The Citadel by A. J. Cronin Page A

the motion of snuff-taking, stood beside her and deftly turned the sheets. Gladys had a full contralto voice, bringing all her deep notes up from her bosom with a lifting motion of her chin. After the ‘ Love Lyrics’ she gave them ‘ Wandering By’, and ‘Just a Girl’.
    There was generous applause. Bramwell murmured absently, in a pleased undertone: ‘ She’s in fine voice tonight.’
    Doctor Gabell was then persuaded to his feet. Fiddling with his ring, smoothing his well-oiled but still traitorous hair, the olive skinned buck bowed affectedly towards his hostess, and, clasping his hands well in front of him, bellowed fruitily, ‘Love in Sweet Seville’. Then, as an encore, he gave, ‘ Toreador’.
    ‘You sing those songs about Spain with real go, Doctor Gabell,’ commented the kindly Mrs Watkins.
    ‘It’s my Spanish blood, I suppose,’ laughed Gabell modestly, as he resumed his seat.
    Andrew saw an impish glint in Watkins’s eye. The old mine manager, a true Welshman, knew music, had last winter helped his men to produce one of Verdi’s more obscure operas and now, dormant behind his pipe, was enjoying himself enigmatically. Andrew could not help thinking that it must afford Watkins deep amusement to observe these strangers to his native town affecting to dispense culture in the shape of worthless, sentimental ditties. When Christine smilingly refused to perform he turned to her with a twitch to his lips.
    ‘You’re like me, I reckon, my dear. Too fond of the piano to play it.’
    Then the high light of the evening shone. Doctor Bramwell took the centre of the stage. Clearing his throat, he struck out one foot, threw back his head, placed his hand histrionically inside his coat. He announced: ‘Ladies and gentlemen. “ The Fallen Star”. A Musical Monologue.’ At the piano, Gladys started to vamp a sympathetic accompaniment and Bramwell began.
    The recitation, which dealt with the pathetic vicissitudes of a once famous actress now come to dire poverty, was glutinous with sentiment and Bramwell gave it with soulful anguish. When the drama rose Gladys pressed bass chords. When the pathos oozed she tinkled on the treble. As the climax came, Bramwell drew himself up, his voice breaking on the final line, ‘ There she was …’ a pause, ‘starving in the gutter …’ a long pause, ‘ only a fallen star!’
    Little Mrs Watkins, her knitting fallen to the floor, turned damp eyes towards him.
    ‘Poor thing, poor thing! Oh, Doctor Bramwell, you always do that most beautiful.’
    The arrival of the claret-cup created a diversion. By this time it was after eleven o’clock and, on the tacit understanding that anything following Bramwell’s effort would be sheer anticlimax, the party prepared to break up. There were laughter, polite expressions of thanks and a movement towards the hall. As Andrew pulled on his coat, he reflected miserably that he had not exchanged a word with Christine all night.
    Outside, he stood at the gate. He felt that he must speak to her. The thought of the long wasted evening, in which he had meant so easily, so pleasantly, to put things right between them, weighed on him like lead. Though she had not seemed to look at him, she had been there, near him in the same room and he had kept his eyes doltishly upon his boots. Oh, Lord! he thought wretchedly, I’m worse than the fallen star. I’d better get home and go to bed.
    But he did not. He remained there, his pulse racing suddenly as she came down the steps and walked towards him, alone. He gathered all his strength and stammered:
    ‘Miss Barlow. May I see you home.’
    ‘I’m afraid,’ she paused, ‘I’ve promised to wait for Mr and Mrs Watkins.’
    His heart sank. He felt like turning away, a beaten dog. Yet something still held him. His face was pale but his chin had a firm line. The words came tumbling one upon another with a rush.
    ‘I only want to say that I’m sorry about the Howells affair. I came round to give a