V.
"You can't go in that thing."
They were going to the Sutcliffes' dance. Mamma hadn't told Mark she didn't like them. She wanted Mark to go to the dance. He had said Morfe was an awful hole and it wasn't good for you to live in it.
The frock was black muslin, ironed out. Mamma's black net Indian scarf, dotted with little green and scarlet flowers, was drawn tight over her hips to hide the place that Catty had scorched with the iron. The heavy, brilliant, silk-embroidered ends, green and scarlet, hung down behind. She felt exquisitely light and slender.
Mamma was shaking her head at Mark as he stared at you.
"If you knew," he said, "what you look like … That's the way the funny ladies dress in the bazaars—If you'd only take that awful thing off."
"She can't take it off," Mamma said. "He's only teasing you."
Funny ladies in the bazaars—Funny ladies in the bazaars. Bazaars were Indian shops … Shop-girls … Mark didn't mean shop-girls, though. You could tell that by his face and by Mamma's … Was that what you really looked like? Or was he teasing? Perhaps you would tell by Mrs. Sutcliffe's face. Or by Mr. Sutcliffe's.
Their faces were nicer than ever. You couldn't tell. They would never let you know if anything was wrong.
Mrs. Sutcliffe said, "What a beautiful scarf you've got on, my dear."
"It's Mamma's. She gave it me." She wanted Mrs. Sutcliffe to know that Mamma had beautiful things and that she would give them. The scarf was beautiful. Nothing could take from her the feeling of lightness and slenderness she had in it.
Her programme stood: Nobody. Nobody. Norman Waugh. Dr. Charles. Mr. Sutcliffe. Mr. Sutcliffe. Nobody. Nobody again, all the way down to Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe. Then Mark. Mr. Sutcliffe had wanted the last dance, the polka; but she couldn't give it him. She didn't want to dance with anybody after Mark.
The big, long dining-room was cleared; the floor waxed. People had come from Reyburn and Durlingham. A hollow square of faces. Faces round the walls. Painted faces hanging above them: Mr. Sutcliffe's ancestors looking at you.
The awful thing was she didn't know how to dance. Mark said you didn't have to know. It would be all right. Perhaps it would come, suddenly, when you heard the music. Supposing it came like skating, only after you had slithered a lot and tumbled down?
The feeling of lightness and slenderness had gone. Her feet stuck to the waxed floor as if they were glued there. She was frightened.
It had begun. Norman Waugh was dragging her round the room. Once. Twice. She hated the feeling of his short, thick body moving a little way in front of her. She hated his sullen bull's face, his mouth close to hers, half open, puffing. From the walls Mr. Sutcliffe's ancestors looked at you as you shambled round, tied tight in your Indian scarf, like a funny lady in the bazaars. Raised eyebrows. Quiet, disdainful faces. She was glad when Norman Waugh left her on the window-seat.
Dr. Charles next. He was kind. You trod on his feet and he pretended he had trodden on yours.
"My dancing days are over."
"And mine haven't begun."
They sat out and she watched Mark. He didn't dance very well: he danced tightly and stiffly as if he didn't like it; but he danced: with Miss Frewin and Miss Louisa Wright, because nobody else would; with the Acroyds because Mrs. Sutcliffe made him; five dances with Dorsy Heron, because he liked her, because he was sorry for her, because he found her looking sad and shy in a corner. You could see Dorsy's eyes turn and turn, restlessly, to look at Mark, and her nose getting redder as he came to her.
Dr. Charles watched them. You knew what he was thinking. "She's in love with him. She can't take her eyes off him."
Supposing you told her the truth? "He won't marry you. He won't care for you. He won't care for anybody but Mamma. Can't you see, by the way he looks at you, the way he holds you? It's no use your caring for him. It'll only make your little nose redder."
He wouldn't mind her red nose; her little proud, high-bridged nose. He liked her small face, trying to look austere with shy hare's eyes; her vague mouth, pointed at the corners in a sort of sharp tenderness; her smooth, otter-brown hair brushed back and twisted in a tight coil at the nape of her neck. Dorsy was sweet and gentle and unselfish. He might have cared for Dorsy if it hadn't been for Mamma. Anyhow, for one evening in her life Dorsy was happy, dancing round and round, with her wild black hare's eyes shining.
Mr. Sutcliffe. She stood up. She would have to tell him.
"I can't dance."
"Nonsense. You can run and you can jump. Of course you can dance."
"I don't know how to."
"The sooner you learn the better. I'll teach you in two minutes."
He steered her into the sheltered bay behind the piano. They practised.
"Mark's looking at us."
"Is he? What has he done to you, Mary? We'll go where he can't look at us."
They went out into the hall.
"That's it; your feet between mine. In and out. Don't throw your shoulders back. Don't keep your elbows in. It's not a hurdle race."
"I wish it was."
"You won't in a minute. Don't count your steps. Listen for the beat. It's the beat that does it."
She began to feel light and slender again.
"Now you're off. You're all right."
Off. Turning and turning. You steered through the open door; in and out among the other dancers; you skimmed; you swam, whirling, to the steady tump-tump of the piano, and the queer, exciting squeak of the fiddles—
Whirling together, you and Mr. Sutcliffe and the piano and the two fiddles. One animal, one light, slender animal, whirling and playing. Every now and then his arm tightened round your waist with a sort of impatience. When it slackened you were one light, slender animal again, four feet and four arms whirling together, the piano was its heart, going tump-tump, and the fiddles—
"Why did I think I couldn't do it?"
"Funk. Pure funk. You wanted to dance—you wanted to so badly that it frightened you."
His arm tightened.
As they passed she could see Mrs. Sutcliffe sitting in an arm-chair pushed back out of the dancers' way. She looked tired and bored and a little anxious.
When the last three dances were over he took her back to Mark.
Mark scowled after Mr. Sutcliffe.
"What does he look at you like that for?"
"Perhaps he thinks I'm—a funny lady in a bazaar."
"That's the sort of thing you oughtn't to say."
"You said it."
"All the more reason why you shouldn't."
He put his arm round her and they danced. They danced.
"You can do it all right now," he said.
"I've learnt. He taught me. He took me outside and taught me. I'm not frightened any more."
Mark was dancing better now. Better and better. His eyes shone down into yours. He whispered.
"Minky—Poor Minky—Pretty Minky."
He swung you. He lifted you off your feet. He danced like mad, carrying you on the taut muscle of his arm.
Somebody said, "That chap's waked up at last. Who's the girl?"
Somebody said, "His sister."
Mark laughed out loud. You could have sworn he was enjoying himself.
But when he got home he said he hadn't enjoyed himself at all. And he had a headache the next day. It turned out that he hadn't wanted to go. He hated dancing. Mamma said he had only gone because he thought you'd like it and because he thought it would be good for you to dance like other people.