Hatter's Castle Page 4

  How quickly she reached the end of the road, and although she seemed to have been out only for a moment she knew that she had come far enough, that it was now time for her to go back; but as her will commanded her to turn, some stronger force forbade it, and she kept on, her heart thumping furiously, her steps quickening in pace with her heartbeats. Then, through the magic of the night, the sound of music met her ears, faint, enticing, compelling. She hastened her gait almost to a run, thought: ‘I must, oh! I must see him,’ and rushed onwards. Trembling, she entered the fair ground.

  Chapter Two

  Levenford Fair was an annual festival, the nucleus of which was the congregation of a number of travelling troupes and side-shows, a small menagerie, which featured actually an elephant and a cage of two lions, an authentic shooting gallery where real bullets were used, and two fortune-tellers with unimpeachable and freely displayed credentials, which, together with a variety of other minor attractions, assembled at an agreed date upon that piece of public land known locally as the Common.

  The ground was triangular in shape. On one side, at the town end, stood the solidly important components of the fair, the larger tents and marquees, on another the moving vehicles of pleasure, swings, roundabouts and merry-go-rounds, and on the third, bordering the meadows of the river Leven, were the galleries, coconut shies, lab-in-the-tub and molly-dolly stalls; the fruit, lemonade, hokey-pokey, and nougat vendors, and a multitude of small booths which engaged and fascinated the eye. The gathering was by far the largest of its kind in the district and, its popularity set by precedent and appreciation, it drew like a magnet upon the town and countryside during the evenings for the period of one scintillating week, embracing within its confines a jovial mass of humanity, which even now slowly surged around the trigon on a perpetually advancing wave of pleasure.

  Mary plunged into the tide and was immediately engulfed. She ceased to become an entity and was absorbed by the sweep of pushing, laughing, shouting, gesticulating beings, which bore her forward independent of her own volition, and as she was pushed this way and that, yet always borne onwards by this encompassing force, she became at once amazed at her own temerity. The press of the rough crowd was not what her idyllic fancy had pictured, the blatant shouts and flaring lights not the impressions of her imagination, and she had not been five minutes on the ground before she began to wish she had not come and to perceive that, after all, her father might be right in his assertion, wise to have forbidden her to come. Now she felt that, though the sole purpose of her coming was to see Denis, it would be impossible for him to discover her in such a throng, and as a sharp, jostling elbow knocked against her ribs, and a fat ploughboy trod upon her foot and grinned uncouthly in apology, she grew wretched and frightened. What manner of feeling had drawn her amongst these vulgar clowns! Why had she so imprudently, rashly, dangerously disobeyed her father and come with such light and ardent unrestraint at the beck of a youth whom she had known for only one month?

  As she swayed around she viewed that month in retrospect, recollecting with a melancholy simplicity that the swing doors of the Borough Public Library had been, in part, responsible. These doors bore on the inside the authoritative word ‘ Pull,’ and, in obedience to that terse mandate, when coming out of the Library, one was supposed to pull strenuously upon them; but they were so stiff and heavy that, when one was cumbered with a book and unobserved by the compelling eye of the janitor of the Borough Buildings, it was much easier to disregard the law and push. Upon one memorable occasion she had, undoubtedly, pushed, and thrusting forward with no uncertain hand, had launched herself straight into the waistcoat of a young man in brown. The impetus of her exit allowed her to observe fully the colour of his neat suit. His hair, too, was brown, and his eyes, and his face which had tiny freckles of a deeper brown dusted upon it; and as she raised her startled eyes she had noticed immediately, despite her discomposure, that his teeth, when he smiled, as he did instantly, were white and perfect. Whilst she stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips, he had composed his features, had politely collected her fallen book, calmly opened it, and looked at her name on the borrower’s ticket.

  ‘I am sorry to have upset you, Miss Mary Brodie,’ he had said gravely, but smiling at her the while out of his hazel eyes. ‘These door are exceedingly treacherous. They ought, of course, to have glass windows to them. It is entirely my fault, for not having brought the matter before the Borough Council.’

  She had giggled, insanely, immodestly, but alas, irrepressibly at his delicious raillery and had only ceased when he added, tentatively, as though it were of no importance: ‘My name is Foyle – I live in Darroch.’ They looked at each other for a long moment, while she, of course, had flushed like a fool (since then he had told her that it was an adorable blush) and had said timidly: ‘I’m afraid I must be going.’ What a weak remark, she now reflected! He had not attempted to detain her, and with perfect courtesy had stepped aside, lifted his hat and bowed; but all the way down the street she had felt those lively brown eyes upon her, respectful, attentive, admiring. That had been the beginning!

  Presently she, who had never before seen him in Levenford, for the good reason that he had seldom come there, began to see him frequently in the street. They were, in fact, always encountering each other, and although he had never had the opportunity to speak, he always smiled and saluted her, cheerfully yet deferentially. She began to love that gay spontaneous smile, to look for the jaunty set of his shoulders, to desire the eager radiance of his glance. Sometimes she discerned him with a group of the hardier and more intrepid spirits of Levenford standing at the newly opened ice-cream saloon of Bertorelli’s, and perceived with awe that these bold striplings accepted him as an equal, even as a superior, and this, together with the knowledge that he should frequent a place so wild and reckless as an Italian ice-cream shop, made her tremble. His slight acquaintance with her had, too, given her distinction, and, even in his absence, when she passed this group of the youthful elect a polite silence immediately ensued, and as one man the members of the band swept off their hats to honour her – thrilling, but disconcerting her.

  A week later she had again visited the Library, and despite the fact that this time she carefully pulled the doors as a public gesture of self-reproach and censure, openly avowing her penitence, she again found Denis Foyle outside.

  ‘What a coincidence, Miss Brodie!’ he had said. ‘Imagine us meeting here again. Strange that I should be passing just at this moment.’ How could she know, poor thing, that he had been waiting for two hours on the opposite side of the street.

  ‘May I see what book you are reading this week?’

  ‘Pomeroy Abbey, by Mrs Henry Wood,’ she had stammered.

  ‘Ah! yes, volume two. I saw you had volume one last time you were here.’

  He had, she mused, given himself away there, and as she observed a slight, shy eagerness in his glance, realised that he was altogether less composed, less assured than upon their previous encounter, and a melting tenderness filled her as she heard him say fervidly:

  ‘Will you permit me to carry your book for you please, Miss Brodie?’ She blushed darkly now at her unladylike and unpardonable conduct, but the unalterable fact remained that she had given him the book, had surrendered the volume without a word, as though in effect she had meekly proffered him the modest volume in return for the sweet acceptance of his attentions. She sighed as she thought of that small, and apparently trivial beginning, for since that occurrence they had met on several, no, on many occasions, and she had become so enwrapped by a strange and incomprehensible regard for him that it left her hurt and lonely to be away from him.

  With a start she came out of the past. By this time she had been once round the fair without seeing anything but a blur of gaudy colours, she became once more aware of her unpleasant predicament, of the hopelessness of ever distinguishing amongst this, nightmare sea of faces that seethed around her the one she sought, and as she was now opposite an ope
ning in the crowd which permitted access to the street she began with difficulty to squeeze her way out.

  Suddenly a warm hand clasped her small, cold fingers. Hurriedly she looked up, and saw that it was Denis. A wave of security enveloped her and invaded her veins in a delicate sense of comfort, filling her with such relief that she pressed his hand in hers and in the open simplicity of her nature said hurriedly, ardently, before he could speak:

  ‘Oh! Denis, I’ve been so miserable here without you! I felt as if I had lost you for ever.’

  He looked at her tenderly, as he replied:

  ‘I was a fool to ask you to meet me here in all this crowd, Mary. I knew I would find you, but I quite forgot that you might get into the crush before then. My train was late, too. Have you been here long?’

  ‘I don’t know how long,’ she murmured. ‘ It seemed like years, but I don’t care now that you’re here.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t get pushed about in the crowd,’ he protested. ‘I blame myself for letting you come on by yourself. Indeed I do! I should have met you outside, but I hadn’t an idea there would be so many here to-night. You’re not annoyed?’

  She shook her head negatively; and without concealing her delight in him, without upbraiding him for his tardiness or permitting him to see the risk she had taken in coming to meet him here, replied guilelessly, happily:

  ‘It’s all right, Denis. I don’t mind the crowd – nothing matters now that you’ve found me.’

  ‘What a girl you are, Mary,’ he cried. ‘It’s an angel you are to forgive me. But I’ll not rest till I’ve made it up to you. Let’s make up for lost time. I’ll not be happy till I’ve given you the time of your life. What shall we do first? Say the word and it’s as good as done.’

  Mary looked round. How changed everything was! how glad she was to have come! She saw that the people around her were not rough but merely boisterous and happy, and had she now been confronted with the heavy-footed ploughboy she would have returned his rustic grin with an understanding smile. She saw everywhere colour, excitement, and movement; the shouts of the showmen animated her, the cracking of shots in the shooting-gallery thrilled without daunting her; the blare of music around intoxicated her, and as her sparkling eyes was drawn by a ring of hobby horses leaping gaily round, circling, prancing, gambolling to the tune of the Kandahar Waltz, she laughed excitedly and pointed to them.

  ‘These,’ she gasped.

  ‘Sure!’ cried Denis. ‘Your word is law, Mary! We’ll kick off on the leppers. All aboard for the Donegal Hunt.’ He grasped her arm, leading her forward while magically the crowd, which had so oppressed her, seemed to melt before them.

  ‘Here we are,’ he exclaimed gaily. ‘Two together, with tails like lions and teeth like dromedaries. Up you go, Mary! Yours will jump the side of a house by the wicked look in his eyes.’

  They were seated on the horses, grasping the reins, waiting, circling at first slowly, then quickly, then whirling to the mad music, thrilled with the joy of movement, tearing round above the gaping, unmounted commoners who seemed far below the flying hoofs of their prancing chargers, chasing together through wide celestial spaces, soaring upwards in a spirited nobility of movement. When, at last, they slowly came to rest, he refused to allow her to dismount, but compelled her willing presence beside him for another, and another and still another turn, until, as her experience grew, and her confidence in the saddle increased, she relaxed the tenseness of her grip upon the reins and directing her mount by the light touch of one hand, relaxed her body to its curvetting movement and exhibited proudly to him the address and dexterity of her horsemanship. He praised her, encouraged her, revelling in her enjoyment, until at length Mary’s conscience pricked her and, feeling that he would be ruined through her prodigal rashness, she implored him to come off. He laughed till his sides shook.

  ‘We could stay on all night if you wanted to! It’s nothing at all if you’re happy.’

  ‘Oh! yes it is, Denis! It’s an awful expense. Do let us get down,’ she begged. ‘I’m just as happy watching!’

  ‘All right, then! We’ll get off to please you, Mary; but we’re only beginning. To-night it’s a millionaire you’re with. We’re goin’through the whole bag of tricks.’

  ‘If you’re sure you can afford it, Denis,’ replied Mary doubtfully.

  ‘It’s simply wonderful here! But I don’t want you to spend too much on me.’

  ‘Sure I couldn’t spend enough on you, Mary!’ he replied warmly, ‘if I spent every farthing I’ve got!’

  That was the raising of the curtain; and now they plunged into the throng, feasting their eyes upon the panorama of gaiety and absorbing the merriment around them eagerly, joyously, and together.

  An hour later, having experienced every variety of movement offered for their delectation, thrown balls at all conceivable objects from coconuts to sallies, seen the flea-bitten lions and the apathetic elephant, prodded the fat boy at the earnest request of the showman to ensure there being no deception, admired the smallest woman in the world, shuddered appreciatively at the living skeleton, and purchased every edible commodity from honey pears to cough candy, they stood, the most joyously animated couple in the whole show ground, before the biggest tent in the fair. It was the famous McInally’s, which provided, as its posters indicated, a feast of refined and elegant entertainment. In front of the tent was a wooden platform now illuminated by four naphtha flares, and upon the centre of this stage stood the famous McInally himself, easily distinguishable by his glossy top hat and flowing frock coat, by his largely checked trousers and the enormous brass albert that stretched, yellow as gold and thick as a mayoral chain, across his whitish velvet waistcoat. On either side of him stood, to quote again from the red and blue lettered advance notices that plastered the walls and gateposts of the countryside, a coruscating galaxy of talent. On his right a tall, soulful gentleman in full but musty evening dress leant with a melancholy grace against a pole of the marquee, directing his romantic gaze upwards from the mob as though he sought upon an ethereal balcony some Juliet who might be worthy of him, and concealing as best he might the soiled condition of his linen by elongating his coat sleeves and folding his arms manfully across his shirt front. But this sombre Romeo did not constitute the sole attraction of the show, for at the other end of the stage on McInally’s left, was poised a bewitching creature clad in pink tights and white ballet skirt, with a peaked yachting cap set at a rakish angle upon her head, executing from time to time a few mincing steps hinting at the promise of more ravishing movements to come and throwing kisses to the multitude below with an airy, graceful action of her arms that suggested she was drawing yards of streamers from her lips.

  ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ whispered Mary, who by this time had drawn so close to her companion that she had taken his arm.

  ‘If you saw her in daylight you would be surprised,’ replied the more sophisticated Denis. ‘I’ve been told something about her. As a matter of report,’ he continued slowly, as though liberating a baleful secret, ‘ they say she squints.’

  ‘Oh! Denis, how can you say such a thing!’ cried Mary indignantly. But she gazed doubtfully at the suggestive angle of the yachting cap. Was it merely saucy, or was its purpose more profoundly significant?

  ‘Walk up, ladies and gentlemen, walk up!’ shouted McInally, removing his hat with a flourish and holding it extended in a courtly gesture of invitation. ‘The Performance is going to begin. We are just about to commence. Positively the last Performance of the evening. An entertainment of the highest class, admission twopence and twopence only. Artistic refined, and elegant – Gentlemen, you may bring your wives and sweethearts, an entertainment without a blush. The one and only McInally, positively of the highest class and one class only. Just about to begin! Gentlemen! on my left Madame Bolita in the most wonderful and artistic Terpsichorean exhibition of the century.’ At the mention of her name Madame pirouetted lightly, smiled coyly, extended her wrists coquettishly and d
rew out fresh streamers, which were, if anything, more tenacious than before.

  ‘Ladies! on my right Signor Magini, the most renowned, accomplished vocalist, direct from the Opera Houses of Paris and Milan, in the illuminated song-scena of the age.’ Signor Magini, whose real name was Maginty, looked more romantically melancholy than ever and bowed dreamily as though ladies had mobbed him with bouquets in Paris and fought for his favour in Milan. ‘We are about to commence to begin. We are about to begin to commence! Walk up! Walk up! The last show to-night. We are closing down for the evening. Thanking you one and all for your kind attention. Walk up, walk up.’

  ‘It must be going to begin,’ said Denis. ‘He’s told us so often. Shall we chance it?’