# Delight (1926)/Chapter 10

The news that Delight Mainprize was at Beemer's spread like wildfire through the town. Women who had never seen her, who never expected to see her, felt disturbed at the thought that the strangely beautiful girl was again in their midst. Kirke had refused to disclose the place where she had been hiding for the past months. He told mysteriously how he had discovered her on a lonely farm, kept a prisoner by the farmer who had found her wandering about the country with her basket of dishes after she had been turned out by Mrs. Jessop, and who had become crazed by desire for her. Kirke said that she had been sleeping in a stable among the cattle when he had found her. Straws had been sticking in her beautiful hair. She had had a fey look. She had told him the whole story of her life and origin, and he was willing to say that it was not surprising she could dance like a sprite, in fact, there was nothing she could do that would surprise him after what he had heard. He almost wondered at Beemer's temerity in taking that remarkable woman into his house.
On market day, he sauntered stiffly from stall to stall, and from one stand heaped with produce to another, dropping strange hints about her, not only because of her great power over men and natural beauty, but also because of some potent—well—he might almost call it—poison, ​that emanated from her and drowned the senses. But, ha! ha! she was a fine geerl, after all. She meant no hairm; and she was worth seeing. They'd better get their dinner at Beemer's if only to see her, and a good dinner they'd get. He had left The Duke of York to go to Beemer's. He'd had enough of their overcharging and tough pastry. Bastien was a blow-hard, and the absent owner a fool.
Wherever Kirke went longing looks were cast after his tall rain-coated figure. If only he could be made to tell all that he knew!
That day the dining-room at Beemer's would not seat all the guests. The tables had to be laid a second time, an unprecedented thing except at Fair time. Beemer, a fat little man with bottle shoulders and oily hands, wished to Heaven that he had a Chinese gong such as was sounded at The Duke of York, but he placed the copper dinner bell in Delight's hand, as though it were the hunting horn of Diana and bade her ring long and loudly.
It was a dark hall at Beemer's, and to overcome this he had had a bracket lamp with a reflector behind it set at right angles to the door of the dining-room. She stood before this, the black, closed door behind her, clad in her narrow black dress, her beautiful face illuminated, her eyes sombre and full of an unnamed longing, her lips parted as though she panted to be free. . . . As her right hand moved up and down, and the bell rent the air with its clamour, her left was laid against her breast as though to still the throbbing of her heart. She saw nothing, being bewildered by the glare in her eyes, the clanging of the bell, after the country quiet to which she had become accustomed. Men crowded about her, staring into her face, their breath, hot with spirits, stifling her, while Beemer, dizzy with elation, sidled to and fro across ​the hall, rubbing his oily hands, and repeating in a voice thickened by adenoids:
"I'm afraid there's no room in the dining-room for all you fellahs. Say, this is awful, ain'd it? My missus is half-crazy id the kitchen."
Kirke scarcely passed a pound of butter or a wedge of cheese across his counter that day without dropping a word or two to the customer about the return of Delight. His words were seed that sprang up and bore fruit with tropic swiftness. That evening he strolled across to The Duke, and, after being served with a glass of Scotch by Charley Bye, draped himself in his old posture against the newel post. Regardless of Bastien's glowering looks, he hung there, tantalizing, shrewd, dropping the right word into the ear of each man who hesitated near him, now and then giving vent to his staccato laugh.
By half-past nine the bar of The Duke was almost empty and Beemer's was full to overflowing. There was excitement in the air of Beemer's, exhilaration. By comparison The Duke of York seemed lifeless, dull, an empty cocoon, from which the butterfly had flown.
The kitchen at The Duke of York was much perturbed by Delight's return to Brancepeth. The fact that she had come to Beemer's made social intercourse with her impossible, for it was an unwritten law that no calls should be made between the two houses. Mrs. Bye and Annie hoped to meet her on the street, but their strolls to and fro past The British American brought no sign from her, and old Davy learned from Beemer's hostler that she never had set foot on the pavement since her arrival. Mrs. Bye sent Queenie with a message to her, but it was ​never delivered for, after she had lingered timidly at the kitchen door for nearly half an hour, two of the Beemer boys caught her, pinched her, pulled her hair, and sent her home weeping.
A feeling of unrest possessed them. Bastien became exacting, ill-tempered. Everyone knew that things were not going well with the house, and, as in all business concerns, the employees grew slack and indifferent as they felt prosperity departing.
Charley Bye was all for taking Kirke's advice and starting a boarding-house of their own. He was sick and tired of being ordered about by Bastien, of eternally tripping over his own toes as he carried endless trays of drinks to disrespectful customers. Now he pictured himself as head of a crowded boarding-house with nothing much to do but carve the roast and give a hand with the coals and slops.
"I were a-dreamin' last night of my old buck rabbit," he said. "That's the third night in succession I've dreamed on him and it always means a change. One ear for'ard he had, p'intin' towards The Duke and one ear back'ard, p'intin' towards Beemer's, and he was a-wigglin' of his nose in a sneerin' way he had. By gum, I was all of a sweat when I woke, and I says to myself—'Charley, old boy, it's toime for a move.'"
Mrs. Bye regarded him with a strange mixture of contempt and awe. Charley's dreams were a puzzle to her; yet it was never safe wholly to ignore them, for she could remember more than one occasion when disaster had followed the disregarding of their warnings. Dreams of the dead rabbit were especially significant.
It was through Pearl that they at last got intimate news of Delight. Pearl no longer worked at The Duke, so she was free to call on a friend at Beemer's, though she did ​so with a good deal of trepidation, for she was now somewhat of a personage herself, and a naturally shy girl.
Her romance with Edwin Silk had ended, less than a fortnight after Delight's departure, dramatically and with tragic splendour. Silk had died and left her all his fortune. He had driven to the village of Stead one Sunday with three other men, among them Bastien. They had played poker most of the night. In the morning, one of the men who had slept with Silk, found him dead in bed by his side. There was no inquest. Silk had always been a weakling, and the strain of losing three hundred dollars that night had been the last straw to a heart already degenerated.
Edwin Silk's last gesture was theatric. He had left what remained of his fortune to a kitchen girl. There were about two thousand pounds and an old cottage in Surrey, with an acre of land. . . . The shock of this legacy, coming after the shock of her lover's death, had been almost too much for Pearl. His attentions had kept her in a sort of daze; this sudden wealth almost bereft her of the power of thought. She knew that she was now a fine lady, but she had no friends other than the servants at The Duke, and no life outside her work and her sweethearting. This last was denied her, for she was now afraid of all men—Mrs. Bye had warned her that they would be hotfoot after her dollars—regarding them with fear and suspicion. She had no relations, so she took a room in a boarding-house that advertised itself as "refined," and sat there by the hour in her black velvet dress fingering her jet bracelet, and thinking of Edwin. She could not wish him back because latterly he had frightened her, but she had loved him, and the thought of his narrow head lying against her plump shoulder always brought the slow tears to her eyes.
​She came to the kitchen one sultry afternoon towards Fair time to tell Mrs. Bye and Annie that she had been to see Delight. She had gone up to her room and sat with her there, and Delight had kissed her and stroked her hand, and stared at her so hard with those wild, bright eyes that she had made her feel queer. She had Jim Sykes' trunk in her room and she had taken out a jersey of his and shown Pearl how it still held the shape of his body, just as though he were dead like Edwin. Not that she could do such a thing with Edwin's clothes—
"I'll bet you couldn't," interrupted Charley, "hisn 'ud lie flat enough, I'll be bound, fur he'd neither breast nor vitals to hold 'em out."
Pearl looked hurt, and Mrs. Bye said sharply—
"Nonsense, Charley. He was a gentleman, and he didn't have any need of such things."
"I reckon," persisted Charley, "that I'd leave a impress on my shirt that a year couldn't flatten."
"I reckon Bill will flatten you, if you don't get a move on with that ice," put in Annie.
Charley picked up the pail of broken ice and moved heavily to the door, muttering:
"Well, he won't have me to bully much longer. Three nights hand runnin' I've dreamed on my buck rabbit and it never fails to bring a change."
"Just the same, it is very queer about Delight Mainprize," said Pearl, when he had gone: "Everybody's talking about her. Folks you'd never expect would have heard of her. I wouldn't dare tell my landlady, Miss Sniffin, that I've been to see her. Only this morning she said that a girl like that ought to be run out of the town. And then she asked me what she looked like. She couldn't hear enough about her looks and her dancing and everything. And then she said she was going to ask ​the minister of her church to preach against her."
Mrs. Jessop's voice fell unexpectedly on their ears. She had come in softly, in felt slippers. She grinned broadly.
"What's that?" she asked. "More about that street girl I threw out?"
"Nothing," answered Pearl, "only folks don't seem able to talk of anything else but her. She's like a magnet at Beemer's. I saw her today and she gets lovelier all the time."
"She'll come to a bad end," said Mrs. Jessop, her grin changing to her scowl. "You'll see."
"There's no harm in her," blazed Mrs. Bye.
The two women faced each other for a brief space, their eyes like swords, then Mrs. Jessop turned away and shuffled out of the room.
"I say there's no harm in her," repeated Mrs. Bye sturdily.
"Still, you can't help wondering," said Annie.
Mrs. Jessop was a much stranger woman than those about her ever guessed. Hers was a dominating personality, for her strong grey hair, glistening grey eyes, and thickset figure gave her the appearance of great energy, while her hearty laugh and terrible scowl made her moods felt in all their intensity. But beneath her passing moods lay her real self that she revealed to no one except Bastien whom she loved, and to him only in flashes—fierce caresses, violent fits of weeping that made him uneasy. She looked sometimes as though she were capable of running a knife into a man.
Mrs. Jessop had independent means. She occupied the ​position of housekeeper because her abundant vitality would not be dammed into the sluggish pool of a lonely life. She needed other women to domineer over, to be dependent on her for favours; men, with whom to be alternately jovial and sullen.
It was known that she was the widow of a small hotel-keeper. No one knew that he had married the daughter of a vagrant, half-gypsy, horse dealer who, before entering prison for a long term for stealing and assault, had forced the hotel-man to marry his only daughter, threatening to divulge dark dealings they had had together. Mrs. Jessop had strange blood indeed. She remembered hearing as a child wild tales of the doings of her father's father, whose last necktie had been an unyielding hempen one. Dark, murderous blood was Mrs. Jessop's. . . .
When she left the kitchen she went straight to her bedroom. From a drawer she took out a small flaxen-haired doll. She had dressed it in a neat black dress with a little white apron with shoulder-straps. This doll she had bought at a bazaar the day after she had found Delight Mainprize in Bastien's room. To her it was the symbol of Delight, and on it she vented, when she could contain it no longer, her spleen towards the girl. She pinched it. She struck it on the face. She pulled its hairs out one by one till now it had a bald spot on the back of its head. She stuck pins in it, making, as they entered its body, little squealing noises to represent its pain.
Now, holding the toy in her hand, she looked at it with a ferocious, yet baffled, expression. After all the indignities it had suffered, it still retained its sweet smirk, its pink aloofness. . . . Slowly, meticulously, she did the things to it which had become a kind of rite to her. . . . Again she examined it. Its brown glass eyes stared up at her. Taking a crochet hook from her ​work-table, she pressed its point against them till, with a tiny clatter, they fell back into the head.
She threw herself on her bed and lay half-dreaming until tea-time.
The middle of October brought the Fair. It was held in the park by the lagoon. Pens were cleaned out, booths set up, and the main building prepared for exhibitions of fruit, vegetables, pastry, cakes, pickles, fancy-work, and even oil-paintings. During the three days of the Fair, football matches, running races, and horse races were in almost constant progress before the grand stand, and at night crowds from the various factories and shops filled the side-shows, and thronged the swings and the merry-go-round. They were great days for Brancepeth, and all the countryside looked forward to it throughout the year.
Delight had not intended to go to the Fair. She had kept her vow to remain indoors while she worked at Beemer's. Now she felt that she would suffocate for lack of air and outdoor movement. She was tired to death with serving the crowds that thronged the dining-room, so, when she met Kirke in the hallway and he urged her to go with him on the last night of the Fair, suddenly she could not resist. . . . To be out of doors, under the big bright moon, in a crowd of people, with soft grass beneath her feet instead of boards, the temptation was too great. She would go for an hour.
When she and Kirke entered the Fair grounds, the air was vibrant with the crash of the town band, the jigging melody of the merry-go-round, and the cries of hawkers. Inside the flaming circle of lights, laughing or stupid faces flashed out and disappeared in an ever-changing ​pattern. Bright hats with ribbon bows, red and green balloons, bloomed like exotic flowers. Some boys had made a jack-o'-lantern from a prize pumpkin. Their sudden sallies into the crowd with it brought shrieks and scurrying from the girls. A man, with a fire blazing in an iron cauldron, made waffles before an admiring circle. He looked like a sorcerer with the ruddy light on his swarthy face and bare arms, dipping his irons in the pot of batter, then in the pot of sizzling fat, then rolling the smoking dainty in powdered sugar. Kirke bought half a dozen, and he and Delight strolled along, eating them from a paper bag.
"Would you sooner have had hot popcorn?" he asked.
"No. I like these. We can have the popcorn after a bit."
"True. Would you like to dance?"
"No." She shrank from the thought of mingling with the dancers. She had seen some of the boarders from The Duke on the floor.
"There's a fortune-telling booth. Like your fortune told?"
"Yes, I'd like that."
But when they got inside the door, she saw the gypsy from whom she had bought the green earrings, and fled, leaving Kirke to follow.
"Weel," he observed, "you seem to be in skittish mood tonight."
She did not answer but pushed out her under lip like a stubborn child. He stalked beside her, frowning and yet amused. She fascinated him, more and more. He did not half like it and yet took a certain grim pleasure in observing the effect she had on him, as a cool and somewhat cynical outsider might. The more he felt her power, the more arrogant he became with her.
​"We'll go on the roundabout," he said, and held her arm while he bought two tickets.
She pushed the last of her waffle into her mouth, gently submissive.
"What beast do you fancy?" he inquired.
"I dunno."
"The lions look comfortable."
"No. I don't like the lions."
"The war-horse, then! Try a war-horse."
"No. What's that animal with the horns?"
"A unicorn. We must mount something quick, geerl. The platform's trembling."
The music burst forth in a peal. The roundabout commenced to revolve. They were side by side on two rearing, wild-eyed unicorns. The brazen vibrations rocked their bodies, the music drugged their senses. Faster and faster they sped. They had taken off their hats and the night wind blew between their parted lips, whistled in their teeth, filled their lungs. All outside their whirling circle became a shining blur of lights and faces. To be flying like this with her beside him on a unicorn fired Kirke's spirit into a wild joy. They two! They two! They were worth more than all this throng of clods that peopled the Fair grounds together. Delight and Duncan. Duncan and Delight. Ha! What a ride together!
His hand that held the dagger seemed inspired. Time after time he thrust it through the golden ring. Ride after triumphant ride they had for nothing. The crowd gathered not only to see the girl but to watch his prowess. . . . When at last they descended, she was so dizzy she could hardly stand. She stood leaning against the support of a tent while he went to fetch her a ​glass of lemonade. She clutched a tent rope as the dark earth seemed to rock beneath her.
The jigging music drummed in her ears. She was afraid of the obscure forms that moved about her, their faces distorted into strange grimaces by the flickering lights. She almost cried out as a hand was laid on her arm by someone who had come up behind her.
"It's me—Bill," said Bastien's voice in her ear. "What are you jumping for? I'm not going to hurt you." He gave a short, excited laugh and looked over her shoulder into her face, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face. "I've been watching you spinning round on that darned whirligig with Kirke. Are you gone on him, Delight? I tell you, he'll never marry you, if that's what you're looking for. All he cares for you is to use you as a tool to spite me. I care more for your little finger than he does for your whole body. Look here, I could have shot old Jessop when she fired you. I'll get even with her for it, too."
"Here comes Mr. Kirke with the lemonade," breathed Delight. She feared trouble between the two men. The air seemed charged with danger, full of a sinister tension.
Bastien pressed her arm. "All right. I'll get out. But I've got to have a talk with you. I want us to work together instead of against each other, see? I've got a plan. I'll tell you this much. I've been to the city to see Mr. Hodgins—the owner, you know—and he's firing Mrs. Jessop next week, see?"
Kirke stood before them, a bottle of lemonade in his hand.
"Is this young woman here with you or with me?" he bit off, an angry gleam in his eyes.
"Keep your hair on, Scotchie," laughed Bastien. He pressed closer to Delight and whispered in her ear: "I'll ​slip out tomorrow night, at ten. Meet me just outside the gates here and we'll talk things over." He moved away, and melted into the crowd. Kirke remarked, looking after him fiercely:
"I'd a mind to break this bottle over his head."
The lemonade was gratefully cool. . . . Delight, her head thrown back, was draining the last drop when she saw Mrs. Jessop emerge from the tent beside which they were standing. It was the gypsy's tent and the housekeeper had evidently been having her fortune told. She walked rigidly with a stony face, a strong, squat figure that gave way to no one. Delight breathed a sigh of relief because she had not seen her.
The next day everything was slack at Beemer's. The crowds were gone, everyone was dog-tired, and no one was doing his or her own work because they were plunged into their annual muddle on account of the arrival of a new Beemer baby. Mrs. Beemer had behaved better than Beemer had hoped for. She had been about the three days of the Fair. She had even cooked the supper on the last night, though she put so much pepper in the fried potatoes that the whole dining-room was in a state of panting, and had to have gallons of tea to ease their burnt throats.
It was her last fierce gesture before taking to her bed. She threw the empty pepper-pot on to a shelf, kicked the cupboard door to, and rolled out of the kitchen and into her bed.
Neither the maids nor Beemer, himself, had had much sleep that night. It was white dawn before the little new Beemer arrived. It was too late to go to bed, so Delight ​and Kathleen set to work and scrubbed the dining-room and kitchen floors, while Nellie began to cook the early breakfast.
Delight was drowsy, and as she described soapy arcs with the scrubbing brush, her mind revolved, without arriving at any answer about one question. Should she or should she not meet Bastien that night? If Mrs. Jessop were discharged, how homely it would be to go back to The Duke with Mrs. Bye, and Queenie, and Charley, and Annie, and old Davy, like dear friends around her! She knew they were friendly towards her, for Pearl had told her so. Here none of the women were friendly. There was only Kirke, who would be in a fine rage if she left Beemer's. She didn't care. Let him rage. Old "Fine Nicht."
When she went to her room to put on her black dress for dinner she found an envelope lying on the floor inside. It had been pushed under the door. It was addressed to—
Miss D. Mainprize,
British American Hotel,
Brancepeth.
She could scarcely believe her eyes. Who would be writing to her? It was not Jimmy's neat, firm script but a large scrawl, half printing. She turned it over and over in her large gentle hand, still moist and red from scrubbing, before she opened it with a hairpin. The sheet inside was heavy, with a narrow gilt band. She read:
My dear Miss Mainprize—
Having had dinner at The British American in Fair time and seeing you then and also later on the grounds, i beg to tell you i am desperately in love, i am a wealthy ​cattle breeder and can give you the best of everything, fine house and clothes and everything. i think it a shame for a girl with your grand looks to be working in a hotel. i make you this formal offer of marriage hereby. Now Miss Mainprize this is what i want you to do. i want you to meet me on the other side of the lagoon tonight at sundown. Cross the Park to where the lagoon is narrowest, and you will find a green rowboat tied among the willows. Get in and row yourself to the far side. i will be there. You better bring your basket of dishes with you as i will have my motor car waiting and if we come to a proper understanding there won't be no need for you to go back to Beemer's at all. We can be married at once by special licence. Now my dear Miss Mainprize don't fail me for my heart is set on making a lady of you as you deserve. Meet me at Sundown sure don't be afraid.
Your sincere admirer and lover,
J. Adams,
Manor Farm.
Red and white. Hot and cold. Still and trembling. Delight was shaken by a flood of emotion. A proposal on beautiful gilt-edged paper pushed under her door! A terrifying, delicious, arrogant proposal. A gentleman farmer! A breeder of prize cattle! There had been several to dinner, she knew. If she had only known which was he, so she might know what he looked like! Just when she had been worrying about whether she should meet Bill. Now this stupendous thing, blotting out all else. A lady! She looked about the stuffy room, a mere closet, lighted by a skylight. She looked at her red hands, her feet in down-at-heel slippers, wet from the wet floor. She looked at her tin trunk, at Jimmy's trunk—Jimmy's trunk. Oh, if Jimmy hadn't run away from Brancepeth! She would never see Jimmy again. Except perhaps, as she rolled along in her motor car—and he trudging in ​his workingman's clothes. Poor Jimmy. If only he hadn't been so hasty with her! And she a lady in a motor car, wearing a pink plumed hat with lace falling from the brim.
Pearl called on her that afternoon. Pearl in a new fall suit lined with satin, long kid gloves with innumerable buttons, and shoes with wide silk ties. A black velvet toque, too, with white roses. Pearl was greatly wrought up over the letter shown her on a pledge of secrecy. Delight must do it, must go to meet this wonderful man, this prize-cattle breeder.
"Do you suppose he really is rich?" asked Delight. "It would seem too good to be true. Like a dream, Pearl."
"I know. But look at Edwin. Folks said no good would come of me trustin' him. And look at me now."
Delight looked at her, deeply admiring.
"Think of havin' your own motor car."
"I'm afraid of them. I've only seen a few."
"Pshaw. There's nothing to be afraid of. Every well-off man'll own one before long."
"Pearl, think of me with no work to do. Not at anybody's beck and call."
"Like me. I tell you it's grand to lie in bed as late as you like and never have your ankles swelled up with being on your feet all day."
"It must be grand, Pearl."
But her face had become thoughtful.
"There's Jimmy, Pearl. He might come back."
Pearl was a soft, gentle girl but, like many gentle women, quietly ruthless. She was fond of Delight. She thought that if Delight could marry a gentleman (though, of course, he would not be a real gentleman like Edwin), they might become companions, fast friends. In Delight's marriage she would find some sort of anchorage for ​herself, whereas now she was drifting among those who were not of her social standing. Her unexpected fortune had made everything seem possible. There was an unreality in everything she saw. She scarcely believed in herself.
Now, bending her soft gaze on Delight, she said:
"My landlady" (she could not quite bring herself to say—"I, myself") "My landlady was in the city three weeks ago and she saw Jimmy Sykes at a show with another girl—a little bit of a plump girl with straight black hair. They was both laughing fit to kill."
Fit to kill. . . . The stab that went through Delight's breast was fit to kill. When Pearl had gone, she went to Jimmy's little trunk. She took out the jersey that still was curved to the form of his compact body. With her scissors she snapped a strand of yarn. She began to unravel. . . . Larger and larger grew the mass of crinkled yarn. Small and smaller, the shape of Jimmy, clinging desperately to her hand. At last she stood motionless gazing down at the last strand in her fingers with the fateful look of an Atropos.