The Oyster Part 23

Sometimes, half shyly, Bertie would try to talk of the future, say they could not always live in the army.

"There are such dear little places to be found, Es"--he used to study advertis.e.m.e.nts--"just big enough. We could keep a horse or two, a garden--be so happy!"

"And become cabbages ourselves. Play bridge with the parson and his wife, and go to summer tennis-parties with two men and forty maids.

London, my Bertie, it's the only place for poor people. The country is all very well if you need never stay there, but to grow rooted to garden soil! Boo! I'll get you on! You shall be a General and inspect armies."

Bertie gave up his dream of a little house in the country; he got used to the careless, ever-moving life. And now he sickened of it.

If women were flowers, this woman standing near him was a violet, a simple thing, only beautiful to those who love sweetness better than flaring beauty.

"You're worried," she said. "Where is Esme?"

"Esme is out for the day," he said.

"Then you've often promised me an outing. Come and be a cheap tripper with me; let it be my treat. I got a cheque from mother yesterday. I'm rich. Let's pretend we're very poor, and enjoy ourselves. You mustn't sit there brooding."

Bertie put away the books, laughed up at the gentle face. He would, but he must pay half.

The May day was theirs; they would enjoy it as two children.

They would take a 'bus, lunch, go to the White City, see how economy can be practised.

They lunched at a little restaurant in Germain Street, studying the menu with puckered brows, taking omelette and a grill which they could share, and biscuits and cheese, and light white wine.

The amount of a bill which would not have covered tips at the Berkeley or the Ritz was gaily paid.

Bertie saw a new side to Estelle's character; the childish power of enjoyment. Take a taxi? No! Taxis were for the rich. They sat on the top of a motor 'bus, going down roaring Piccadilly.

Esme, coming to the door of the Berkeley, happened to look up at the packed ma.s.s of humanity seated on the monster's head.

"Bertie!" she flashed out, mockingly, "and the South African girl.

Bertie happily saving his pennies and seeing London. Oh! how funny."

She forgot that a year ago she had often gone in a 'bus with him.

There were only taxis in the world for her now, or motors. The little electric carriages were so cheap to hire. Esme's bill at the nearest garage was running up rapidly. "It was such a 'bore' to look for a taxi in the evenings; this was ready and took one on to supper or ball, and back again, and cost very little more," she would say.

Bertie had not seen his wife. He sat enjoying the suns.h.i.+ne, looking down at the packed streets, as the 'bus slipped through the traffic--past Grosvenor Gate, on to the London which is not London to Society, but merely "down in Kensington," into the vast grounds of the Exhibition, to play as children might have played. To rock on switchbacks, taking the front seat for the heart-sinking glides and dips; to come foolishly down watershutes; to slide on mats round perilous curves; to go and laugh at themselves in ridiculous mirrors.

And then with an aftermath of seriousness to look at the quaint buildings of Shakespeare's time, and talk of the dead master of the drama.

Estelle had read every play; she could quote aptly, talk of those which she had seen.

"He had one fault," she said. "His good women were mawkish fools; his villainesses splendidly lovable. It was the spirit of the age, no doubt, that to be good one must be a mere loving nonent.i.ty, that brains led the feminine world to destruction."

If the world would but hang out warnings to the blind mortals who scurry through its maze, seeking for openings, or shouting, laughing, as they go; if we knew that an hour hence our life's history would change, and that a refusal to go to lunch, a turning up one corner instead of another, would leave it as it was, would it be better for us?

If Bertie Carteret, talking eagerly, almost boyishly, with a new interest in words, had realized that the turnstile of the Exhibition was taking him into a land of pain and regret, would he have seen the warning, laughed, or turned back? He had pa.s.sed through it now; his feet were set on the path.

They drank tea out of blue-and-white j.a.panese cups, with sight-seers all round them. Esme would have shuddered at the place, absolutely refused to take tea with milk in it, and with such impossible people about her.

Estelle enjoyed it; the day was still theirs as they dined at the same little restaurant with the same waiter, his memory sharpened by Bertie's surrept.i.tiously large tip, rus.h.i.+ng to find a table for them.

Weariness made economy less rigid; the little dinner they picked out was simple, but not for poor people. Since men in morning coats may not appear in respectably expensive seats, they climbed high at a theatre, looking down at the stage far below them; the brilliant ma.s.s of colour in the stalls; the rows of perfectly-dressed women's heads; of men's--sleek and generally thin of hair. Parties strolled into boxes, late for half an act, carelessly looking at the play on the stage.

"There's Esme! See!"

Esme came into one of the larger boxes with Dollie Gresham, Jimmie Gore Helmsley; a couple of soldiers; and then at the last, pretty Sybil Chauntsey, gesticulating as she ran in, everyone laughing at something she said.

"I wish"--Bertie looked gravely at the group--"that Sybil Chauntsey would keep away from that Helmsley man. He's no child's guide."

It was Jimmie's party. He had telephoned to Esme to chaperone it. They were supping at the Ritz afterwards. Little Sybil had been engaged; she had run in telling them of her many difficulties before she could get away. At a small dance to-night one man would look for a partner who would never come.

Estelle was tired when the theatre was over; it was hot up there above the dress circle. She pointed to her morning dress and refused supper.

"We'll have some at home then. Esme may be back. The economy must end at twelve. I'll drive you home in a taxi."

They came to the flat to find it silent, shut up. Esme was not coming home until three or four. A few sandwiches stood ready for her, but Bertie would have none of them. He could cook; there were chafing dishes downstairs. Together they raided the trim larder, to find nothing but cold beef and eggs and b.u.t.ter. But how they laughed as Bertie scrambled the eggs, and did it skilfully, if he had not put in pepper twice, and Estelle grilled slices of beef in boiling b.u.t.ter, and dusted them with curry powder; then they heated cold potatoes and carried up their hot dishes, with bread and b.u.t.ter and plates.

Estelle said she adored pepper, as she burnt her throat with scrambled eggs. Bertie concealed the fact that the beef was corned; the potatoes, hot by the time the eggs and beef were finished, were excellent.

Estelle made coffee.

They cleared up at last, was.h.i.+ng dishes, putting things away, going home together on a cool summer's night in a crawling growler.

Esme's new maid, looking in once, had slipped away unseen.

A foolish, childish day; a glimpse of how two people may enjoy themselves in the vast mother city of the world, away from where the golden shower of wealth rains so heedlessly, where cost is the hallmark of excellence, and a restaurant which is not the fas.h.i.+on of the moment is impossible.

As they said good-bye on the doorstep--Estelle had her key--Bertie held her cool, slender hands in his; asked her if she would spend a day out of London with him. "Down in Devons.h.i.+re," he said, "at Cliff End. I have to go there soon. We can go early. Your aunt will not mind."

"Oh, not with you," said Estelle, simply. "She knows it is all right."

He felt a little pang at the words--a pang he could not understand. It was right that she should trust herself with him; he was married and a mere friend; yet the little vexed feeling in his heart was the warning held up by the G.o.ds.

Bertie walked back--a long walk along quiet streets with great London brooding in her silent might. Sometimes he pa.s.sed a house lighted up, red carpeting on its steps, rows of carriages and motors waiting; women in rich cloaks coming out, their faces weary behind their smiles.

Sometimes strange birds of the night flitted past. Other women, painted, weary as their rich sisters behind their set smile of invitation, going home alone, abandoning search for foolish prey. Men, evil-faced, furtive, glanced at him, standing to watch if the "toff"

would turn into some unfrequented narrow street. Gleams of white s.h.i.+rt front as men of his cla.s.s strolled to their rooms or lodging, their black cloaks flapping back to show the evening dress underneath. A few tipsy, foolish boys, lurching along looking for trouble. The big clubs were still lighted, their warm wealth behind their great windows. On to "down at Kensington," to the great pile of the flats towering to the soft blue sky.

A little electric carriage rolled noiselessly past him. Esme got out. A man's voice said "Good-bye." It was one of the soldiers whom he had seen in the box. He heard some words of parting, then Esme's careless, heart-whole laugh. They were on the second floor; he heard her exclaim as she saw the lights all up:

"How careless of someone."

She was brilliantly dressed; something of black and silver, clinging, graceful, billowing out round her feet; there were diamonds in her fair hair, a new necklace on her soft white throat. She s.h.i.+vered a little, turning on the fire, filling herself a gla.s.s of brandy from the decanter, pouring in a little Perrier.

"I was the careless one, Esme. I forgot them."

"But you have only just come in," she said.

"I was in and went out again. You look tired, Esme."