"OH, of course, I'd forgotten." Denise had been reminded of her
promise--looked vaguely annoyed. "H'm! I'm short now. Can't ask Cyrrie,
can I? I'll bring you two hundred, Esme! Give you some more in August,
my quarter day."
"But I want it. I've run into debt counting on it," said Esme, sullenly.
"Oh, you've got old Hugh to fall back on now Bertie's the heir. If I
could ask Cyrrie--but I can't! Two hundred's a lot, Esme. You must make
it do."
"You'll be away in August," Esme said. "You can't send me so much in a
cheque."
"No. I'll get notes. I'll be sure to. I shall be at home. Wonders will
never cease. I've got to keep very quiet just now," said Denise. "It's
wonderful--and I'm not afraid."
"Oh!" Esme sat up. "And--if it's a son, Denise, your own son--you--what
will you do?"
"Yet must the alien remain the heir." Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I
should never dare to tell. You don't know Cyrrie. He'd send me away
somewhere with three hundred a year, and never see or speak to me
again. For Heaven's sake, Es, remember that. Besides, it would all take
some proving now."
"Be good to my boy or I'll claim him," said Esme, stormily.
"Hush! Es. Don't!" Denise looked terrified. "And you dare not, either.
Your Bertie would not forgive. Look here! I've got a pendant I don't
want; take it and sell it. It's worth two hundred. And I'll scrape out
three for you somehow. Oh, here's Cyrrie."
The big man came in. There was a sense of power about him and of
relentless purpose. His under jaw, his deeply-set eyes, were those of a
man who, once roused, could be cruel, and even merciless.
"Hello! Mrs Carteret." He was always cordial to Esme. "We've missed you
lately. Den, the boy's peaky--wants fresh air, his nurse says."
Esme turned white, clenched her hands until her gloves split and burst.
"Send him to the sea," said Denise, carelessly. "Broadstairs, Cromer,
anywhere, Cyrrie."
"No, I think we'll go home. It's better for you too." Sir Cyril's big
jaw shot out. "We'll go home, Den. I've wired, and the boy can go on
to-morrow. Drive down, it will do him good, in the big car."
"Oh!" Esme saw that Denise objected, hated going, yet was afraid to
object once her husband had decided.
"Oh, I'm glad you're sending him out of London," Esme burst out. "He
looks wretched. I am glad."
"He's your godson, isn't he?" laughed Blakeney. "You were good then,
Mrs Carteret. Seen to-day's paper? That little fool of a Cantilupe
woman has made a mess of it, and Cantilupe was right to take it to
court. Seen the evidence? She forged his name to a cheque for five
hundred to give to this wretched man. Trusted to Canty's absolute
carelessness. He never looked at accounts. But the bank grew uneasy,
'phoned to Canty, and he said it was his signature all right and paid.
Then he found out where the money had gone to, and all the rest, and
she defended like a fool. The kindest fellow in the world, but he's
merciless now. Told about the cheque so as to shame her."
"She was his wife. He should have remembered that," faltered Denise.
"She had deceived him," Sir Cyril answered. "No man worth the name
forgets that. She deceived him. I couldn't forgive five minutes of it,
especially as there are no children; not that sort of deceit. I was
even too hard on folly once, but that's different." He went out of the
room, big and strong and determined.
"Bother that boy!" stormed Denise. "There are three or four things I
hate missing. Oh, bother! bother!" She stamped her foot in her
impatience, frowning and biting at her fingers. "Oh, here, Esme. Come
to my room."
The maid was there, laying out a new gown.
"You can go, Sutton. Here! slip it away." Denise opened a case, pulled
out a heavy pendant, a tasteless, valuable thing.
"Old Susan, Cyrrie's aunt, sent it to me when she heard I was a
mother." Denise laughed. "Green said it was worth three hundred. I've
loads of others, and no one will miss this. I'll get you the notes."
Denise was friendly again, more like her old self, but moved, as Esme
knew, by fear, and not by gratitude or love.
Denise was called to the telephone. Esme was left alone for a time in
the luxurious bedroom, standing by the open safe, enviously fingering
the jewels. How lovely they were. A necklace of diamonds and emeralds;
Cartier work; a jewelled snake with ruby eyes. A rope of pearls.
Sapphires, opals, emeralds, all glowing as Esme opened the cases.
"Oh, I thought her ladyship was here, mem," the maid had come in
quietly. Esme turned with a start.
"Her ladyship went to the telephone." Esme closed her hand about the
pendant, which she had been holding carelessly. She could see the maid
watching her covertly.
"Oh, there you are, Denise." Esme still held the heavy pendant, afraid
to put it in her bag before the maid, afraid to show it.
"Yes. I'm late too. Cyril's waiting. We're lunching out. My hat,
Sutton, my veil, quickly!"
Esme slipped the pendant into her bag as the maid turned away. The
Blakeneys drove her to Jules, where she said she would be lunching.
But, not hungry, she went on to Benhusan, a well-known jeweller,
offering her pendant.
The head man took it, looking at the heavy stones.
"Yes, we could give two hundred for this, to break up. It's tasteless."
He examined it carefully. "Came from us, originally," he said. "We all
have our private mark, madam. Made to order, no doubt. I'll speak to Mr
Benhusan, madam. One moment."
Esme flushed with annoyance. They might look up the pendant, perhaps
speak of it to someone.
She got two hundred and thirty for it and went out.
Mr Benhusan nodded at the heavy bauble. "It was made for the Dowager
Lady Blakeney," he said. "I remember it. The centre stone is worth all
the money we have given for it."
Absently, with a lack of her usual shrewdness, Esme went to the door,
opened it, and remembered her notes; they had paid her.
She had put three into her bag, when a thin hand shot out, grabbed the
rest, and before she could even cry out, the thief was lost in the
crowd.
Esme stood stricken, shaking more with futile anger than anything else.
Her brains were quick. If she went back, raised the hue and cry, what
then? Bertie would ask her what pendant she was selling. The whole
thing would come out.
Esme walked away, her face white, her hands shaking. She counted what
was left at her club in Dover Street; three notes for fifty each. So
she was robbed of over a hundred, and someone must go unpaid. Unless
Denise would make it up. There was too much loyalty in Esme to think of
working on her friend's fears. She sat brooding, smoking, too much
upset to eat. A boy she knew came in, noticed her white cheeks--a thin
and somewhat stupid youth, who posed as a Don Juan, considered himself
irresistible.
"Not lookin' a bit well," he said. "No luncheon? Come along down to the
Berkeley and have a little champagne. Let me look after you, dear lady."
Esme was a beauty; he walked proudly with her, looking at her dazzling
colouring, her well-formed, supple limbs.
She let herself be distracted by flattery, listened to foolish
compliment, to praise of her glorious hair, her beautiful eyes.
Wouldn't she come for a drive some Sunday? The new Daimler was a dear.
Down to Brighton or away into the country for a picnic. She must let
him see more of her.
Angy Beerhaven leant across the table, _empresse_, showing how ready he
was to love, to be a devoted friend.
Over champagne and sandwiches Esme babbled a little, told of her loss,
of how hard up she was.
With sympathy discreetly veiled behind his cigarette smoke, Angy
hinted. Pretty women need never be hard up. Fellows would only find it
a pleasure to make life easy for them if--there was friendship, real
friendship, between good pals.
The restaurant was almost empty; they sat in a quiet corner. With wits
suddenly sharpened, Esme looked at the thin, weakly vicious face, at
the boy's eyes glittering over her beauty, already seeing himself
chosen. His carefully-tended hands were opening his gold
cigarette-case. She shuddered. If she allowed those hands the right to
caress her she could be free of debt and care--for a time.
Love affairs were butterflies of a season. Next year it would have to
be someone else; there would be the distraction of it, the adoration
which always pleases a woman; and then the fading, the breaking free.
The meeting again with a careless good-morning, with the shame searing
her soul as she remembered.
Distraction, a little less time to think, was what Esme wanted. She saw
too clearly for this. She had sold one birthright without thought; but
not this second one of her self-respect.
She got up, smiling sweetly. It had been charming of Mr Beerhaven to
look after her; she was feeling so much better now.
"But," he stood in front of her in her corner; she could see the eager
look on his face. "But--she must let him go on taking care of her.
Wouldn't she dine with him to-night? Do a theatre--have supper
afterwards?"
Angy unadulterated from seven until one! Esme smiled.
Unfortunately she was engaged, all day, every day this week. But would
he lunch on Sunday? They were having a little party at the Ritz. He
would meet her husband.
The eager look changed to one of sulky indecision. Angy Beerhaven was
not sure if he could. If she'd have tea with him to-morrow he'd tell
her.
Esme promised to lightly; went away leaving the boy frowning.
"Is she one of your real stand-offs, or just wants to put a value on
herself?" he muttered. "Bah! It's too much trouble if she does--pretty
as she is."
Clutching the rest of her money, Esme strolled about aimlessly; she
gave up two engagements, would not go to her club because she was too
restless to talk to her friends. Turned in at last to a tea-shop, where
brown curtains made little alcoves, and thick blinds shaded the light.
There were three or four tiny rooms, one opening from the other; the
first where the decorous matron might sit and drink tea and eat
muffins; the second and third where one could smoke; these rooms were
separated by portieres of Indian beads, rattling as one passed through.
Tired, her head aching from the champagne, Esme went to the second
room, sat down in a dim corner just by the door into the last, and
ordered tea. It made her head clearer; she smoked, thinking deeply.
Voices drifted to her from the inner room. It was a mere cupboard, kept
in semi-darkness.
She listened at length, listened with a start.
"Is it safe here by the door?"
The beads rattled. She heard Jimmie Gore Helmsley's voice.
"Only a few people get away. It's early yet. Look here, Syl, meet me at
Brighton on Sunday. Do! We'll have a lovely day. I'll have a
cousin--she lives there--to do propriety. Make some excuse and get off.
We never have a day together."
"But if people heard of it?" Sybil Chauntsey faltered.
"No one will. No one we know goes to Brighton on Sundays, and if they
do we are just taking a stroll. Do, Sybil! I deserve something. I--I
wasn't hard-hearted over those bridge debts now, was I?"
Poor Sybil, with her hand pressed to her throat. She owed this man two
hundred pounds now. If he went to her people she would be sent home in
disgrace.
"No," she whispered. "No."
"We'll wipe 'em out for ever if you'll be a good child and have a
simple spree. I'll give you back your I.O.U., your letters."
Her letters. Sybil knew that she had written two foolish, girlishly
gushing notes, open to several constructions. In one she had spoken of
that ripping tea at his rooms. She shivered again.
"I'll let you know," she faltered. "Oh! I'll try to come."
Esme listened, but heard no more. Moving silently she slipped away to
the blind-shaded window and got there just as the two came out. Her
back was to them, her head hidden in a hastily-snatched-up newspaper.
They did not notice her.
Tragedy and comedy were being played out, to each their lines and part.
Denise Blakeney, dressing for dinner, had to play her part without
rehearsal.
"The sapphires, Sutton," she said, "the sapphires and diamonds. They'll
go with this cream gown. And the aigrette with the sapphire stars."
Sutton's prim voice rose a little as she bent over the safe.
"Are you wearing the heavy diamond pendant, m'lady?"
"No." Denise flushed, bending over something on the dressing-table to
hide her rising colour.
"It's not here, m'lady, and it was here at luncheon-time when I gave
you the pink pearls."
"What's that?" Sir Cyril, big-jowled, heavy, strolled in.
Sutton repeated the news of the loss, turning over the cases. "The case
is here," she said, "but I noticed it open."
"The pendant old Aunt Sukey sent?" Sir Cyril went to the safe himself.
"That's valuable."
"I--it must be there somewhere. Lock the safe, Sutton." Denise would
have told the maid she had sent the pendant to be cleaned. Cyril was
one of the men who question closely. It would have been: "To which
shop, Den? I could get it for you to-morrow."
"It must be there," she repeated sharply. "It's just muddled away; or I
may have lost it. I'm very careless."
"We'll look to-morrow. It's time to go now." But big Cyril Blakeney
stood still for a minute, staring at the safe; thoughts which he longed
to smother rising in him.
He had seen Esme Carteret bending over the safe, fingering the jewels.
She could not ... it was a monstrous thing!
He put the idea away resolutely as though it were some crawling beast;
came down to where his wife was getting into her motor.
"You must have dropped it," he said slowly, "but I thought you never
wore the thing. We'll offer a reward."
"Oh, very well," Denise Blakeney answered nervously, pulling at the
buttons of her gloves. "Oh, I may find it to-morrow. Wait and see. I
often stuff things away into other places, if I am in a hurry."
"Esme Carteret"--Denise could see the big, heavy face thrust forward,
as Sir Cyril lighted a cigarette--"Esme Carteret is--er--pretty well
off, isn't she, now that old Hugh's sons are dead?"
"She says she's racked by poverty." Denise flushed and faltered at this
mistake.... "Oh, yes, of course, he makes her a splendid allowance; he
must, or Esme could not go about as she does."
"You're an extravagant little monkey yourself," said Sir Cyril,
equably. "I asked Richards a fortnight ago what your balance was, and
he said five hundred. Yesterday I was in at the bank and he told me it
was only a hundred."
"I paid bills and things." Denise was not enjoying her drive. Supposing
this inquisitive husband of hers looked at her bank-book and saw a
cheque for two hundred to self. He would ask what she had spent it on;
if she had gambled? He was curiously particular about high play, and
women losing foolishly.
Denise thought that she would change her bank; then knew again that she
would be forbidden to. Cyril was indulgent, almost absurdly generous,
but master in his own home. And--if he ever guessed--ever knew--Denise
grew cold with chill fear; for, combined with dread, her shallow nature
clung now to the big man beside her; she had forgotten her follies in
the past.
It is a shallow nature's joy, it has power to forget.
On several separate stages the dramas and comedies were being played
out, but in one great last act they might all come together for the
finale, and be called true tragedy then.
Sybil Chauntsey was playing her little part. Half frightened, half
resentful, trying to call herself a baby, to tell her awakening woman's
mind that Jimmie Gore Helmsley was only her pal, that she was a fool to
think otherwise. And then the look in the black eyes, the little subtle
caresses he had given her, gave this the lie.
Sybil would not go to a dance that evening; she pleaded headache, sat
in her stuffy room, looking out across the hot slates, thinking.
She was afraid. Who would help her now to pay this man and so get out
of his power? She had learned to dread him.
She jumped up suddenly, ran to her writing-table. Old memories crowded
back to her, her first years of coming out, when she had been so happy.
She saw the library at the Holbrooks', felt warm young hands on hers,
heard a voice saying:
"But if you are ever in any trouble, if you want help, send for me. I
shall always be ready."
Her young soldier lover would help her now; and with wet eyes above the
paper she wrote on, Sybil knew how she would turn to him again. How
gifts of flowers and sweets, expensive dinners and suppers, stolen
interviews for tea and subtle flattery, had lost their charm.
She only wrote a few lines, posted it to York, where his regiment was
stationed; she wanted his help, urgently; would he come to her _at
once_?
So the hot curtain of night fell on another act for Sybil.
Esme had gone home after tea, found Bertie there, resting in the
flowerless drawing-room.
With nerves strung up, with her hidden excitement wearing her out, she
came to him, threw herself suddenly on her knees beside him, laid her
face against his, tried to wake the thrill which the touch of his lips
had given her once.
Bertie, surprised, drew her to him, kissing the red mouth.
It had been innocent of lip salve when he had kissed them first; her
soft cheeks had not been plastered with expensive creams and powder. As
hungry people imagine feasts, so Esme sought for forgetfulness in
passionate kisses, in new transports of love. Sought--and found no
place. It seemed to her that Bertie had grown cold, that he no longer
cared for her. He had never been a sensualist, only an honest lover.
Whispered hints of Gore Helmsley's, little stories he had told her,
came to her as she rested her cheek against her husband's.
"Dear old Es," he said affectionately, but not passionately. "Dear old
butterfly, it's nice to have my girlie loving again; but we'll be late
for dinner if we don't dress quickly. Es, call your maid."
Esme rang listlessly; she hardly knew what she wanted, save that it was
something which would wipe away her bitter thoughts.
Through dinner she was recklessly merry, witty in her flashing way;
brilliantly, a little haggardly, pretty. The patches of pink were more
pronounced on her cheeks, her powder thicker.
Then, driving home in the cool, she remembered Sybil Chauntsey. Here
was another woman about to make a mistake, to realize too late, as she
had done, that money cannot repay peace of mind. Deep, too, in Esme's
mind, was a horror of sinning. She was instinctively pure herself; her
ideas set deeply in a bed of conventionality. A girl of Sybil's type
would suffer all her life if she once slipped, perhaps afterwards grow
completely reckless, look on her one sin as so deadly that a host of
others could matter little, and might drown thought.
Esme forgot Sybil until Sunday morning. Angy Beerhaven had proved
himself in earnest, had almost insisted on a trip in his new car.
"Bring anyone--your husband and a friend," he said.
Esme had agreed heartily. There was Estelle; she would like the drive.
As the huge cream-coloured Daimler hummed softly at her door, Angy
asked where they would go to.
"The sea would be lovely to-day," he said. "Or there are the Downs or
the Forest."
"The sea!" Esme shot out swiftly. "The sea!" she said.
"Then Brighton. It's a nice run; there are decent hotels. One only gets
cold beef and cutlets in heaps of places."
"Brighton let it be," she said carelessly.
The Daimler seemed a live monster purring as she flew along the smooth
roads, laughing at her hills, answering sweetly to her brakes, swinging
her great length contemptuously past weaker sisters.
The salt kiss of the sea was on their faces as they dipped into
Brighton.
"We'll run out again afterwards," Angy said; "get a good blow."
Esme had been a merry companion on the way down.
Strolling on the front, Esme started suddenly. Sybil might be here; she
remembered the conversation now. In the huge place it would be almost
impossible to find her. Jimmie would not come to the best-known hotels.
But if she could--it would be worth some trouble.
Esme's fit of boredom vanished. She was full of plans. They would run
off for a long run, come back to tea, dine again in Brighton and go
home in the cool.
"They'll be quite happy anywhere," she said, nodding towards Estelle
and Bertie. "We can go off by ourselves."
Angy's hopes grew deeper. His fatuously ardent glances were more
frequent. He whispered eager nonsense to Esme, hinted at happy future
drives and meetings, of lending her the car altogether if she liked.
To have a sixty Daimler at one's disposal would be convenient, but as
it would generally include Angy Beerhaven as chauffeur, Esme shrugged
her shoulders. A taxi suited her better, though she did not say so.
After tea she grew restless; wanted to see other hotels, to inspect
Brighton. The Metropole was too crowded.
"Come with me," she said to Angy; "we'll prospect, and telephone here
if we find some nest which suits me."
A cabman gave her information.
"Quiet hotels, but smart, nice? He'd tell of one, yes, miss, he would."
It was only as they went on that Esme realized the smirk of innuendo on
the man's red face.
"Often driven parties there as wanted to be quiet an' comfabul," said
Jehu, taking a shilling graciously. "Thank you, lady, and good luck."
Esme went to two or three places, read the dinner menu carefully, made
Angy wonder what restless spirit possessed her, then came to the
jarvey's recommendation, a small hotel facing the sea, standing
modestly behind a long strip of garden. The garden was full of roses
and shrubs, so that the porch was almost concealed.
The lady peering out of the little office was unmistakably French.
"Madame wished to see the dinner menu--but certainly! Madame would want
a private room, no doubt; the coffee-room was small and the tables
already crowded."
"It is a hotel of private rooms," said Esme to herself. She went on to
a small, dimly-lighted veranda, set with huge palms and
cunningly-placed nooks. She paused abruptly.
"I must go back! Oh, I must!" said Sybil's voice. "We shall miss the
train--please let me."
"My cousin cannot be any time. Most annoying her being out all day.
Don't spoil a perfect day, little Sybil. There's a late train we can
catch. Or, better still, hire a car and drive up."
Esme turned swiftly to her somewhat bewildered cavalier.
"Oh, Mr Beerhaven," she said. "Will you go to the telephone--order
dinner at the Metropole, and see if they have quails--and peaches. It's
the best place, after all. I'll wait here for you. Hurry, or they won't
have shot the quails."
Angy left, ruminating on the logic of women.
"But give me my letters," she heard Sybil plead. "Please do! You
promised them if I came here to-day."
"I promised--I will fulfil. After dinner you shall have your letters,
little girl. Now, don't get silly and nervous."
"Of course I'll send you that money when I can," Sybil faltered, "but--"
"I won't ask you for the money. You were a good child to come here,
little Sybil."
Esme looked in.
Sybil was lying back in a long chair, her face white, her eyes half
resentful, half fascinated. Jimmie Helmsley, bending over her, began to
stroke her hands softly. His dark eyes bore no half thoughts in them.
"After dinner," he whispered. "I won't tease you any more about that
silly debt."
Esme pushed aside a spiky frond; she was righteously angry.
"Oh, Sybil," she said. "Your mother asked me if I came across you to
take you home in our car. I was sampling hotels and luckily ran you to
earth."
Sybil sprang up. Resentment, fascination, merged to sudden wild relief.
She had told her mother that she was spending the day with a school
friend.
"But--How very lucky your running across us." Gore Helmsley's teeth
showed too much as he smiled; it made his greeting exceedingly like a
snarl.
"Oh, yes, so lucky." Esme listened to Helmsley's pattered explanation.
"His cousin, Mrs Gore, etc. Very awkward. Out of Brighton. They had
come here to wait for her."
"Very awkward," said Esme, drily. "Well, you must join us at dinner.
You can't wait here--alone."
A waiter padded noiselessly in. Dinner would be ready in ten minutes in
Number Twenty-seven. They had procured the roses which Monsieur had
ordered.
It amused Esme a little to watch Gore Helmsley fight back his anger,
mask himself in a moment in a thin cloak of carelessness. He followed
the waiter into the hall.
"Sybil," said Esme, sharply, "this is not wise, not right."
"We came to meet a cousin," Sybil whimpered. "She never came. I had to
come--I had to. And now he's angry." She shivered a little, half
tearful, half frightened.
"No, she would not come," said Esme, drily; "but lie as I lie, my
child, or there may be some pretty stories floating about London."
"Oh! you've ordered dinner," she said to Angy, "and I've just found
Miss Chauntsey. She was dining with Captain Helmsley's cousin, Mrs
Gore. But she is putting her off and joining our party at the
Metropole."
Mr Beerhaven opened his mouth twice without emitting any particular
sound.
"She's just gone home, hasn't she, Sybil?" said Esme. "Quite a pretty
woman. Come along."
Again Angy opened his mouth and shut it. It was not his part to say
that he knew Mrs Gore to be in London. Angy was not altogether
bad-hearted and he disliked Jimmie Gore Helmsley.
"Rotten!" said Mr Beerhaven, speaking at last.
"Eh?" said Esme, sharply.
"Rotten luck, y'know, on Mrs Gore, but so glad. We'd better drive back.
And a rotten chap," said Angy, forcibly. "You're a brick, Mrs
Carteret." This speech made Esme understand that Angy Beerhaven was not
as big a fool as he looked.
In the cab Sybil leant back, frightened. She was afraid of Gore
Helmsley's too-pleasant smile--afraid of the look in his eyes.
Esme had whispered a few swiftly-spoken words to him, directing that
their lies should be alike.
"It was exceedingly awkward," she said drily.
Angy had ordered everything he could think of. They began on iced
caviare and finished up with forced peaches. He was exceedingly rich,
and a snare wrought of gold was the only one he knew of.
Sybil was quiet through dinner, eating nothing, visibly unhappy.
Afterwards, as they sat in the cool, smoking, Gore Helmsley slipped to
her side.
"Was there ever anything so unlucky?" he said.
"It was--very unlucky," said Sybil, dully.
"That woman hunting round for dinner, so she says. She's fairly decent,
I fancy, won't blab. She lied brilliantly. It was so very awkward, and
now Cissy will be quite disappointed. She 'phoned to say she was just
starting to meet us. It was a lovely day together," he whispered. "Come
to tea with me to-morrow, Sybil."
"You promised me my letters," she shot out, her heart thumping, "and my
I.O.U. Give them to me."
"To-morrow," he said lightly. "I would have given them to you to-night,
Sybil. Silly child ever to sign things."
Sybil's lip trembled; the snare was about her feet.
A tall man pushed his way through the crowd, looking anxiously at the
tables. He was covered with the dust of a long journey; he came
quickly, staring at each group.
"Oliver!" Sybil sprang to her feet, rushed across to him. "Oh, Captain
Knox, why did you not come yesterday?"
"I only got back to York this morning. I motored to London, and it took
me hours to find your mother. Who is that--in the shadow?"
"Captain Gore Helmsley." Sybil's voice grew shrill.
"And Sybil is here with me," said Esme, coming out of another shadow.
"Take her for a walk before we start. I want to talk to my friend here."
"Sybil--why did you write for me like that?"
"I wanted you to save me, and you never came," she faltered.
"But I am not too late. My God, not that!"
Then, stumblingly, she told him her story of sorrow.
"I was going to ask you to pay the debt for me," she said, "to get me
clear. I dare not tell my mother or father."
"I brought money, as you said you wanted it; and there is nothing more,
Sybil?" he said, taking her hands.
"Nothing. We spent the day here--waiting for Mrs Gore. And oh, I was
afraid."
"Mrs Gore is in London. I saw her as I was looking for your mother."
"In London!" Sybil's cheeks grew very white. It had all been a lie. She
would have dined at the small hotel, waiting for the woman who could
never have joined them. And afterwards, alone with the man she feared
and yet who influenced her.
Sybil was no innocent fool; the blackness of the chasm she had just
missed sliding into was plainly before her eyes.
She flung herself suddenly into Knox's arms.
"Oh, Oliver, if you want me still, take me," she sobbed, "for I am a
fool, and not fit to look after myself. I don't mind being poor; I only
want you."
Captain Gore Helmsley, meanwhile, was listening to a few softly-uttered
home-truths from Esme Carteret.
"You might have ruined the child's reputation," she said angrily. "She
was a fool to come here with you. Married women are fair game, Jimmie,
but a girl has not learnt how to guard. It's not fair."
Sybil, with the frightened look gone from her eyes, came back to the
table on the veranda.
"I owe you some money, Captain Gore Helmsley," she said clearly, "for
bridge debts. It was good of you to let it stand over." She laid a
cheque on the table. "Will you give me back my acknowledgments? Oliver
is paying for me--we are going to be married."
Jimmie, smiling sweetly, pulled out his pocketbook, took from it a
neatly-folded paper.
"And--two letters--referring to the debt," said Sybil, steadily.
"Not altogether to the debt." Jimmie laughed. "You are as unkind now,
Miss Chauntsey, as you are dramatic."
"I want them," she said coldly. "You gave me your promise that I should
have them back."
Jimmie took out the letters.
"I am giving them to Oliver to read, and then we'll burn them," she
said simply.
"Oh, hang it!" said Gore Helmsley, blankly; "this _has_ been a nice
evening!"
"In which you got your dinner and desserts," flashed Esme, laughing
openly.