The Oyster Part 27

"Say! I can't go back there," he nods towards the strolling crowd, "in Snap's handiwork. Let's walk across the gra.s.s."

"I want to get to Lancaster Gate. Right!" says Kitty, "we live there, you know."

As they go they talk of ponies and horses and terriers and otters and tennis, and when they part young Golderly takes a brown, shapely, gloveless hand in his and shakes it warmly.

"Come to the match; come to see me play," he says. "I'll take you over to the ponies and show you my beauties. You ought to come."

Kitty rushes in to her aunt. "Auntie! get Hurlingham tickets somewhere.

You must!" And Kitty tells of her adventure.

When a year later big Kitty marches sedately down the aisle of a country church on the arm of her husband, a Marquis, she manages her trailing skirts cleverly enough.

A rank outsider, a creature not even mentioned in the betting; but a letter from Kitty's dearest friend might prove that she need not have tripped so grievously over her hobble skirt; while further experience proved that she was lazy about otter hunting, and that behind the ingenuous face lay a shrewd and far-seeing brain. The letter was to "Dearest Kit."

"Shame of Auntie May not to bother about you," it ran. "I met young Lord Golderly at Marches Hall last week-end. He's just your sort--all sport. Get to meet him somehow and talk horses--_polo ponies_ and _otter hunting_; he's sick of Society."

The future Lady Golderly carefully tore up that letter.

Estelle Reynolds turned from watching the flow of life stream past her to speak to Bertie Carteret.

Estelle was a mere outsider there, knowing very few people--just a few of Esme's friends. She liked to see them flutter up and down, meeting, parting, always going on somewhere, always chattering of the hundred things which they had got to do.

"I should like to go to Cliff End," repeated Estelle. "The love of London is not with me, though for two years, perhaps three, I must stay here, until my mother comes from her travels, in fact."

"Unless--you marry," Bertie said slowly.

In some vague way the thought vexed him.

Estelle laughed. "There is the curate," she said, "but I am not High Church enough to please him. Yes, there is the curate. I am far too ordinary and stupid for Esme's friends to look at me, and I meet no others. My marriage must be deferred until we take up the house in Northamptonshire, and then some country squire will suit me and not notice my last year's frocks."

"Not notice you," Bertie snorted. "Stupid young tailor's blocks, always going on. You don't notice them."

"Oh, they're not all stupid," Estelle said. "Mr Turner told me three hands which he had played at bridge the night before, and had crushin'

luck in them all. He couldn't be stupid with that memory. How is Esme?"

"Frightfully busy," Bertie laughed. "Her latest evening gown was not a success. She is weighed down between the choice of pure white or pure black for a new opera cloak. Someone is coming to lunch, and the new cook's soufflets are weary things, given to sitting down. Also her ices melt; and she cannot _saute_ potatoes; it is French for frying, isn't it? Look here! come in old clothes, and we'll be babies and help to make hay. This day is taken up by a luncheon, by tea at the Carlton, dinner at the Holbrooks', an evening party. I have struck at two dances, as I have to get up early."

Esme had gone to Madame Claire's to storm over this new gown of golden soft chiffon and silk. It dragged; it did not fit. She found Madame Claire inaccessible. Mrs Carteret bought a few gowns, but my Lady Blakeney was choosing six--two models, two copies, two emanating from Madame Jane Claire's slightly torpid English brains. She had her country's desire for b.u.t.tons and for tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs.

But Denise's order was lavish; it meant petticoats, wraps to match; it meant items of real lace. How then to spare sorrow because one golden yellow evening gown ordered by a Mrs Carteret had been too hurriedly finished.

"Tell Madame that I am really pressed for time. Can she not spare me five minutes?"

Madame was with Lady Blakeney, very busy with an order, the forewoman was also engaged. A slender young woman in black satin glided back with the message. Would Madame call again later, make an appointment? Had Madame seen one of the latest scarves? Quite charming, only five guineas. Black satin dexterously whisked out a wisp of chiffon. "No!

Madame did not want a scarf."

Denise was behind the strawberry silk curtains hiding in Madame's sanctum. Esme felt hurt, sore. It was always Denise--always Denise.

She, Esme, was no one.

She got up, looking at her tall, slight figure in one of the long gla.s.ses; she grew flushed, angry.

"I have not time to call again. Please tell Madame that the evening gown is impossible, a strait-waistcoat. I was to have worn it to-night at a dance. Now I must wear an old gown of Lucille's--which at least fits." Esme flounced out, wiping the dust of the strawberry-hued _salon_ from her tightly-shod feet.

Half an hour later Madame Claire heard the message.

"Alter it," she said carelessly. "Let it out. I expect she'll give me up now. Send her her bill at once."

The heat beat down in quivering waves. All London shopped, buying, buying, since freshness lasted but for a few days, and one must not be seen in a gown more than three or four times.

Tinsels and chiffons and laces; feather ruffles; silks and crepes and muslins; gloves and silken stockings piled up on the mahogany counters for Society to buy. Subtle-tongued a.s.sistants lauded their wares; there was always something which Madame had not dreamt of buying, but which she suddenly discovered to be an absolute necessity.

The flower-shops showed their sheaves of cut blossoms, long-stemmed roses, carnations, lilies, pinks, monster sweet peas. Things out of season nestled in baskets in the fruiterers. Wealth everywhere, gold or promise of gold; electric motors gliding noiselessly. Slim youngsters taking their morning stroll; brown-skinned soldiers up for a few days, spending in shops behind windows which Madame and Mademoiselle pa.s.sed without a glance. The richest city in the world gathered its summer harvest; and white-faced poverty, sometimes straying from their poor country, looking on, dully, resentfully envious. Sewing-machines flew in the sweltering heat, needles darted, rows of girls sat working breathlessly, that great ladies might not be disappointed.

"I must have that embroidered gown for the d.u.c.h.ess's party, Madame."

"Certainly, milady, without fail."

Then a visit to the workroom--a whisper to two pale girls.

"You two must stay overtime to-night, get that dress finished. It mustn't get out, either--be careful!"

So, when their breath of air might be s.n.a.t.c.hed, the two would st.i.tch on under the dazzle of electric light, drink strong tea and eat bread and b.u.t.ter, and never dare to grumble, for there were fifty other girls who could be taken instead of them.

Esme strolled up Bond Street. She bought a ruffle which caught her fancy; she stopped to talk to half a dozen people; but she strolled on, her goal a soot-smirched square where a baby would be taking its airing.

He was there, under his white awning, looking a little pale, a little peaked, wilting in the heat.

Mrs Stanson knew her visitor, smiled at her, never quite understood why Esme came to the square so often. Esme asked for Denise first; she was always careful to know that she was out before she came, then went into the gardens.

There was no air in it; the trees had no freshness; the gra.s.s looked dull and unwholesome.

"Isn't he very white, Mrs Stanson--peaky?"

"He should be in the country," Mrs Stanson said. "Down where his windows'd let in air at night and not the s.m.u.ts from the chimneys. But her ladyship--she thinks different; she hates the country. I saw little Lord Helmington go in a hot summer because they wouldn't open Helmington Hall to send him down there with me."

"But he--Cyrrie--he won't go?" Esme caught at the small soft fingers, moist with heat. A sudden fear gripped her heart.

"Was Denise going to kill the boy? Of course she did not care."

"Take care of him, Mrs Stanson. Oh! take care of him. I was there when he was born, you know. I used to act nurse for him. Aren't there those ozone things you hang up in bedrooms? Or, can't you get him away?"

Esme hung over the baby, jealous of his little life, panting, afraid.

Mrs Stanson had taken several gold pieces from the child's visitor. She shrugged her plump shoulders.

"Her ladyship doesn't care for children, Mrs Carteret, and that's the truth. She says I fuss, talk nonsense. He don't even get a drive every day, and Sir Cyril, he comes in, but he's her ladyship's husband. Hssh!

baby, hssh!"

For little Cyril began to cry querulously, wrinkling his peaky face.