The Oyster Part 24

The morning light, stealing in through the drawn curtains, was blue and searching. It showed the powder on her cheeks, the line of the deftly-applied carnation bloom; it made her a little haggard, older than her twenty-five years.

"Yes, I'm tired," she yawned. "I thought you would be asleep." She lighted a strong cigarette. "I'm tired. We had supper at the Ritz and went on to Sue's ball. She had a new necklace, a beauty! She's just got an electric landaulette. Heigho! I'm tired of being poor--of pinching."

"You came home in an electric landaulette, b.u.t.terfly," Bertie smiled at her, but it was a mirthless smile.

"Oh! I'll pay for them myself," she flashed out ill-humouredly. "I can't hunt for taxis. I--" she stopped. Bertie allowed her a hundred a year for small things, pocket-money; she must make him think she saved out of that.

"And new diamonds." He touched the necklace glittering on the soft white flesh.

"Paste," she said, "paste. The thing only cost ten pounds. I had nothing decent to wear."

Until one took up the necklace one could not guess--see the solid backing. It was a brilliant thing; the workmanship perfect; but it had cost five times ten pounds.

Bertie bent to kiss the soft, warm flesh; slipped his arm round the supple shoulders.

"Come! I'll put you to bed," he whispered; "be your obedient maid, b.u.t.terfly."

"Susan will come, I told her to. Go to the little room, Bertie. I sleep so badly and anything disturbs me. I've heaps to do to-morrow."

He took his arm away, his ardour chilling, and went out without a word.

Susan, sleepy but attentive, came in; put Madame to bed; washed the soft skin free of powder and paint; brought a little gla.s.s to the bedside.

"Madame's drops. Madame might not sleep."

Crystal clear, tasteless, soothing, bringing dreamless, heavy sleep; a slide of treachery down which women slip to ill-health and worse.

Already, at five-and-twenty, Esme was taking chloral.

The Society Bazaar began to take shape, to approach the days of its holding. Gorgeous gowns of satin and gauze and lace were fashioned for fair debutantes and pretty matrons.

Sweets, china, baskets; the hundred and one things which no one wants and which they must buy at three times the value when ordered.

The d.u.c.h.ess of Boredom would sell baskets. Dollie suggested an idea of diamond-like brilliancy: "Tie a card to every one:

'The d.u.c.h.ess of Boredom, Boredom Court,'

with just a letter 's' and 'stall' in the corner. Everyone suburban in the room will rush for those baskets, and shop with them for months to come, forgetting, of course, to take off the card. It's perfect," said Dollie, "if she'll do it."

"Or you might have some made in the shape of strawberry leaves," said Bertie, gravely.

The d.u.c.h.ess did not object to her card being used. She was willing to order some hundreds of cards for the sake of charity.

"The Bazaar, of course, paying my stationers," said the d.u.c.h.ess, severely.

There were sweet stalls, where pretty notabilities, for five shillings extra, would sign their names on the boxes.

There was a stall kept by great actresses, who sold their autographs and their photographs, and b.u.t.tonholes of rosebuds and carnations.

There were side shows, cafe chantants, everything to take money from the public.

"For the tiny crippled children. Help them." Children selling flowers and sweets, dressed all in pale pink, crowned with rosebuds, carried little cards on their heads, with these words printed.

"Let us be nothing if not sentimental," said Dollie, looking round the hall. Dull green gave background to the flower dresses; dull green on stalls and against the walls. Royalty had promised to be present. It was a great affair.

"It will buy tweeds," said Dollie. "It always does. And baskets, and sweets for the hospitals. And it--the male part of it--won't be allowed any of the photographs it wants from the stage stall."

A great bazaar, which a minor Royalty graciously declared open, and then remembered an engagement; its royal purse was spa.r.s.ely supplied.

All Society seemed to be a.s.sisting, but Suburbia flocked to it, and in the evening Shopland would render gallant support.

"For the tiny crippled children; see the lovely dears," said Mrs Harris to Mrs Smith of Clapham. "What's your name, little love, now?"

"Pollie Laverdean," a small mite of eight raised dark liquid eyes. "Buy somefin', p'ease."

"Lady Marrianne," whispered a better-informed friend. "The Countess of Gardenia's eldest--ain't she sweet?"

"An' to call her plain Pollie. My! my!" murmured the friend.

Mrs Smith and Mrs Harris bought two small china dogs at five shillings each, and a box of shilling chocolates at the same price.

The d.u.c.h.ess's baskets went as snow before the sun.

Lady Lila Blyth and her lovely daughters sold flowers freely. The names of the a.s.sistants were written plainly over each stall--another idea of Dollie's.

Lady Lila Blyth, Miss Eva Blyth, Miss Lulu Blyth; Lady Eliza O'Neill; Mrs Holmes; the Marquess of Tweesdale; Lord Rupert Scot; the Earl of Domomere.

Brilliantly handsome in her blue gown, Esme sold chocolate and dragees and crystallized fruits.

Canon Bright had worked hard to help; got flowers and fruit sent in great quant.i.ties. He and the little secretary came now through the stalls.

"It's splendid," he said to Dollie; "the stores near us sent a box of stuff to your stall."

"Oh, yes, thanks awfully! Is it there, Esme? We haven't opened it yet.

When these shop things are sold we will."

"But," the Canon picked up a huge guinea box of fruits, stickily alluring, "you've had to buy all these, haven't you?"

"Yes, and you see it wouldn't be fair if we didn't sell quite a lot of these things as we get them at a reduction. But we'll open the box; the children can sell the things."

Going on to Lady Lila's stall, a ma.s.s of carnations and roses and sweet peas, the secretary asked for the gifts of flowers. The Canon had begged from half his county.

The same vague look. "Oh, all these hampers and boxes. You see, these were in and the florist's people arrange and settle them for us. We'd have to bunch all these others, wouldn't we? Oh, of course, they'd be clear profit, but one cannot wait for chance gifts, can one? One must be ready."

Baskets of dewy rosebuds, of white pinks, sweet peas, of carnations lay withering behind the stalls. The florists had decked the tables, would do the same to-morrow. One could not bother with piles of things loose in baskets.

Canon Bright, used to humble county bazaars, where every gift was welcomed, could not understand it.

He bought lavishly. He looked with a smile which was almost wistful at the mites who fluttered about the thronged hall, their notices held up by wires above the crowns of roses.