The Oyster Part 17

Sybil cried out, frightened and astonished. Eighty pounds! and besides that she had played in a lady's four and lost another ten. Her mother was not rich; she could not pay easily.

"Keep your pennies," he mocked in lordly tones. "Some day you'll pay me. I am glad to help a little pal." Jimmie meant the payment to be a high one, with interest. He was a merciless human hawk, poising long, swift to strike at the last. "We played sixpennies, you see."

"I never dreamt," Sybil faltered; "I thought it was pennies here."

When you owe a man eighty pounds, when he has paid rather than have you cornered, it would be churlish to spring aside, a prude, if he kisses you softly before you part. If he pulls you to the arm of his chair and keeps you there, holding two small chill hands, it is surely all in good friends.h.i.+p.

Sybil went away with some of the careless youth wiped from her fresh face, with trouble and perplexity in her frank eyes; the big dark man fascinated her, knew how to make her feel a little queen, how to bring the hot blood to her cheeks, but to-night she was half afraid. His little pal! She'd cured his headache--been a brick to stay with him.

Instead of playing bridge to-night they'd play piquet in a quiet corner, he whispered.

"You didn't come to tea." Oliver Knox came straight to Sybil in the hall, his face ill-humoured. "I was watching for you."

"No, I was tired," she said, blus.h.i.+ng a little.

"And Gore Helmsley did not come--our black Adonis, Miss Chauntsey--can't you see through the man?"

A foolish speech uttered by foolishly, honestly loving youth. Sybil tossed her head angrily and walked away offended.

"Coming to play to-night?" Mousie Cavendish asked her.

Sybil's lips drooped.

"I don't think so. I've lost such a lot. You play too high for me."

"Pooh! What matter. Jimmie doesn't mind. He's full of money now after the race."

"I've lost such a lot," Sybil repeated, forgetting that she was angry with Oliver Knox, turning to him in her trouble, missing the meaning in the woman's words.

"You ought not to play with that crowd. Mrs Cavendish is the best player in London--the quickest to read a face, I'll bet. It's madness, folly."

Another foolish speech. Sybil went off to change. This drama was being played quickly. The girl was stirred, flattered; awakened nature made her a lute too easily played on by a practised hand. She shrank from decision, from promising to marry a soldier of slender fortune, and she knew that decision was near. That night, after dinner, her young lover followed her, took her, almost against her will, away from the others to the library, with its rows of richly-bound volumes, its sombre magnificence.

"Sybil"--the boy's face was white. He was too moved for eloquence.

"Sybil, you know I love you. I can't stand by and see that other fellow follow you, as he has followed others. Making you--you remarkable.

Sybil, I'm not rich, but I love you, marry me--I'll make you happy."

And--she was not sure--for a moment she felt his arms close round her and dreamt of peace and sheltered love, then again she was not sure, she said so faltering. Give her time ... she muttered.

"Sybil, I can't wait. It's life or death to me. Give the fellow up.

Give him back his horse. I'll hire you one. Go, tell him now. It maddens me to see you ride the brute."

Give back the horse, and to-morrow she was to ride the perfect chestnut at the meet. Next day they were going back to London, they were dining with Jimmie, motoring with him. "I'll tell you"--Sybil faltered--"later--I don't know."

An anxious lover is always a fool. He would have no delay, he must know. It was a choice--a challenge to fate. If she took him it must be altogether. She was too young to understand. Sybil was tortured by indecision. How, owing eighty pounds, could she go to her friend and say, I will not ride your horse--I will not dine with you. How could she hurt him?

"Sybil, I thought you cared," a hoa.r.s.e voice roused her.

"I believe I do. Oh, Oliver, give me time."

"No!" he was going away, leaving next morning. "I cannot share you, Sybil. Oh, friends.h.i.+p. Don't prate of that to me, but, if you want me, send for me. If I can ever help, write or wire. I'll go on loving you as long as I'm alive. As you don't care enough I can go."

He flung out bruised and hurt.

Was it chance or design which had made Jimmie Gore Helmsley talk that day of the worries of a soldier's life?

"Kicked about, never enough money, poky houses, a rattling two-seater, or a dogcart, a dog's life for a pretty woman," Jimmie had said lightly. "Stuck in some wretched country town or in some big station where the dust reeks of the army. I've pitied so many girls who have married soldiers. Think of your beauty now thrown away." And all the time as young Knox pleaded Sybil had recalled these words.

Esme went back to London next day, back to her little flat.

A bleak wind swept along the streets, dark clouds raced across the sky.

It was dreary, intensely cold, the flat was poky, its cosiness seemed to have deserted it, it had become a tawdry box. The furniture looked shabby, worn, the tenants had been careless. Esme stood discontentedly pulling at her cus.h.i.+ons, petulantly moving back china to old places.

Her servants were new, inclined to be lazy. The cook looked blankly unenthusiastic as to lunch.

"Couldn't possibly have all that in time to-day, mem. They'd send round something from Harrod's, no doubt."

Esme lunched ill-humouredly off galantine and tinned peas. She thought of the big houses she had been in; they must move, take a little house.

This place was out of the way, inconvenient. She ordered flowers recklessly, telephoned to Denise inviting herself to dinner.

The butler answered. "Yes, her ladys.h.i.+p would be dining in, he would ask." There was a long pause, then an answer. "Her ladys.h.i.+p would be pleased to see Mrs Carteret at eight."

"She might have spoken herself," said Esme, angrily.

The afternoon dragged wearily. Esme drove to one of the big shops, ordering new cus.h.i.+ons, new coverings, but languidly; she meant to leave the flat and took no real interest in it.

She went early to the Blakeneys. Denise was not dressed. No message came asking her to go to her friend's room. Esme had to learn that an obligation creates constraint, as the person we owe money to, however generously given, is never a welcome guest.

But Esme left the pretty drawing-room. Its s.p.a.ciousness made her envious, she stepped past Denise's room to the upper landings. Here Mrs Stanson was just coming to her supper. A little lightly-breathing thing lay asleep in his cot.

"But, nurse, he's pale, isn't he, thin?" Esme whispered.

"He caught a cold, Mrs Carteret. Oh, nothing. I feared croup, but it pa.s.sed. It's a trying month, you see, for tiny children."

Lightly, so softly that the baby never stirred, Esme stooped to kiss him, stood looking down at the child which ought to have been sleeping in the spare room at the flat.

But he would have been a nuisance there, an inconvenience, she told herself insistently.

Then fear tore at her heart. What if the child should die. "Be good to him," she whispered, slipping a sovereign into Mrs Stanson's hand. "Be good to him, Mrs Stanson."

She got down before Denise did. Felt the want of warmth in her hostess's greeting. Denise was splendidly gowned, gay, merry, looking younger, happier. Sir Cyril's eyes followed his wife, contentment visible in their look.

"My dear Esme, delighted, of _course_. When you are alone always come here. We've only a four for bridge--Susie and her husband. You can cut in."

"I'll look on." Esme felt that she was not wanted, she was odd man out.

She flushed unhappily.

Denise was full of plans, each one including Cyril now. She talked lightly of that boy Jerry. She was completely the happy wife, confident in her position.

"And the boy. He's had a cold," Esme said.