Sally on the Rocks, page 5
“Are any of us? Well, I must go and unpack.”
Mr. Bingley went home treading on air. He was conscious of a spring feeling in the atmosphere, and that he was feeling younger than he had done for some time, almost dashing, indeed. The Reverend Adam had made Sally seem so much like forbidden fruit, and as a strong man who liked his own way, and of course always got it, Mr. Bingley played with the temptation of snatching the apple out of the Reverend Adam’s hand.
Not that he was going to do anything in a hurry. Certainly not. He would be most careful in every way, and prove Sally to the hilt before he paid her the least attention. If she were the type that paid the attention he would snub her at once and decide upon Mrs. Dalton.
Secretly he did not approve of Mr. Lovelady. He was too easy with the sinners of the parish, and inclined to let everybody off too lightly. Consequently they went and did it again, and Mr. Lovelady was as much to blame as anybody. The Reverend Adam played with the backslider’s child as heartily as he played with others. Mr. Bingley did not hold that these proofs of sin should not be played with, far from it, but he did think they should be played with rather differently. Neither should the unmarried mother be greeted quite the same as the true spouse; she must be chastened.
He thought of Sally all the way home, but, as was seemly, he dismissed her when he rang for the servants and prayers, and thought of nothing but their good, and hoped they were taking advantage of their rare opportunities.
Before going upstairs he opened a fat, beautifully-bound volume, with The Book simply and modestly inscribed in big gold letters upon it. To him it came next the Bible and long before the classics. Mr. Bingley could not approve of the classics. The Book should really have been entitled A Son’s Guide to Matrimony or to celibacy. He turned to the page of wisdom that had been allotted to the day. The late Mrs. Bingley possessed the art of being always topical. She was almost too topical for her son’s liking.
“Never trust a woman with yellow hair and dark eyes” was the first he read; “either there is something abnormal, and to be avoided, or else art has stolen what nature has forbidden. Such women are dangerous.”
“Mother was a wonderful woman,” sighed Mr. Bingley, almost regretfully; “her genius told her what I should be called upon to face.”
He faced the next extract, a facer indeed!
“Never think of a woman for yourself; think of her first and last as the mother of your children.”
“Ah!” breathed Mr. Bingley, “how sacred! How like mother!”
He lapsed into deep thought. He manfully acknowledged that he was attracted by Sally, but was it a mere selfish attraction? What about the little bank-manager? A mother with black eyes and yellow hair was a risk. Marriage for a man placed in his solemn position must ever mean duty before pleasure.
Then her age? He was forty-one; Sally, he calculated, only about ten years his junior. A man in his prime does not want a middle-aged wife. In ten years’ time Miss Lunton would be middle-aged; he would be still in his prime.
He had discovered, through a slip she had made, that Mrs. Dalton could not be more than twenty-seven, and, also through a slip, that she had a nice little income of her own. Then Nina Dalton would make a most creditable step-daughter, and he was really fond of her. So far nothing had appeared in his mother’s book absolutely to dispose of Mrs. Dalton. True she had said, “Beware of widows who are young, or look it; they soon discover a man’s weaknesses,” but as he had no weaknesses to be discovered, there was no danger there.
He pursed up his mouth till it was no more than a button, dipping here and there, hoping to find something which implied it would be his duty to marry Sally. Instead he found a host of pitfalls.
“A fat woman is a fool, or she wouldn’t be fat,” announced the drastic lady; “but it’s the lean women who have the devil in them.”
Mr. Bingley did not say “Damn.” He never used such words, but he buttoned his mouth a little tighter, and his small eyes held a resentful gleam. Lean! It wasn’t a pretty word; few of the great writer’s were. Miss Lunton was slim and tall and graceful; surely that was not equivalent to harbouring the devil. Neither was Mrs. Dalton fat—he hated fat people; Boliver, for instance, was an atrocity—a little stumpy, perhaps. He felt to the full the problems he was called upon to face. How simple for the average man!
“A woman who will show no more than the tip of her shoe is just as likely to be cursed with big feet as undue modesty.”
His eyes lightened; his mouth came undone. Sally had shown the perfect mean, modest and yet attractive, and beautiful feet and ankles. On the other hand, Mrs. Dalton had a careless way of catching up her dress on a muddy day that exposed far too much for modesty, her legs being what they were. His great mother was asking him to take Sally to his bosom.
He worked down the page, hoping for further signals pointing the right way.
“A woman who can’t, or won’t, say ‘boo’ to a goose before marriage, will say more than ‘boo’ afterwards.”
Mr. Bingley had never met the type of woman that could not say ‘boo’ to a goose, and did not believe they existed. He was of the opinion that even the most delightful women talked too much. Yet Miss Lunton hadn’t; she listened, and how perfectly!
His fat forefinger ran down the index for the word ‘Listen,’ and of course found it. The index alone comprised a dictionary.
“They act listeners beforehand who will quickest change the rôle afterwards.”
That could be stopped almost before it had time to begin. The silent strong man puts his foot down once, and all is as it should be thereafter. Mr. Bingley smiled pursily.
Then he looked at the clock and waited for it to strike eleven. No matter whether he felt tired or extremely awake, as long as he was at home, he gathered up himself and The Book at the striking of the hour and went upstairs. He was in bed as the clock struck half-past, The Book on the table by his side; asleep as it struck twelve.
Such was the admirable Alfred Bingley.
On this occasion, however, he broke a fixed habit. It was nearly half an hour beyond the usual time before he got to sleep, and even then he dreamt of forbidden fruit in the shape of black eyes, yellow hair, and divine ankles. And a low delicious laugh sounded through his dreams.
He awoke suddenly, shocked horror in all his being. He had been pursuing Sally over moor and mountain, and by the glaring impropriety of moonlight!
“This won’t do,” he gasped. “What would mother say?”
He switched on his electric candle and opened The Book to see, looking up ‘Dream’ in the index.
What Mrs. Bingley thought, she said, and in no unmeasured terms.
“When it comes to dreaming of a woman, it’s time to beware.”
He decided to dream of Sally no more, and went to sleep firm in that resolve. Alas, that this godly, upright man should have such an evil dream! He married both the candidates, and was most comfortable! His horror on waking is too poignant for description. He had been so ideally happy, so content! He had not minded doing wrong, or even thought of it; it had merely seemed such an excellent way of solving the problem.
chapter v
“You needn’t be afraid your nose will ever be put out of joint!”
Meanwhile Sally, whose ears should certainly have been burning, slept the sleep of the just, or the unjust, digestion counting more than conscience in these matters.
Mrs. Dalton was not asleep; she was doing sums. She found out that her appearance of prosperity could be carried on until about June. Her chin looked very dogged as she shut up her account-book. “By the middle of June at latest,” she decided. Then she also slept; she had not yet heard that there was a serious rival in the field. She had kissed Nina, who looked adorable in her flushed slumber. “You shall have that pony and a fair chance in life, my precious,” she murmured, “and you needn’t be afraid your nose will ever be put out of joint.”
It was Mr. Lovelady who got no sleep at all. He could not help worrying about Sally. If anything happened to him—and as he and his doctor knew, something might happen any hour—what would become of Sally? He had nothing to leave her. She never expected to earn another penny with her brush. She declared the war had finished ‘the minnows’ for good and all. What did become of such women? A ghastly question, and a ghastly problem! Some of them dragged out grey lives up and down the stairs of others. At the thought of Sally’s ‘old lady’ he smiled. No old lady would have Sally, neither would Sally take upon herself, for a few pounds per annum, and board and lodging, a burden few are strong enough to bear. It would be uncomfortable, and Miss Lunton never permitted herself to be uncomfortable. Her flair was all for the flesh-pots; self-sacrifice had never entered into her life.
“Why,” asked the Reverend Adam almost peevishly, “aren’t there enough good and suitable men for all women? Why have they to marry the others, or remain unmarried?” Then he hurried away from a question that implied discontent with the world as God had made it. Sally was different from other women, so very attractive, and under the cynical surface, he felt sure, lay wonderful treasures of heart and mind.
“If I died to-morrow she would starve, or—”
He traced that ‘or’ no further. He knew Sally was not of those who starve. She would find some sort of a primrose path for herself, and tread gaily over the hidden thorns, saying with a laugh, “After all, one can’t have everything.”
He longed to know her safe, to see her rising to her higher self. The Luntons were never safe. It was very wrong of her to have her hair changed, but he had a sneaking admiration for it all the same, and men were men. They always turned to look at Sally, and she was of the type which looks back.
“Why isn’t there a good and suitable man?” demanded the vicar again. “It’s simply disgraceful!” Then he remembered his cloth, and corrected himself. “I mean most unfortunate.” He jerked about in bed and ejaculated, “Oh, bother Bingley! I knew he would be taken with her!”
What would Sally make of her life minus the saving clause of happy love? Soon she would be middle-aged. Middle-age was a drab time for a woman alone, and many a woman’s life had been made drab by the lack of her own home, some work and interest, some place to fill in life. “A beastly time” Sally had once called it, and he had not contradicted her. He had seen so many going through it, and it had seemed—yes, beastly. It wasn’t a clerical word, but it was a fact. ‘
Sometimes he wondered if he knew everything about her. She never brought him the depths to look into; she faced those alone. Sometimes she crawled painfully up to the heights, but not for long.
“It makes me feel so winded, dear,” she explained inelegantly; “the air’s too rarefied to keep this Sally alive.”
“She must be good, because she’s always pretending to be bad,” he reflected thankfully. Sally must win out in spite of her family history, somehow ‘make good.’ He would be content to live a little longer if he could see that. “If Helena had been here to help!” he sighed, as he sighed a dozen times a day. Nothing had ever gone wrong when his Helena was alive, or if it had he had not noticed it. But Sally must work out her own salvation. Another could help, but no other could save.
chapter vi
“You can put on your boots without a chair”
On Sundays in Little Crampton everybody went to church in their best clothes. Sally’s were Parisian and, though quiet enough, held the gratified eye.
“Nobody could say I don’t look suitable for a bank-manager’s wife,” she told herself, putting a little pink powder on her face and drawing down a coquettish veil. “I’m dying to see Mrs. Dalton and learn the worst. I wonder if Lovey would let me have one of those new short, wide skirts. I believe he’d like it.” The ‘he’ did not refer to the vicar.
Owing to his official position Mr. Bingley had to be early at church. Mrs. Dalton also had to start early, because, of course, Nina’s short legs wanted plenty of time upon the journey.
Consequently, as Mr. Bingley passed Vine Cottage it was not unusual to see its inhabitants just ahead. Mrs. Dalton still had her husband’s field-glasses. She wished she could take them to church, for Miss Maggie had been telling her about Sally and the length of time Mr. Bingley had spent at the vicarage on the night of her arrival. She was glad to remember that she had a priceless asset in Nina.
Mr. Bingley liked to walk to church between the nice-looking widow and Nina, who adored him. It gave him a sort of sacred sense of paternal and conjugal importance without the responsibility—or the expense. He had played with the idea of walking thus through life—at least, of him and Nina doing so; Mrs. Alfred Bingley would be more often concerned with things of the nursery; that was the true woman’s sphere. His love for children was perfectly genuine; to them he could unbend, become a natural man.
Nina was a sharp child and eight years of age, her mother having, of course, married as a ‘mere child.’ She narrowly missed being stumpy, but one likes little girls rosy and plump and soft. Her tongue was long and pointed—her mother had just such another—and seldom ceased. Though Mr. Bingley liked to talk himself, he would still vacate the stage for the sake of a child’s prattle. He encouraged Nina to open her innocent, curious heart to him, and though she sometimes came out with awkward things, as children will, he managed as a rule to stem the worst. To-day he was a little absent; he was wondering if Sally would be in church.
He greeted Mrs. Dalton and captured the child’s plump hand. Then he dropped it to tie up his bootlace, giving a faint groan as he essayed the difficult feat.
“Mother creaks just like that,” said Nina, interested, “but she uses a chair. Don’t you use a chair?”
Mr. Bingley did, but he managed to evade a reply.
Nina’s errant attention was caught by figures coming round the curve. “Oh, it’s Mr. Lovelady,” she cried, delighted, “and such a lovely lady with him! Oh, I hope they’ll stop! Oh, she is nice!”
Mr. Bingley’s heart gave a mighty bound; Mrs. Dalton’s fell.
Then came the introduction, Sally staying behind, while Mr. Lovelady went on to the church.
The rivals smiled, taking each other’s measure in a glance, and fearing it. They knew it was going to be a grim struggle to the death, and yet they were attracted instantly, and wished it might have been friendship. How delightful to have laughed together over the situation, and that absurdity, Mr. Alfred Bingley.
As it was, the chin of one and the mouth of the other showed doggedly. They were on different sides. Fate had made them combatants against their will, and fight to the bitter end they must, but each knew the other would fight fair. Sally already knew what it was like to be on the rocks, and the other woman was not without imagination. She guessed; she could feel them sharp and pitiless, while a wild sea, that meant the end of all, washed ever higher; and she was not only fighting for herself, she was fighting for her child. It was literally victory or extinction.
Sally saw a stumpy woman with a lovely complexion, nice hair and features, and rather shrewd brown eyes. She obviously cultivated womanliness for Mr. Bingley’s benefit, but she was essentially commonplace, almost common. She might have come from one of the farms, or out of one of the village shops. Sally could only have come of distinction. After her looks were gone that would go down with her to the grave.
The contrast was almost violent. Beside Sally’s long, lean elegance and Parisian clothes Mrs. Dalton looked her very worst; shorter, thicker, dowdy. She knew it, and knew that Mr. Bingley must know it. Still, there was always Nina.
Nina had already made friends with Sally. She knew she must never express an unflattering remark aloud, but she never got scolded for the others.
“I like you,” she began instantly, “your shape and your clothes, and your tallness, and how you walk. Don’t you, Mr. Bingley?” Her instinct told her that Mr. Bingley did.
Mrs. Dalton sighed.
“I like your shoes,” the child went on, “they’re so small and high. You can put on your boots without a chair. I like your legs,” she continued innocently, “don’t you, Mr. Bingley?”
Mr. Bingley flamed.
Sally gave her seductive laugh.
“I like your hair, and your big black eyes, though they are just like the wicked fairy’s in my book.”
Mrs. Dalton felt this was better; she hoped Mr. Bingley would notice that Miss Lunton’s eyes were distinctly wicked.
“And I simply love your laugh!” added the child.
Sally laughed again. This innocent worship was sweet to her.
“I even like your mouth, though it’s dreadful big, isn’t it? because it curls up all twisty at the corners. Don’t you love her mouth, Mr. Bingley?”
Again Mr. Bingley flamed. He would not tell a lie to save himself from disaster, or burden his white soul for a friend in direst need, or to save the Empire. He did love Sally’s mouth, and everything that was hers, but he knew he mustn’t; his mother’s dead, though undying, voice, most solemnly warned him.
“I like everything she is,” went on the small enthusiast, “but specially her laugh and her legs. So different to mine—and mother’s.”
Mr. Bingley, redder than the reddest rose, broke and fled in utter confusion.
The two women struggled for gravity, and then, their twinkling eyes meeting, laughed out loud. They went into church.
Mr. Bingley tried not to think of indelicate matters during Divine Service, yet the contrast noted by the child would occur and recur. He was shocked at himself; he felt almost wanton.
“It shows I must avoid her,” he thought. To see what he must avoid his eyes went again and again to Sally, as Mrs. Dalton and Miss Maggie Hopkins knew, without the trouble, apparently, of even glancing at Mr. Bingley.
