well rid he was of Mally Lee; and all the time the memory of her furious contempt was playing havoc with his self-esteem. To change that contempt into admiration he was ready to go to unheard-of lengths.
“Roger, let me go!”
“I’ll never let you go. Don’t you see that I’m the only person who can really help you? No, listen—you must listen! Supper’s due in half an hour, and every one will unmask. There’s half the county here to-night. You go in with me, and when we unmask, I announce the date of our wedding. I can square Peterson. He’s going to stand for Parliament, and he wouldn’t have a dog’s chance if he made trouble over my wife. I can get a pull on him through the Armitages, too.”
The color came quick and bright to Mally’s cheeks. In her eyes Roger saw what he had been looking for—the surprised admiration which was to restore his own lost picture of himself. A sense of triumph came over him. And then Mally said:
“Oh, Roger, how frightfully nice of you! But I can’t!”
“You can’t? You must. I don’t understand. We were engaged.”
Hue and Cry Page 15
