Coquette

She nothing buta white-faced cocket, that Sally Minto!"

  From that time onward that was Sally's name among the girls--"Cocket,"or "White-faced Cocket." Rose had coined the phrase which would stick.When Sally heard her name the next day, through Muriel's indiscretion,she looked over at Rose with pinched nostrils and a little dry smile.She was flattered. The name was the product of Rose's jealousy andinjured vanity; but it was life to Sally, for it was a testimony--thefirst she had ever had--to her charm and her dangerousness.

  iv

  She did not tell Toby the next night about her singing. She rathercarefully refrained from telling him, not out of considerateness, butfrom a sort of scorn for his jealousy. To herself she said "Anything fora quiet life." Toby never dreamed that such a person as Gaga existed,any more than he guessed at any of Sally's encounters with young men onthe way home. Sally had discretion. Had he been a lover, she might havetold him; but as he was more to her than that she saw no reason toarouse his jealousy. And really, if a man spoke to her, and looked allright, where was the harm in letting him walk a little way with her? Shenever made appointments, and after a time, when they found she couldtake care of herself, and did not want a non-committed male friend,these fellow-pedestrians soon left her alone. For Sally, each of themwas practice. To mention them to Toby would have been to give them alltoo great importance. And he might have made a fuss, and unnecessarilyinterrupted her fun. "Where ignorance is bliss," thought Sally, "'tisfolly to call out the guard." And, further, "Let sleeping dogs lie untilthe milk is stolen." And so Toby pursued his own path, and never knew atenth of what went on in Sally's life and mind. Compared with Sally, heknew nothing at all. She grew each day more _rusee_, more cunning inknowledge of the world. And Toby blundered where he should have beenmost astute. It was his fate.

  Sally told him about the outing, because she saw he was in a gloomy moodon the day--a Sunday--after the girls' treat. She described it at lengthas they walked in Waterlow Park, hanging on to his arm, and all the timesearching his tell-tale face and guessing at the cause of his manifestdepression. She told about the picnic and the woods, and the tea, andthe journey home; and she saw his mouth slightly open as he grunted. Shecould see the tiny points of hair that were beginning to make aperceptible blueness upon his chin, and the moulding of his cheek, and alittle patch of fine down upon his cheek bone, and the hair at histemples which she had so often kissed. And she knew by his averted eyethat something was the matter with him. She began to try drawing him onthe subject--his aunt, had he heard from his mother (who had marriedagain when Toby was a baby, and lived with her husband in the North),what had he been doing at the Works? Ah! That was it. Toby had started,and frowned. It was something at the Works. Oh, he was easy for Sally toread!

  "What's the matter?" she suddenly asked. Toby flushed and scowled downat her, very dark and ugly in his irritation, his mouth twisted.

  "Matter?" he demanded. "What d'you mean? Nothing's the matter."

  "That's why you're so cheerful, I suppose," retorted Sally--"At theWorks, I mean." Toby gave her a quick, angry look in which there was anadmixture of fear and suspicion.

  "There's _nothing_ the matter," he said, in a tyrannic voice.

  "Have you got the sack?" Sally was merciless. She replied to histyrannic voice with one as hard and stabbing as a gimlet. "Ah, I thoughtthat was it. What you been doing?"

  "Nothing," said Toby. "And anyway, what's it to do with you?"

  "Well, I'm out walking with you. See? And I got to do all the talking.See? And if you're going to be surly I'll go home by myself. That's whatit's got to do with me. And, besides, it _is_ something to do with me,and don't you forget it. You got no right to keep things from me."

  Toby was cowed by her handling of him. He might be strong, but brainsare always more potent than muscle in such circumstances. And men arealways afraid of the women they love.

  "Yes, I got the push," he defiantly said.

  "And what's _that_ for?" demanded Sally, with the severity of a motherto her baby. There was no answer. "What's _that_ for?" she repeated."Come on, Toby, you'll feel better if you tell me about it. Toby, d'youlove me? Well, there's nobody about ... quick!" They kissed, and herarms had been round his neck, and Toby was her sheepish, scowling,smiling slave. Sally had a faint consciousness of joy in her power.

  "Well, you see...." he began, haltingly. "Jackson and I ... we been ...well, we wanted to make a bit, you see. And--tiddent _his fault_, buthe...."

  "Been pinching stuff," said Sally. "Clumsy. Got found out. Well?"

  "Well, they found out about me, too."

  "What had _you_ been doing?"

  "I never took anything; but I found a lot of old things among therubbish, and I showed them to Jackson. Well, they asked him if anybodyhad been with him; and he said 'no.'"

  "That was all right," Sally said. "I like Jackson."

  "But then the man he'd been dealing with said Jackson had talked abouthis 'mate.' And they knew that was me. And I ... told 'em a tale."

  "_I_ bet!" cried Sally, scornfully. "And got caught in it, too. Badly!"

  "Well, they fired us both yesterday, and said we was lucky they didn'tprosecute."

  "Did they pay you? What you going to do now?"

  "I dunno." Toby stared stubbornly before him. "Get something else, Isuppose. Jackson's going for a sailor. Guess I'll do that, too."

  "Go for a sailor?" demanded Sally, with a heart that went dump into herboots. "What d'you want to do that for?"

  "I'd be with Jackson, see, if I went for a sailor."

  "And what about me?" Sally's voice was no longer hard or dry. "D'youwant to leave me? Are you tired of me, Toby? I believe you are. Areyou?"

  "No, I'm not. And I don't want to leave you. But if I went for a sailorI'd make a bit of money, perhaps, and then after a little while I couldcome back and begin again. It would get over having no reference. They'dsay 'Where you been working?' and I'd say 'Been at sea for the lastyear.' Then they wouldn't know anything but what I told 'em. I wouldn'tgo long voyages, Sally. Only just short ones. I'd often come home, andwe'd have a spree."

  Sally's quick brain was at work. She did not want him to go; but if hewent, and if she saw him often, in spite of his being away, perhaps itwould not be so bad.

  "But suppose you got wrecked?" she exclaimed.

  "Rot. D'you suppose every ship gets wrecked? Don't be a fool!"

  "No. But yours might get wrecked. How am I to know, supposing there's astorm? It won't not get wrecked because you're on it. Would you comehome very often? Would you wear sailor clothes? Wonder how you'd look!Oh, I know--you mean a jersey. Would it have letters across your chest?Where d'you have to go?"

  Sally was so interested that she was even making up Toby's mind for him.By the time they went in it was decided that he and Jackson were goingto sea, and that Sally should be taken down to visit his ship if ithappened to be at the Docks or at Tilbury. She had dancing visions ofToby in a navy blue jersey, with "Queen of the Earth" or "La Marguerite"or "Juanita" across it in white letters. She could see his dark hairblown by the wind, and the veins in his wrists standing out as he hauleda rope. It was rather fun! she thought. "My boy's a sailor." She wouldbe able to touch him for luck. Sailors were lucky. She sang to herselfa song one of the workgirls knew:

  "Sailors are lads. Sailors are lads. Sailors they make you laugh!"

  Before night she was wholly reconciled to the idea that Toby would go tosea. She soon had a dim perception of the fact that it would do him goodto go. It would get him away from the atmosphere of the Works, wherethere seemed to be a lot of stupid larking and work-dodging. Now that hewas dismissed she began to realise all this. She was glad he was awayfrom it. She was glad he was going to sea. It would be a completechange. It would do him good. He had been fiddling about too long at theWorks, in his overalls and in the grime and oil and general dodginess ofthe place. The ship would take him about, and show him the way peopledid things. It would open his eyes and his brains. Electrically,something
self-protective within her added the further message: it wouldkeep him out of the way for a time. Sally breathed deeply. An unreadablesmile was upon her lips, and no smile at all was in her eyes. Afar offshe scented change; but what manner of change she did not as yetrecognise. It was her instinct at work, her instinct for turning life toher own advantage. It was an infallible instinct,