There were only local boys, red-handed and would-be funny, or Doctor Parsham, sixty and stout, who said that such a lovely lady must spare him a dance, only the son of the chemist whose family had kept shop in the Market Place for two hundred years, who was contemptuous about the Infirmary Ball and well informed about slums in Glasgow, only a spotty young house-agent whose father had known Viola’s father, and a number of other persons of that sort.
The Withers did not at all like Viola dancing with these people, but they kept on coming up on the slightest excuses and asking her for dances and the music was so enticing, the floor so good, that she could not bear to sit out most of the dances, as Tina and Madge were doing; and as the Withers knew so few young men, they could not blame Viola if she found her own partners.
There was a number of young male gentry there, but, like Victor, they had come with their own parties and had to look after the girls in them. It was many years since local young men had occasionally cultivated the acquaintance of the Withers because of Tina, and now there was no reason why the Withers should know any young men so they did not. Viola was a widow; widows should not need young men, thought Mr and Mrs Wither, though it was true that no one would think Viola a widow, from the way she behaved.
So Viola’s excitement slowly died away, and she began to feel sad as she bumped round in the grasp of the young house-agent. Mr Spring (she now thought of him, in her subdued mood, as Mr Spring) had not come. She was taller than most of the women there, she could see, as she was bumped round the four corners of the large room and the glass door leading into the vestibule, but there was no handsome head of bright brown hair like a young soldier’s, no wide shoulders and white tie.
Her gaze moved mournfully to the buffet in the next room. No, he was not there, either.
‘Cheer up,’ said a low masculine voice, and there was Mr Knoedler himself, gazing immovably up at her while he blew down some instrument belonging to one of the Boys. ‘Hasn’t he shown up?’
Viola went very pink, and laughed.
‘Now, isn’t that just too bad,’ murmured he, blowing softly into the instrument, then handing it back to the Boy, and going up again on to the conductor’s little platform. He put on a silly hat, and the young house-agent whirled Viola away.
This incident was observed by Mr Wither, where he revolved in his corner, this time with Mrs Colonel Phillips. Smiling at the Band. Very bad form; all of a piece, though. Shopgirl. Breeding would out. Round and round went Mr Wither, quite enjoying himself. Catchy tune, that. Tum-te-tum, tum-te-tum-tum.
Suddenly – there he was! Bright brown head, wide shoulders, hazel eyes with their quick summing-up look, just moving into the dance with – oh lord! – the marvellous girl who had been in the car that day. Viola’s heart soared then sank. Of course. She ought to have known that he would come with a partner, and dance with her most of the evening. Had Miss Franklin come too? She was Viola’s only hope. If she came up and spoke to Viola, and the two parties mingled, then there was just a chance …
Meanwhile she had come round to the Band again, and to her horror Mr Knoedler, looking very solemn, jerked a thumb at Victor, then slowly winked.
Nearly sinking through the floor (horrid, beastly little man, how did he know?) she haughtily turned her head away, instead (as she instantly realized she should have done) of smilingly shaking it, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Mr Knoedler laughing as he put on another silly hat.
Victor was also glancing round casually as she turned (she had a faint impression that he was looking for someone and trying not to show it) and their eyes met. For the first time, they looked full at one another; for so long that their locked glance grew into a steady gaze. His expression was cool and steady, taking in every detail of her face and dress. Under her alarm and pleasure because he was looking at her at all, she had a dim feeling that she did not like his look. It was sort of … she did not know what, but she did not quite like it.
They moved away in the mazes of the dance, which almost immediately ended, and while Viola stood dutifully clapping beside the house-agent, she felt, with that unease we have all at some time experienced, that someone else was staring at her, and turned to see whom it might be.
She encountered – though it was immediately removed from her – the gaze of the bright dark eyes she had first met in the car that stormy afternoon. Victor’s girl (for thus unwillingly she thought of her) had been stealthily but avidly taking in her person, from sandals to curls. As Viola watched, she said something to her partner, and they moved over to the band and began talking to Joe and the Boys, who seemed pleased to see them.
The house-agent escorted Viola back to her party, which seemed to have made a sort of Wither-den for itself on a settee under a dusty palm in a corner. However, they were cheerful enough. Tina had been dancing with Giles Bellamy, the eldest Dovewood boy, and Madge had been secured for supper by Colonel Phillips, to whom she could talk about Polo and Polo’s parents. Mr Wither was to take Mrs Colonel Phillips to supper, Mrs Wither was going in with Sir Henry Maxwell (whose mother was mercifully prevented by age from being there) and Tina with the Dovewood boy. Only Viola was partnerless for the supper dance. This was generally felt to be a shame. Why had Viola let the house-agent slip away? Viola sat on the settee, staring among the groups in hope of seeing Hetty Franklin, and catching her eye.
‘Het,’ said Victor in a low tone, as he stood with his cousin at the far end of the room, ‘do you know the girl with the red belt?’
Hetty silently pointed, four times, to four girls with red belts within a few feet of them.
‘Not like that – a wide thing – sort of a sash, I suppose you’d call it. Blue dress. Short curly hair. Fair.’
‘No,’ said his cousin helpfully, ‘I cannot say that I do.’
‘I want an introduction,’ grinning.
She looked at him pensively. It would relieve the tedium of the evening if Victor flirted with someone and annoyed Miss Barlow.
‘Show her to me and I will see what can be done. I might pretend we were at school together, if that would gratify you?’
‘I can’t see her just for … yes, there she is. Right over there under that palm, with some other people … a fat woman in green …’
Hetty peered short-sightedly but could see nothing but a pale blur on a darker ground.
‘I will go and investigate,’ she announced, beginning to move across the room. ‘Where’s Aunt Edna? Oh – with the Dovewoods … you come slowly behind me and oblige me, please, by not pouncing, as you invariably do when I do this kind of thing for you … where’s Phyl?’
‘Over there with Andrews. Get a move on, she’s looking this way.’
The snow leopard stared from her narrow head,
Neglecting for the prey that onward sped
The prey beneath her talon, not yet dead,
muttered Hetty. ‘Hurry, do.’
They moved quickly across the room, and the crowd closed on them, shutting them from Miss Barlow’s view. She saw where they were going, but she was not seriously concerned. Victor might stare at a young and very pretty girl without injuring Phyllis’s position or making her jealous, because she considered her position so secure that Victor might be allowed a little rope.
All the same, when Victor stared at a girl, Phyllis liked to know what there was to stare at; and she admitted to herself that Viola was stareworthy. That was a very good dress; and the hair was good too. She had distinction, and the soft, childish charm that big men found enchanting. It soon goes, thought Miss Barlow coldly, watching Victor and Hetty.
‘No.’ Hetty shook her head as she approached the girl on the sofa, and spoke over her shoulder to her cousin. ‘I don’t, Victor. It will have to be reminiscences of the fifth form, I fear.’
‘Well, she knows you, anyway. She’s smiling at you,’ muttered he, thinking what a pretty smile it was.
‘Indeed?’ Hetty peered closer, and suddenly said, ‘Of course.’
r /> She went up to Viola with her hand held out. ‘Mrs Wither. How nice to see you here. You know my cousin, do you not?’ standing a little aside so that he could come forward. ‘Victor, you remember Mrs Wither? We gave her a lift, some weeks ago, on that stormy afternoon. We did not quite recognize you at first,’ smiling and glancing at Viola’s head.
‘Of course,’ Victor said easily, looking down into Viola’s eyes and feeling a little disappointed because she was a girl he had already met, transformed by a new frock and a new way of doing her hair, ‘I remembered you, but I couldn’t be sure where we’d met.’
Viola said nothing. She was overwhelmed. She gave him her hand, smiled, looked down at her sandals, and was mute. She could not have done a wiser thing; his touch of disillusion faded under the charm of her silence and he looked at her with renewed interest.
Hetty meanwhile was talking to Tina, being presented to Mr Wither (whom she regarded as the most interesting person at the Ball, an alluringly neurotic blend of old Mr Barrett, late of Wimpole Street, and old Mr Gosse, the father of Edmund) and his wife, and being asked by Madge if she were fond of dogs.
‘Do you dance much?’ asked Victor, lounging by Viola’s side, scarcely troubling to talk to her as though she were an adult. As well as being a shopgirl, and the widow of a chap like Wither, she seemed to have no conversation and to be overwhelmed by his, Victor’s, glory. Yet in spite of behaving like a kid of fifteen, there was something taking about that little face on top of that long slender body. He stared approvingly at her very white arms, which had the texture of a child’s. And he liked her being overwhelmed by his glory; it amused him, but it also flattered him. Women who were awed by masculine splendour were not found at every dance nowadays. He did not think all this out clearly; he was only aware that he rather enjoyed sitting next to her and making her blush.
‘Not very much, but I’m simply crazy about it.’ She then went pink in a panic because he might think she wanted him to dance with her.
‘You’re enjoying yourself tonight then, I expect,’ indulgently.
‘Oh yes, very much. I’ve been looking forward to it for ages. Well … that is, I hoped I was coming, only I didn’t know until a few days ago that Mr Wither (that’s my father-in-law, over there with Miss – your cousin) had got me a ticket, and ever since then I’ve been looking forward to it.’
Yes … of course, she was a widow. He had forgotten that. She looked the very image of innocence, she talked like a schoolgirl, but widows were not innocent. However young and simple a widow might seem, you could not get away from the fact that widows, presumably, were not … Well, this girl was actually more experienced than old Phyl.
And she had been a shopgirl, married Wither for his money, and knew how to dress.
Victor gave up trying to make conversation, bent his head a little lower as he leaned against the red plush of the settee and murmured:
‘I like the way you’ve done your hair. New, isn’t it?’
She did not answer, but her hands moved nervously, and as she stared down at the tip of her sandal, there slowly grew on her mouth a proud, shy little smile. It was so enchanting that Victor, to his own amazement, experienced a strong wave of desire. He moved a little nearer to her and muttered:
‘Will you give me the next dance?’
‘But it’s the supper dance?’ Narrow grey eyes glanced at him, wide with alarm and hope.
‘Oh … is it …?’ a little disconcerted. He had that with Phyl.
She nodded seriously. The supper dance – everyone knew that the supper dance was the most important one of the evening, because one was taken in to supper with the person one danced it with, and had them to oneself all through the supper.
‘Oh … well, I’m booked for that, I’m afraid. But what about – here, let me see your programme.’
She gave it to him obediently. The last part of it was almost empty.
‘How about seventeen? That’s the first dance after supper. It’s a waltz.’
(A waltz!)
‘Oh yes, thank you.’
‘Thank you.’ He scribbled V.S. against the number, not foreseeing that the little white and gold programme would some hours later accompany Mrs Wither to bed.
‘Now I must get back, I’m afraid.’ His hand squeezed hers for an unbelievable second, he smiled at her, got up and looked round for his cousin.
‘Your house must be very quiet, lying off the main road,’ Hetty was observing to Mr Wither. They were discussing the conveniences and inconveniences of living in the country and in town; and Hetty was hoping to lure Mr Wither into making some Gosse-Barrett remark on the lines of ‘all-the-quieter-to-beat-my-daughters-in.’ But Mr Wither (like too many other persons who are supposed, by romantics, to be romantic) was not coming up to scratch.
‘Yes, very quiet,’ droned Mr Wither.
‘But I suppose,’ pursued Hetty, not supposing anything of the sort, ‘that you often have friends to stay. We do. It makes a pleasant change.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Wither. ‘No; that is, no. No, we do not often have people to stay with us. It upsets things.’ And Mr Wither gave a short, disagreeable laugh. ‘Not like you young people, always wanting Change and Excitement.’
‘Oh no … I prefer a quiet life,’ protested Hetty. ‘I am devoted to reading. Do you read much, Mr Wither?’ For she was always interested to know what people read, supposing erroneously that their books were a pointer to their characters.
Mr Wither reflected for a little while. Then he said, ‘No.’
‘Oh … what do you read then, when you do?’
‘Detective stories,’ said Mr Wither. ‘Very good story I read the other day by that chap – can’t think of his name for the minute. Always writes about the same detective. Cripple. Pushed along in a chair by a nigger boxer. Very far-fetched, but it makes good reading. Light, y’know. Don’t want anything heavy when you settle down after dinner.’
‘No,’ said Hetty, dreamily. Nothing heavy. Not Shelley, with wings and bright mist; not Shakespeare, mossy Greek columns in an English wood; not Keats, a wreath of peonies on Midsummer Eve …
‘Het, we’d better be getting back,’ said Victor. ‘How do you do,’ to Mr Wither.
Mr Wither nodded, almost affably. Young Spring must be worth a very pretty penny indeed. Mr Wither hoped that Viola had not been taking up young Spring’s time with silly gossip. He sat gazing complacently as young Spring and his cousin walked away. Mr Wither was not envious of those who were richer than he; he liked people to have a great deal of money because it gave him a warm, safe, respectable feeling. Surely, where there was money, nothing very bad could happen. Death seemed far away tonight to Mr Wither. He was enjoying the ball; he wondered what there would be for supper.
‘I suppose we must stay and eat?’ said Phyllis to Victor, as they moved round in the supper dance. ‘Surely we’ve been here long enough. It seems like five hours.’
‘Oh, I m rather enjoying it.’ He smiled impudently down at her, for he knew exactly why her tone was petulant.
She had to laugh, but she was annoyed as well as bored.
‘Oh, of course, if it’s like that. I should hate to take the Great Lover off the trail. I’ll stay exactly half an hour more, and then I shall get Andrews or Bill Courtney to take me home.’ Bill was an old acquaintance of the Springs who lived just outside Chesterbourne.
‘Just as you like,’ he said easily. He did not mind what she did. They were not engaged yet; and he had always resented her attempts to appropriate him. She might as well put ‘Reserved’ on him, and be done with it.
As for the little widow, she must know what she was up to, and she had a grand technique that was a new one on him. And all that had been wasted on Wither! who wouldn’t know what to do with it when he got it.
Viola went in to supper with the chemist’s disagreeable son, and sat in a dream while he told her about a fascinating scheme the Government had for preventing drains from smelling. The smell would s
till be there but it would be used to turn electric fans or something so as to blow itself away. Every fragment of smell would be used up. A scientist had worked it all out, with charts, said the chemist’s son, glowing. It was called the Principle of Self-consumption, or words to that effect.
Viola nodded, staring at him and not hearing a word.
Tina sat listening intelligently to Giles Bellamy’s monologue, which was interesting, and longed for the time to go home, when she would leave the hot noisy ballroom and go out into the summer night, to find Saxon waiting in the car, and he would drive her home through the dark lanes smelling of dew. She wondered, too, how he was spending his evening. There would hardly be time to drive home to the cottage at the cross-roads and then come back to the Assembly Rooms; besides, her father would have forbidden such a waste of petrol. He had probably gone to the pictures, alone. Her imagination refused to show her Saxon in a dark hall with a girl’s head on his shoulder.
The lights and the smiling, flushed faces all around made her eyes ache, and Giles Bellamy’s pleasant voice, telling her an amusing story about Wengen, jarred on her nerves like a slight but noticeable pain. She compared him with Saxon, and found him unmasculine and insipid. For the first time she felt the disadvantage of loving a common man, a servant. He had driven them to the Ball; and vanished back into his own life of which she knew nothing, and when he reappeared to drive them home, she would not be able to guess how he had spent the hours of his absence, because all the men she knew were gentlemen, whose ways of passing the time she knew about, or could guess at with a chance of being right. But of common men she knew nothing; and she began to feel unhappy.