It was in the upper galleries, amid vast waxen groups of monarchs, princes, princesses, statesmen, murderers, soldiers, footballers and pugilists (Violet favoured the queens and princesses) that, to the accompaniment of music from a bright red-coated orchestra, a new ordeal arose for Henry.
“I wonder where the Chamber of Horrors is,” said Violet. “We haven’t come across it yet, have we?”
An attendant indicated a turnstile leading to special rooms—admittance eightpence, tax included. Henry was hurt; Madame Tussaud’s fell heavily in his esteem, despite the free cinematograph. It was a scheme to empty the pockets of a confiding public.
“Oh!” exclaimed Violet, dashed also. She was in a difficult position. She wanted as much as Henry to keep down costs, but at the same time she wanted her admired mate to behave in a grand and reckless manner suitable to the occasion.
Meeting her glance, Henry hesitated. Was there to be no end to disbursements? His secret passion fought against his love. He turned pale; he could not speak; he was himself amazed at the power of his passion. Full of fine intentions, he dared not affront the monster. Then, his throat dry and constricted, he said blandly, with an invisible gesture of the most magnificent and extravagant heroism:
“I hardly think we ought to consider expense on a day like this.”
And the monster recoiled, and Henry wiped his brow. Violet paid the one and fourpence. They entered into a new and more recondite world. Relics of Napoleon did not attract them, but a notice at the head of a descending flight of steps fascinatingly read, “Downstairs to the Chamber of Horrors.” The granite steps presented a grim and awe-inspiring appearance; they might have been the steps into hell. Violet shivered and clutched Henry’s arm again.
“No, no!” she whispered in agitation. “I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t.”
“But we’ve paid, my dear,” said Henry, gently protesting.
He, the strong male, took command of the morbidly affected, clinging woman, and led her down the steps. Her arm kept saying to him: “I am in your charge. Nobody but you could have persuaded me into this adventure. …” Docks full of criminals of the deepest dye. The genuine jury-box from the original Old Bailey. Recumbent figures in frightful opium dens. Reconstitutions of illustrious murder scenes, with glasses of champagne and packs of cards on the tables, and siren women on chairs. Wonderful past all wondering! Violet was enthralled. Quickly she grew calmer, but she never relaxed her hold on him. The souvenirs of incredible crimes somehow sharpened the edge of his feeling for her and inflamed the romance. He remembered with delicious pain how his longing for this unparalleled Violet had made him unhappy night and day for weeks, how it had seemed impossible that she could ever be his, this incarnation of the very spirit of vivacity, brightness, energy, dominance. … And now he dominated her. She attached herself to him, wound round him, the ivy to his oak. She was not young. And thank God she was not young. A nice spectacle he would have made, gallivanting round at the short skirts of some girlish thing! She was ideal, and she was his. The exquisite thought ran to and fro in his head all the time.
“What murder can that be?” she demanded in front of a kitchen interior. She had identified the others.
Close by was a lady with a catalogue.
“Would you mind telling me what crime this is supposed to be, madam?” Henry politely asked, raising his hat. The lady looked at him with a malignant expression.
“Can’t you buy a catalogue for yourself?”
“Vulgar, nasty creature!” muttered Violet.
Henry said nothing, made no sign. They walked away. He knew that he ought to have bought a catalogue at the start, but he had not bought one, and now he could not. No! He could not. The situation was dreadful, but Violet enchantingly eased it.
“Everything ought to be labelled,” she said. “However—” And she began to talk cheerfully as if nothing had happened.
They passed along a corridor and through a turnstile, and were once again in the less sensational Hall of Tableaux, and they heard the tinkling, unbridled laughter of girls surveying themselves in the distorting mirrors. Henry limped noticeably. Violet led the way through the restaurant towards the main hall. Tea laid on spotless tables. Jam in saucers on the tables. Natty, pretty and smiling waitresses.
“I could do with a cup of tea. Oh! And there’s jam!” exclaimed Violet.
Henry was shocked. More expense. Must they be eating all day? Nevertheless, they sat down.
“I’m afraid I’m about done for,” said Henry sadly, disheartened. “My knee.”
His knee was not troubling him in the least, but a desperate plan for cutting short the honeymoon and going home had seized him. He had decided that the one cure for him was to be at home alone with her. He had had enough, more than enough, of the licence of the West End. He wanted tranquillity. He wanted to know where he was.
“Your knee. Oh, Henry! I’m so sorry. What can we do?”
“We can go home,” he replied succinctly.
“But the big cinema, and all that?”
“Well, we’ve seen one. I feel I should like to be at home.”
“Oh, but—!”
Violet was strangely disturbed. He could not understand her agitation. Surely they could visit the big cinema another night. He was determined. He said to himself that he must either go home or go mad. The monster had come back upon him in ruthless might. To placate the monster he must at any cost bear Violet down. He did bear her down, and she surrendered with a soft and deferential amiability which further endeared her to him. They partook of tea and jam; she discharged the bill, and they departed.
“I don’t want to be bothered with
