Coquette

Sally could hardly breathe, and hercourage was fading. They were so much in the darkness that they couldnot be seen, and she was entirely dominated by Toby's physical strength.Within his grasp she was helpless, and not all her dartingly-imaginedexpedients would be enough to secure her escape. Hastily she improviseda story.

  "Well, I'm not living with ma any longer. I gone out to live in," shelied.

  "Stoke Newington?"

  "No."

  "Lost your job?"

  "No."

  He was baffled! but he knew that something was amiss. Sally could feelhim drawing deep breaths. In the shadow she could imagine that his jawwas firmly set. It was strange to feel so happy in his arms, so afraidof death, so frustrated in the composition of any tale by which shecould free herself and thus gain time to make some fresh plan. Sally hadnever been in a comparable quandary.

  "Where you living?" he next demanded.

  "Don't be rough. You're hurting. Well, I'm living. I forget the address.Only went there last night. I'm with a friend."

  "What sort of a friend? A girl? What's her name?"

  "Miss Summers."

  Toby considered. He had heard that name, Sally knew, and must rememberit. She felt that at last she had stumbled upon something which wouldseem to him probable enough to allay immediate suspicion.

  "She's your forewoman or something, isn't she?" he demanded.

  "Yes. She's very kind. She's ever so nice." Sally prayed that he mightbelieve her. There was a long pause of doubt, during which hysteria,rising, nearly provoked a frantic struggle for freedom and flight. Butshe remembered a former occasion, and her knees were weak at theforeknowledge of failure. He would not be merciful. She feared him andadored him.

  "Well," Toby said at last, in a grumble; "when do I see you? Eh?" ThankGod, his voice had changed. He had spoken slowly and in acceptance ofthe tale. Sally conquered a sob that would have betrayed her. Toby hadbeen tricked. There was still a chance that she might be able to managehim for the present.

  Sally thought for a moment, but in a distracted blur. All her plans,made upon the assumption that he would be at sea for at least a weeklonger, had miscarried. There was now no sense in moving her motherhurriedly and secretly. Toby, in the room above, would be aware ofeverything. She must arrange this differently. It would need a carefulscheme. When would Toby receive his letter? Probably it would not beforwarded at all, but would be kept at the offices of the shippingcompany. That was what had happened once or twice before. He would be athome a week. She had a week. How tired she was! She must get away now,and have a chance to think; but she must see Toby again. She _must_.

  "To-morrow," Sally gasped. "To-morrow night. Eight o'clock. Marble Arch.Eight o'clock, or a bit after. I might be kept a little late."

  To her inexpressable thankfulness, Toby rather grumblingly agreed.

  "We'll go to the pictures," he said. "There's a picture house there."

  "Wherever you like. Toby, I _must_ go."

  They kissed long and passionately; and when Sally was alone, sitting inthe tramcar on its way to Holborn, she found that she was trembling fromhead to foot. She was in consternation, and prevented from crying onlyby the steadily inquisitive stare of a stout woman opposite. Sally hadnever been so afraid, so distraught. She had never been in such abewildering and terrifying difficulty. She was only half conscious.

  vii

  And when she reached the hotel their sitting-room was in darkness. Gagahad evidently been home, for the evening paper had been thrown upon thefloor, and his hat and coat were upon one of the chairs. Sallyremembered what she had told her mother, and went quickly to the bedroomdoor. It was true. Gaga lay groaning in bed, and there was a faint smellof sickness in the air. Sally instinctively recoiled, and went back intothe sitting-room. Her hands came together and jerked in a gesture ofdespair. Everything was against her. The white face was whiter; themischievous eyes were sombre. She was a lonely and frightened childwithout any support in her life. She was too young, in spite of hervivacity, to endure such trials unbroken; and in this situation she wasoverwhelmed.

  With her hands to her mouth, Sally stumbled to the hearthrug, and bowedher head against the arm of a chair. Painful sobs shook her body.

  "Oh, I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!" she wailed.

  In that moment of lost hope she was faced only with the impossibility ofdealing with all her trials. She had been over-excited, and she wasdesperate. Everything had gone wrong. She was thus early face to facewith the consequences of her own blithe and over-confident actions; andthe consequences threatened disaster. Death would really at this momenthave seemed better than the effort she must make to grapple with herproblems. It would have been so much easier, and she was withoutcourage. Afraid lest her sobs might arouse Gaga and bring him groaningto her side, she stifled them. But they made her body heave for a longtime, until at last with tear-filled eyes she stared at the fire, andknew that the fit was over.

  What was Sally to do? There was the fatal letter already waitingsomewhere for Toby, or on its way to him. The thought of it made herbody feel as though it were covered with prickles. She could not keepstill, but started to her feet and took several paces, her hand to hercheek, as she remained deep in disturbed thought. If she saw Toby thenext night, and was again afraid to tell him of her marriage, what wouldbecome of her? Sooner or later he was bound to know. The letter wouldtell him. Oh, if only she had not written that letter! She would havehad time, and time was what she needed--time to remove her mother, tocover her own tracks. And yet she knew now that she could not give Tobyup. And yet to give up her ambitions was now a proposition equallyimpossible. She could not. She would not. She wanted everything. Shewanted Toby; but she wanted her opportunity with the business. If Tobywould only ... what? She could not bear the idea of his marrying anothergirl. She wanted him for herself. But if he would only accept thesituation--for the present. If he would keep quiet. He would not. Shecould not control him, because he was another human being, with desiresand impulses as insistent as her own.

  Her mind came round to another position. If she had not married Gaga--ifshe had kept on playing with him, tantalising him, until she had beenindispensable! No; that was impossible. Wretched creature though shefelt him at this moment to be, Gaga also was a human being. Sally was inconflict with the world, because the world opposes to the wilfulness ofthe individual a steady pressure that is without mercy because it iswithout considerateness. Nothing is more selfish than the individual,except the mass of individuals, which has greater power. Again, in hertorment, Sally longed for death. Then, quickly tangential, she returnedto Toby and their coming meeting. If she did not tell him, but let himfind her letter--she would have lost him. He would be savagely angry. Hewould infallibly kill her, because she would have deserved his vengefulhatred.

  A moan reached Sally's ears. Her name was called. Gaga must have seenfrom his bed the light in the next room. She hesitated, repugnance andcruelty struggling in her mind with the knowledge that she must submitto her burden. Then she again turned to the bedroom, fighting down herdistaste, her horror of sickness and illness, of invalidism, of Gaga inparticular. She saw his grey face all pointed and sunken in the electriclight, and took in the general bareness of the bedroom, with its plainiron bedstead and cream coloured crockery and worn carpet and walls of acold pale blue.

  "Sally," groaned Gaga. "I've been waiting for you."

  "You ill?" she asked, perfunctorily. "Is your head bad?"

  "Dreadful! How long you've been." Gaga's voice was feeble. He spoke withdifficulty. His hand was reached out for hers. With an effort Sally tookit, and bent and kissed Gaga's temple. He looked ghastly, and his facewas moist with perspiration. Had Gaga seen the aversion in Sally's eyeshe would have released her in horror; but he was self-engrossed. He hadbeen longing for her, and as Sally sat on the edge of the bed smoothingthe hair back from his brow he nestled closer to her, appeased by thecontact, and genuinely comforted by her presence. His eyes closed. Hemade no attempt to speak
.

  So they remained for several moments. Then Sally tried to move, and heresisted her movement with a clinging protest.

  "I'm just going to tidy up a bit," she said. "Then I'm coming to bed."

  "I wish you'd get me something.... Some Bovril ... or ... something."Gaga was like a wasted child, not fractious, but fretful and wanting tobe petted. Sally shuddered as she took steps to gratify him; and wasglad to have some occupation that carried her out of the room and gaveher something to do. She was momentarily diverted from thought of Toby;but she had a new desire to be away from the hotel, and in some house orflat which she could control by herself. It would be so much easier. Itwould....

  When she was in bed she was prevented from sleeping