The Oyster Part 9

But the picnic had begun. Men pinned on newspapers, rushed for cardboard to cut out armour, rifled the linen cupboards for tablecloths. Journals, sandwich men, knights, ghosts, came laughing to the garden, odd ends fluttering, pins proving unstable friends.

Women got at the heap of odds and ends--gauzes, tinsel crowns, veils and lace, tying great sashes over their evening dresses, shrieking for inspiration.

With a ripple of laughter, Lady Deverelle, wife of the tenth earl, flung off her long green skirt, and stood forth audaciously in a froth of green silk reaching not far below her knees; put a paper crown on her head, and called herself a fairy.

Echo of their laughter drifted to the river. Boats ma.s.sed outside as people peered through the shrubs.

"Those dreadful people at the Bungalow," said Lady Susan Ploddy to her sister; they were on a houseboat a short way off.

Into the circle of light ran a crowd of laughing people, s.n.a.t.c.hing at enjoyment. Out on the velvet turf, dancing to the music of hidden musicians.

"Idyllic but exhausting," said Undine to her partner. "There will be more fun to-night in looking on."

The dance would not last long; it was only an excuse for a romp.

Prince Fritz, his stout person hung about with dusters, calling himself a cheque, held the dancer in his arms, whirling her round. Navotsky shrugged her shoulders. "She was Night," she said, and merely put on a black veil, floating from her crown of diamond stars.

The great mirror reflected them all; they danced the cotillon, taking up handsome presents carelessly; scarfs, pins, studs, a hundred pounds'

worth of toys which no one wanted.

Sybil Chauntsey had picked up roses, pinned them in her hair and in her dress, wrote on her card "Summer." She was left alone as they danced, until some man, seeing her, whirled her noisily round and laughed and dropped her. The girl felt that she was not one of this romping crowd; her pleasure began to taste bitterly to her.

Esme, forgetting her troubles, had tied a sash round her dress, twisted some stuff into a head-dress, and called herself a Spaniard. The yellow gown and scarlet sash suited her.

She only did one figure in the cotillon; she liked looking on. Then they formed up for the prize before the judges.

Lady Deverelle, in her green underskirt, took first easily. They gave the Prince the next.

The musicians thrummed, but the dancers were weary of fooling; shadow-like, they melted away into nooks and summer-houses, until from every corner echoed the hushed treble of women's voices, the hushed depth of men's.

"See, I have marked down my corner." Captain Gore Helmsley tore off a s.h.i.+eld of paper off his arm and took Esme's arm. She felt his fingers press on her warm, soft flesh. "See here." He had the key of a small outdoor room, a glorified summer-house hung about with fragrant roses, furnished with lounge chairs and soft cus.h.i.+ons. Darkness wrapped it, but with a click Esme turned on a shaded light, giving a faint glimmer through the gloom.

Gore Helmsley pulled the chairs to one side, so that to curious pa.s.sers-by they were in shade. The dim glow fell on Esme, on her s.h.i.+ning hair, her brilliantly pretty face.

"So, it was good of you to come down," Jimmie said. "I was afraid you wouldn't. And once here--" he said.

"And here," Esme's voice, interrupting, was not lowered. "Here we can be amused for two days--no more."

"No more," he whispered.

His hands pressing hers, his voice was more eloquent than words.

"No more? After all these months, Esme," he said. "Here, where no one watches, where it is so easy to arrange--where--"

Esme Carteret sat up in her chair, impatient, annoyed; she interrupted again sharply.

"Where people make awful fools of themselves," she said.

Gore Helmsley moved nearer to her. "Sweet fools," he muttered, and stooping suddenly, he kissed her.

Esme got up; she neither started nor showed emotion. "My husband said no woman could trust you," she said coldly. "Come--I am going in."

Captain Gore Helmsley stammered as he realized that Esme would never be pieced into the puzzle of his loves. Then, being extremely offended, he endeavoured to hide it, and Esme's faint malicious smile made him her enemy for life.

Except for the kiss he had not committed himself in any way, and except for her one sharp speech Esme had said nothing to show resentment; they talked carelessly going in. He knew that he had thrown and lost.

Sybil Chauntsey, overlooked in the prize-giving, while she had been involved in a romping dance, came towards the veranda. The part.i.tions each held its Jack and Jill; she could hear rustles, whispers, low-toned laughter.

From one Prince Fritz's guttural was unmistakable, as indiscreetly he muttered his adoration.

"Mein angel," said Prince Fritz, as Sybil pa.s.sed. "You shall haf the pearl--so that I clasp it on your neck."

A big, squarely-built man stood at the lighted doorway; Sybil had met him in London--Lord Innistenne. He whistled as he saw her.

"What the--why are you here, Miss Chauntsey?" he said slowly.

"I came to see it all." Sybil's voice brightened. "It was fun, wasn't it? I made mother let me come."

She was panting, her rose crown crooked, one of her chiffon sleeves torn.

"Fun, for grown-ups," he said shortly. "I thought your mother"--he paused--"did not know the Bellews."

"Captain Gore Helmsley got them to ask me. He wanted me to come down to see it all."

Innistenne frowned. "Look here," he said. "Let me motor you up to town to-morrow. Leave this place."

Sybil shook her head, doubtfully. She was not enjoying herself.

There was no solemn meeting at breakfast at the Bellews. People who liked to come down strolled in to a meal which was kept hot until twelve. Others breakfasted outside their bedrooms; pretty women in silken wrappers might send invitations to a friend to join them in the rose-covered part.i.tions outside their windows.

The fresh air of a June day came whispering across the water and the shaven lawns. Later it would be very hot, but as yet the coolness of the dew was on the gra.s.s; the sun beamed softly gold through fresh green leaves.

Esme smiled a little, for, coming into the breakfast-room, she saw that Jimmie Gore Helmsley meant to have no more to do with her. He did not come to her table, get her fruit, hang over her lovingly. Sybil, fresh as the day itself, was listening to his caressing voice, tasting her first plate of delicately-flavoured flattery.

Feminine eighteen comes gaily to its breakfast. It has had no weary thoughts to trouble it, no fading skin to cream and powder.

What was she going to do to-day? Oh! anything and everything; boat, play tennis, idle, watch the people.

The silver sweetness of the morning called to Sybil. She would have breakfast out, under the trees. She saw tables ready there. Cool damp of dew, a gentle cloud of midges and flies did not deter Sybil. Cold tea and a narrow choice of breakfast, brought by a languid footman, were enough for her. Gore Helmsley, with the morning peevishness which comes when we are forty, brushed mosquitoes from his hair, stabbed irritably at congealing bacon and leathery egg, listened with tempered enthusiasm to Sybil's picture of ideal life.

Out in the woods somewhere, breakfast and lunch and dinner with the lovely trees overhead, and the lovely gra.s.s at one's feet, and no stuffy rooms and cold roast beef, but eggs and fish and tea, she chattered.

Captain Gore Helmsley said, "With pneumonia sauce," and said it irritably. He sat watching the girl's fresh face, the sparkle of her grey eyes, and presently deemed her worth even outdoor breakfast.

As cigarettes banished midges his voice grew soft again; he knew how to listen, how to make youth talk of itself. He planned the day out; he bought a box of sweets for Sybil to crunch.

The girl was excited, pleased by her conquest. She had seen Jimmie in attendance on well-known beauties; had never dreamt the black eyes would look at her with open admiration; or that the man would talk of lunches together, of a drive somewhere in his car, of singling her out.