Once a mere cottage, now a long ornate bungalow jutting into angles,
full of unexpected rooms, the Bellews' river-side house is more
luxurious than many big structures of brick and mortar.
"We run down to picnic here," but Belle Bellew knew that picnicking
without everything out of season, and a _chef_ of quality, could not
appeal to the people she gathered about her. The picnic element was
kept up by breakfast-tables laid under trees, things deserted and
unused--man likes his breakfast free from fly and midge. The ideal,
talked of in the gleam of electric light, is fresh air, the plash of
old Father Thames, morning sunshine; the real is that we prefer
tempered light, copper heaters, and a roof.
The long low house jutted out in two wings, all the windows opening
onto a covered veranda.
Dull people turned their heads aside when they rowed past on Sunday
evenings, for the flash of lights, the sound of raised voices, could be
seen and heard from the river.
The chairs were wicker, but the rugs on the stained floors Persian. It
was wealth, less ostentatious than the Holbrooks'; light, frothy,
merry, careless wealth, with pleasure for its high priest.
Jimmie Gore Helmsley motored Denise and Sybil down; the place seemed
empty when they came, but looking closer one could see groups here and
there, see flutter of light dresses; hear tinkle of light laughter,
bass of man's deeper note.
A thin, svelte woman, green-eyed, ferret-faced, came out of the open
door. Mousie Cavendish said she found her ugliness more powerful than
other women's beauty. A bitter-tongued little creature, stirring every
surface maliciously to point out something foul below it. But clever,
moderately rich, perfectly gowned; gaining what income she lacked
through her too keen power of observation.
You sat with her, sweetly pulling some reputation to pieces; you left
full-fed with evil spice; and then you shivered. Were not the same thin
fingers pulling out your secrets now, those secrets you foolishly
hinted at?
"Ah! pretty Esme!" Mousie blew a kiss from her reddened lips. "You
here! Where's Mrs Bellew, Miss Chauntsey? We may see her at
dinner-time; we may not, if she has taken a tea-basket to the backwater
close by." Mousie laughed at Sybil. "Does your young mind run upon
hostesses who wait to receive their guests? You will not find them
here, my child. Tell the men to get tea, Jimmie; we'll have it here."
The veranda was a series of outdoor rooms, wooden partitions,
rose-grown, dividing it.
Sybil's grey eyes were sparkling; this was so different from tea in
decorous drawing-rooms, from a stately week-end spent at Ascot with her
mother.
"Tea?" Mousie turned to the footman. "Cream sandwiches and fruit. This
riverside hotel," said Mrs Cavendish, "is an excellent one. Why, fair
Esme, you look pallid. And what pretty emeralds, cherie. Oh! the
rewards of beauty!"
The keen little eyes were frankly malicious, frankly open as to what
they meant.
Esme flushed a little; she saw the green eyes flash on at Gore
Helmsley. Esme was almost crudely virtuous; the hint offended.
Servants were preparing the lawn for the night's revel. Temporary
lights were being hung on strings, the turf swept and rolled; a great
mirror was set up.
"For the cotillon?" Esme asked.
"For the cotillon. We begin at nine. So that at twelve the cock shall
crow and we shall all--not go to bed."
"More people coming. Mrs Bellew," said Sybil, "was not out; she is
coming into the garden now."
"Ah! tiens, my child! it was my kindness to say that she was out,
knowing it was the hour of electricity. Once the knell of forty sounds
we must have our faces recharged daily. The Prince is coming--look ye!"
Prince Fritz--young, fat, extremely volatile, a thorn in the side of
his august mother and his wife--came tripping across the grass. He
talked English with a strong accent, and he bemoaned the future when he
must go home.
Yet, though Belle Bellew might box his ears later in a romp, she must
bob to him now discreetly as she greeted him.
Prince Fritz boomed out content and delight. "There is no place such as
this river house," he said, "none, fair lady." Then he looked round for
the dancer, who was his special attraction.
"Don't be alarmed, sir--she arrives," mocked Mousie from her balcony,
"she arrives. The revenues can continue to be squandered, and a nice
little woman's heart torn by the snapshots she sees of you in the
picture papers."
Prince Fritz grinned equably; he was not dignified.
"Like to see the river?" Gore Helmsley asked Sybil.
The girl was charming in her simple dress. Fresh and sweet and
unspoiled, eagerly delighted with everything.
But down by gliding, stately Thames, Jimmie was fatherly. She must be
careful here, keep quiet; a good deal of romping went on--and girls
could not behave as married women could.
"I'm your godfather here, you see." His dark face came close to hers,
showing the crinkles round his eyes, the hard lines near his mouth; but
he was at the age girls delight to worship. Someone who knows the
mysteries they only dream of; someone so different to honest, pleasant
boys, who thought more of sport than their companions.
Friendship! It was Jimmie Gore Helmsley's deadly weapon; there was
nothing to frighten the maid--he was only a pal--a pal to win her
confidences, to tell her how sweet she looked, to point out the perfect
smoothness of her fresh young skin, to find beauty in the lights in her
hair, the curves of her dimpled neck; to take her about discreetly in
town, to walk and talk with her at country houses; to listen, with a
face set a little wistfully, about some boy who adored her. Frank or
Tom was a good sort, a brick; youth went to youth; heaven send she
would be happy, and--appreciated--that the blind boy would see plainly
the perfection of the treasure he was winning. Ah! if someone who could
see could win it!
After this, next day, meeting her young lover, mademoiselle the
debutante would fret and sulk because Frank or Tom talked of his last
score at cricket, or his great day with the Team, instead of
worshipping her beauty.
And, later, the confidences would grow fewer; would come a day when the
boy's image faded; when a fool's heart beat for the world-worn man who
set her up as goddess, and then.... There were broken hearts and lives
in high society which could tell the rest. There were women, married
now, who shivered angrily at one hidden corner in their lives.
This nut-brown maid, with her grey eyes and cloud of dusky hair,
appealed to Jimmie. He came with a careless zest to each new conquest.
But first there was bright, flashing Esme, paid court to now for half a
year. The girl attracted vaguely as yet. Esme's careless coldness had
made him the more determined, but to-day he felt more confident.
Dinner was in two rooms, divided by an arch; the clatter of voices, the
flash of lights at the little tables, made it like a restaurant.
Belle Bellew, slim and tall, perfectly preserved, sorted her more
important guests, took scant trouble with the others.
The drawing-room almost dazzled Sybil. Lights glowed through rose
petals; jewels flashed on women's dresses and necks and arms; silks
shimmered; chiffons floated round cleverly-outlined forms.
The finger-bowls at dinner all held stephanotis flowers; the cloying,
heavy scent floated through the hot air.
Navotsky, the dancer, was in black, dead and unrelieved, clinging to
her sensuous limbs, outlining her white skin, and when she moved the
sombre draperies parted, with flash of orange and silver underneath,
sheath fitting, brilliantly gorgeous. A great band of diamonds outlined
her small, sleek head.
"More taxes on Grosse Holbein," murmured Mousie Cavendish. "Oh, what a
joy to dine where there is a cook and not a preparer of defunct meats."
There was no ostentation here, but a cunning which reached perfection.
"Laying up for ourselves water-drinking in Homburg," remarked Jimmie,
as he finished fish smothered in a sauce compound of many things, and
went on with a soufflet of asparagus. "Well, it's worth it. Look at our
Fritz, he's longing for stewed pork and plums; the butler tells me he
has cold galantine and bread and pickles left in his room at night to
assuage his hunger."
As the blue smoke haze drifted, and black coffee and liqueurs came to
interfere with digestion, Jimmie had dropped his voice to the note
_intime_ which women recognize. He half whispered to Esme; his
admiration for her was more open than usual.
Sybil talked to a clean-shaven youth who found her very dull, and
almost showed it. Who stared when she chattered and admired, and seemed
to think it provincial not to take all the world for granted.
"Think her lovely, that dancer woman. All right in her way, I imagine.
What a lovely ice, did you say? S'pose it's all right. Nevah eat 'em
myself."
Lord Francis Lennon got up with a sigh of relief to confide to the fair
lady of forty who amused him that he hated "dinin' in the nursery."
Outside a new moon lay silver on her azure, star-spangled bed. The
lights in the garden were making a glittering circle.
Mr Bellew, a sleek, dark man, who was occasionally recognized by his
own guests as their host, rang a bell and read out some rules.
Twenty minutes were given, and then every guest must have assumed a
character, and only used what materials they could find in the heap
prepared in the hall. Prizes to be given.
"Think us fools," said Mousie, pulling a green overdress from under a
cushion and becoming Undine.
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 massed 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, snatching 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
shield 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 cushions. 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
passers-by they were in shade. The dim glow fell on Esme, on her
shining 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 partitions
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 passed. "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 partitions 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 grass; 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 grass 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.
She thanked him warmly, with flushed cheeks which made her lovely.
"Take her to Brighton some day, down to the sea, for a picnic! Oh, how
lovely, and how good of him; he had so much to do, so many friends."
Lord Innistenne, strolling across the gardens, saw the two under the
big beech tree--saw Esme reading alone on the veranda.
He walked down to the river, where two long chairs were hidden in a
nook of shrubs, a slight, brown-eyed woman sitting in one, sitting
palpably waiting.
"Joan, would you do good works?" he said. "Let this day slip for it."
She looked up at him quickly.
"Come with me, use persuasion, get the Chauntsey child back to London
to her mother. I'll drive her up."
Joan Blacker looked at the river, seen dimly through the trees, at the
wall of shrubs about the hidden nook. They had not many days like this.
Then wistfully she looked at Innistenne's strong, rugged face--a look
with a shade of fear in it, the fear which must haunt each woman who
has sold her birthright, purity, that what is so much to her may be
mere pastime to the man she loves. Joan Blacker might have been
moderately unhappy, moderately lonely all her life, if Innistenne had
not come across her path.
"The dark Adonis is fitting arrows to his bow," said Innistenne. "He
delights in the bringing to earth of foolish, half-fledged birdlings.
We shall be back early, Joan. Come--help me."
She had counted on her morning; on a few hours of the talking women
delight in, of tender memories referred to, of future plans discussed.
But without a word she got up.
"She is very pretty, Fred." Joan Blacker stopped once, looked up at
Innistenne.
"She may be," he said carelessly. "There is a brick wall named Joan
built across my vision, you see."
It was her reward--she was satisfied.
Jimmie Gore Helmsley's black eyes did not smile at a pair of intruders.
He was taking Sybil out in a punt after lunch, with a tea-basket for a
picnic. He strolled off now with a last low word to Sybil. "Come to the
rose garden. I'll wait there. Bother these people!"
Joan Blacker did not fail in her good deed. She said some simple things
to Sybil--told her quietly that the Bungalow was not fit for her; that
if her mother realized, or heard, it might stop liberty for evermore.
"To go back to London," cried Sybil, "to the house in Lancaster Gate,
to the dreariness of a dull dinner there. Navotsky was to dance
to-night. Besides--Mrs Bellew--"
"The servants may tell her that there is a vacant room," said Joan,
equably, "otherwise she will not know. And for to-night--we'll take you
out somewhere if you like, in London. I warn you your mother does not
understand."
When Gore Helmsley, attractive to those who admired him in his
flannels, strolled back to look for a Sybil who came not, he only saw
the dust of a motor on the road at the back of the house.
"Miss Chauntsey has gone back to London," said Esme. "Her mother, I
think, telephoned."
Gore Helmsley nodded carelessly. But Esme, looking drearily out across
the gardens, trying hard not to think, had made a bitter enemy.
She was rung up by Denise Blakeney later.
"Yes. Cyril leaves next week. I tell you, Esme, I am afraid--afraid of
when he comes back. Be careful of cross lines. No one will know.
Dismiss your maid at once. Come to me here and write to her if you
think it best."
Esme hung up the receiver with a sigh. The great scheme was becoming
greater, looming before her. But money and liberty and an allowance
made it all feasible.
A week later Bertie Carteret sailed for South Africa, and on the same
day a broad, quiet man left London for a year's shooting. Both thought
of their wives as the big steamers began to churn up the water. But one
with wistful longing, looking back at a figure on the quay which waved
and waved until it was lost, a blur among other figures; and one whose
mouth set grimly as he recalled a good-bye in a luxurious dining-room,
arms which he had put away from his neck, and an unsteady voice which
had hinted of some confession which he would not hear.
"Later," said Cyril Blakeney, "later." But his eyes were full of bitter
hatred for the thing which, for his name's sake, he meant to do.
Some hours after the steamer had left port Marie Leroy was rung up on
the telephone.
She stood listening, a curious expression on her dark face, her lips
murmuring, "Oui, madame. Oui, certainement, madame."
Esme was dismissing her, was going away with Lady Blakeney, wanted no
maid. Marie was to receive extra wages, a superfine character; to pack
Madame's things.
Marie walked away, her slim brown fingers pressed together.
"And--what means it?" said the Frenchwoman, softly. "That would I like
to know. What means it?"