Roland Whately. Alec Waugh
played across her lips. And as she stood there with outstretched arms, for one inspired moment of revelation, during which the beating of her heart was stilled, she saw how beautiful she would one day be to the man for whom with such a gesture she would be delivered to his love. A deep flush colored her neck and face, a flush of triumphant pride, of wakening womanhood. Then with a quick, impatient movement of her scarlet shoes she kicked the yellow dress away from her.
Why should she wear it? She dressed to please herself and not her mother. She knew best what suited her. What would happen if she disobeyed her? Would anyone ever know? She could manage to slip out when no one was looking. Annie would be sent to fetch her, but they would come back after everyone had gone to bed.
She sat on the edge of her bed and toyed with the thought of rebellion. It would be horribly exciting. It would be the naughtiest thing she had done in her life. She had never yet disobeyed deliberately anyone who had authority over her. She had lost her temper in the nursery; she had been insolent to her nurses; she had pretended not to hear when she had been called; but never this: never had she sat down and decided in cold blood to disregard authority.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes. Who’s that?”
“It’s only me—mother. Can I help you, dear?”
“No, thank you, mother; I’m all right.”
“Quite sure?”
“Quite.”
April heard her mother slowly descend the stairs, then heaved a sigh of half-proud, half-guilty relief. She was glad she had managed to get out of it without actually telling a lie. She sat still and waited, till at last she heard the crunch of a cab drawing up outside the house. She wrapped herself tightly in her coat, tiptoed to the door, opened it and listened. She could hear her mother’s voice in the passage. Quietly she stole out on to the landing, quietly ran downstairs and across the hall, fumbled for the door handle, found it, turned it, and pulled it quickly behind her. It was done; she was free. As she ran down the steps she heard a window open behind her and her mother’s voice:
“Who’s that? What is it? Oh, you, April. You might have come to see me before you went. A happy evening to you.”
April could not trust herself to speak; she ran down the steps, jumped into the cab and sank back into the corner of the cushioned seat. Her breath came quickly and unevenly, her breasts heaved and fell. She could have almost cried with excitement.
It had been worth it, though. She knew that beyond doubt a quarter of an hour later, when she walked into the ballroom and saw the look of sudden admiration that came into Roland’s eyes when he saw her for the first time across the room. He came straight over to her.
“How many dances may I have?” he asked.
“Well, there’s No. 11.”
“No. 11? Let me have a look at your card.”
“No, of course you mustn’t.”
“Yes, of course. Why, I don’t believe you have got one!”
“Yes, I have,” she said, and held it up to him. In a second it was in his hand, as indeed she had intended that it should be.
“Well, now,” said Roland, “as far as I can see you’ve got only Nos. 6, 7, 14 and 15 engaged; that leaves fourteen for me.”
“Well, you can have the four,” she laughed.
In the end she gave him six. “And if I’ve any over you shall have them,” she promised.
“Well you know there won’t be,” and their eyes met in a moment of quiet intimacy.
As soon as he had gone other partners crowded round her. In a very short while her program was filled right up, the five extras as well. She had left No. 17 vacant; it was the last waltz. She felt that she might like Roland to have it, but was not sure. She didn’t quite know why, but she felt she would leave it open.
It was a splendid dance. As the evening passed, her face flushed and her eyes brightened, and it was delightful to slip from the heat of the ballroom on to the wide balcony and feel the cool of the air on her bare arms. She danced once with Ralph, and as they sat out afterwards she could almost feel the touch of his eyes on her. Poor Ralph; he was so clumsy. How absurd it was of him to be in love with her. As if she could ever care for him. She felt no pity. She accepted his admiration as a queen accepts a subject’s loyalty; it was the right due to her beauty, to the eager flow of life that sustained her on this night of triumph.
And every dance with Roland seemed to bring her nearer to the wonderful moment to which she had so long looked forward. When she was dancing with Ralph, Roland’s eyes would follow her all round the room, smiling when they met hers. And when they danced together they seemed to share a secret with one another, a secret still unrevealed.
Through the languid ecstasy of a waltz the words that he murmured into her ear had no relation with their accepted sense. He was not repeating a piece of trivial gossip, a pun, a story he had heard at school; he was wooing her in their own way, in their own time. And afterwards as they sat on the edge of the balcony, looking out over the roofs and the lights of London, she began to tell him about her dress and the trouble that she had had with her mother. “She said I ought to wear a horrid thing with yellow and green stripes that doesn’t suit me in the least. And I wouldn’t. I stole out of the house when she wasn’t looking.”
“You look wonderful to-night,” he said.
He leaned forward and their hands touched; his little finger intertwined itself round hers. She felt his warm breath upon her face.
“Do I?” she whispered. “It’s all for you.”
In another moment he would have taken her in his arms and kissed her, and she would have responded naturally. They had reached that moment to which the course of the courtship had tended, that point when a kiss is involuntary, that point that can never come again. But just as his hands stretched out to her the band struck up; he rested his hand on hers and pressed it.
“We shall have to go,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“But the next but one.”
“No. 16.”
But the magic of that one moment had passed; they had left behind them the possibility of spontaneous action. They were no longer part of the natural rhythm of their courtship. All through the next dance he kept saying to himself: “I shall have to kiss her the next time. I shall. I know I shall. I must pull myself together.” He felt puzzled, frightened and excited, so that when the time came he was both nervous and self-conscious. The magic had gone, yet each felt that something was expected of them. Roland tried to pull himself together; to remind himself that if he didn’t kiss her now she would never forgive him; that there was nothing in it; that he had kissed Dolly a hundred times and thought nothing of it. But it was not the same thing; that was shallow and trivial; this was genuine; real emotion was at stake. He did not know what to do. As they sat out after the dance he tried to make a bet with himself, to say, “I’ll count ten and then I’ll do it.” He stretched out his hand to hers, and it lay in his limp and uninspired.
“April,” he whispered, “April.”
She turned her head from him. He leaned forward, hesitated for a moment, then kissed her awkwardly upon the neck. She did not move. He felt he must do something. He put his arm round her, trying to turn her face to his, but she pulled away from him. He tried to kiss her, and his chin scratched the soft skin of her cheek, his nose struck hers, her mouth half opened, and her teeth jarred against his lips. It was a failure, a dismal failure.
She pushed him away angrily.
“Go away! go away!” she said. “What are you doing? What do you mean by it? I hate you; go away!”
All the excitement of the evening turned into violent hatred; she was