“Will you pour it out, Lydia dear.”

  The voice came from the saloon, dripping with honey. They sat about the table, and Ricardo was at pains to do his duty and chatter away.

  “You are staying here long, Miss Marsh?”

  “No. I’ve got to get back to Paris. I have my car here. It’s not more than a hundred miles.”

  “But you’ll be returning perhaps for the fancy dress ball?”

  Elsie Marsh shook her head, and Lucrece Bouchette explained.

  “We have promised to stay with Mr. Stallard in the Château. The poor man has no one to act as hostess for him. And it would be a bore if we had to motor back here in our boat against the tide. And in what character are you going, Mr. Ricardo?”

  Ricardo giggled and blushed.

  “I am going as a chef,” he said. “I have borrowed a cap and apron. And you, Miss Flight?”

  Lydia shook her head at him with an archness which was too exaggerated to belong to her.

  “My dress is a secret. I have sent for it. I am going to astonish Caudebec, I assure you.”

  As she finished speaking a man’s voice hailed the house-boat from the embankment, and looking across the little stretch of water, they saw Guy Stallard waving his hat at them.

  “My!” said Elsie Marsh.

  “That’s our millionaire from Arizona,” said Lucrece. She called out to the tender behind the Marie-Popette. A colour had come into her face, and her eyes were smiling. “We can have our talk after he has gone,” she said to Elsie Marsh. “You may just as well dine here.”

  Elsie Marsh nodded.

  “I’m going to write some letters,” said Lydia Flight.

  “All right, my dear,” said Lucrece Bouchette.

  “And if you don’t mind, Madame Bouchette, your boatman shall put me on shore as he fetches Mr. Stallard,” said Julius Ricardo.

  He was very glad to get ashore. It had been a most uncomfortable tea-party. He had nothing against Elsie Marsh, but he definitely did not like her. Of Madame Bouchette he was rather afraid. And though he was drawn to Lydia Flight, he knew not whether to be more angry with the other two women for so deliberately humiliating her, or with her for so tamely submitting to it.

  “I, myself,” he added with a little titter as he walked along the hard, “was not at my best. I have seldom known myself less entertaining.”

  But when he had got over these small and unpalatable conclusions, he still remembered that he had not been meant to see that fishing net upon which Lydia Flight was kept at work.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE REHEARSAL

  ALL THROUGH THAT last week of July, Lydia Flight counted the minutes as they passed. On the Thursday morning she rose early, and slipping a dressing-gown over her pyjamas, went out to the after-deck and smoked a cigarette. It was five o’clock, the light clear and still, and a peace so deep sleeping on that green bay of the Seine that it seemed impossible that distress or anxiety could have a meaning there. Thursday was the day fixed for Mr. Stallard’s informal fancy dress dance at the House of the Pebble. On Friday night, after the close of the Goodwood Races, the young Rajah would cross by the boat from Southampton to Havre. There he would be met by his secretary, Major Scott Carruthers. Thence the pair would motor to Trouville. On Saturday morning the party on the house-boat, Lucrece Bouchette, Oliver Ransom and herself, would travel also to Trouville. By midday the great rope of pearls would be handed over to the Prince, its lustre quite restored, and she would be free.

  She drew a deep breath as she imagined that moment. Apart from her responsibility, all the greater now that it was more difficult to pretend that these were pearls from the Arcades, as Monsieur Crevette had described them, Lydia had been conscious of a growing fear and uneasiness. Lucrece Bouchette had become difficult, exacting — more than exacting. Lydia had noticed a glitter of hatred in her grey almond-shaped eyes more than once, when she had lifted her face from the net and caught Lucrece staring at her. Lydia had put up with it silently. To get through with her job and finish, and go back to her own life — she yearned for that. Two days more — only two days! But there was something being planned.

  She had refused to acknowledge it until this moment. Now it sprang at her out of the clear still morning, a conviction which would not be denied.

  In a little while Marie brought out to Lydia a cup of tea.

  “Thank you, Marie,” said Lydia, and as she hitched her chair nearer to the little table, something dragged at her foot. She looked down and laughed. It was the fishing net, which had been left lying on the floor, and one of its meshes had caught the rosette of Lydia’s mule.

  “We finished that net last night, Madame Bouchette and myself between us.”

  “I expect that mademoiselle did most of the work,” said Marie with a sly amusement.

  “I shan’t say no to that,” Lydia said, as she stooped to free her slipper from the mesh.

  “Let me, mademoiselle,” said the maid, and she dropped upon her knees at Lydia’s side. The rosette was an outrageously big, fluffy thing like a powder puff, and the string had twisted itself tightly about it. Moreover, Marie’s shoulders were shaking with laughter as she bent, so that her fingers fumbled as they worked.

  “It is rather absurd that we should have sat up all last night to finish it,” said Lydia, “for after all, we shan’t now be using it.”

  Marie’s shoulders ceased to dance, and her fingers to work.

  “Oh?” she said without lifting her head. For a moment she remained quite still. “It seems a pity, mademoiselle. After all that work?” Her voice was growing stronger now, and more natural. “Your fingers, mademoiselle, must have fairly ached with all this knotting and unknotting. And now it’s not to be used, you say?”

  She released the mesh now from the rosette and gathered up the net in her arms.

  “It’s strong, too,” she said regretfully, as she pulled at it here and there.

  “Oh, it’ll come in useful, no doubt, Marie, for some other purpose than catching fish.”

  “No doubt, mademoiselle,” said Marie, with her eyes on the ground, and she turned and carried the net towards the saloon. In the doorway she met Oliver Ransom. He had slipped a pair of flannel trousers over his pyjama legs, and a blue fisherman’s jersey over his trunk.

  “Early,” he said. “I’m glad.”

  “I, too,” said Lydia; and she stood up as he approached her, all her heart in her grave and quiet eyes. He took her hands and drew her towards him.

  “This is our hour,” he said, and he kissed her upon the lips.

  “Our little desert island of an hour amongst all the troublesome, crowded hours,” she answered with a smile. She placed the palm of her hand against his cheek. “You have had a great day in the Law Courts. Judges have thrown bouquets at you. Your clerk is marking up extra fees on your briefs. I have had the success of my life to-night at Covent Garden. I don’t know how many calls I’ve taken. My old Maestro was in the wings tearing his hair and crying: ‘What a farce! She can’t sing!’ We’re both at home now — where are we living, sweetheart? A little house, all to ourselves, backing on a park. There’s a cable on the table for me. Toscanini’s on his knees. There’s a telegram from the Government for you: ‘If you won’t be Attorney-General, we’re done.’ All the trumpery things must wait till the morning. We have our desert island of an hour, later nowadays than we had it at Caudebec, but we have it, all the same.”

  She was speaking in a low voice with such a depth of tenderness that the scene she pictured became actual before his eyes.

  “Gorgeous,” he said with a laugh.

  “No, my dear. Lovely,” said she; and she held him off from her and looked over his shoulder into the dark saloon, where the blinds were still drawn down over the windows.

  “But this morning is spoilt,” she said.

  She took his hand and drew him to the stern of the boat, and sat him down in a chair beside her, so that they both faced the door of the saloon. Behind them the dinghy swung upon its painter; still farther behind, the tender and the launch were moored. Not a person was visible on the embankment; the river was empty; the water made a rippling music at their side, with now and then a little gurgle of laughter. Behind them, the sun had risen.

  “I am afraid,” said Lydia simply.

  Oliver Ransom looked at her anxiously.

  “Because we’re so near to what we are longing for. The end of all this.”

  But Lydia would have none of that explanation. She shook her head. “You’re only saying that to comfort me.” She laid her hand upon his arm. “You mustn’t do that, my dear. You’re afraid too — oh, for me, I know. But you are afraid.”

  And now Oliver Ransom was silent.

  Lydia dropped her voice to a whisper.

  “Why was that girl brought here — Elsie Marsh? She came after Scott Carruthers had gone to Trouville. He never mentioned that she was expected before he went. He never knew that she was coming. She came secretly.”

  “But Stallard came here that afternoon. He saw her here.”

  “I know,” Lydia returned. “But he was not meant to come that afternoon. I am sure of it.”

  “How can you be sure of it?”

  “Lucrece didn’t want him here that day.” She nodded her head with the air of wisdom of an octogenarian. “Lucrece is obvious, my dear, as far as Guy Stallard is concerned. The first time she saw him, she was all hot and open-mouthed, and her eyes lengthening out till you thought they’d run round her head. And ever since, Oliver? Stuttering with passion, and all the more passionate, since—” and she broke off.

  “Yes,” Oliver Ransom answered. “Since...”

  There was no need for words more explicit between them. Ever since Guy Stallard had made the acquaintance of the house-boat party during the first days of its arrival, he had singled out Lydia Flight for his attentions. With discretion, both Oliver and Lydia had to admit, but with persistence.

  “What makes me wild, Oliver,” Lydia said, clenching her fist and thumping upon her knee, “is that he’s so sure that I’m going to run along to him in the end.” She looked up with her brows bent in a frown, seeking for words which would define the kind of siege he was laying. “He’s not complacent; I could let a little of the complacency out if he were. He can be quite attractive, indeed. He’s just good-humouredly sure that try as I may to avoid him, and try as Lucrece may to allure him, sooner or later I shall drop into his arms.”

  “That’s it,” said Ransom, suddenly agreeing as much with an idea which Lydia’s words had evoked in his mind as with the words. “He’s the hunting dog. The worst of the jungle beasts, because of his unshakable patience. He’ll sit under the tree his quarry has climbed until—” He broke off, impatient with himself and the cross-purposes of a mismanaged world.

  “It’s this great chaplet that keeps us quiet,” said Lydia, feeling the rope hidden beneath her dressing-jacket of swansdown. “We can’t help ourselves until we get rid of it.”

  Oliver Ransom nodded his head.

  “That’s right.”

  “And after all, it’s only to-day and to-morrow,” said Lydia, jumping up and laying a hand upon her companion’s shoulder.

  “That’s all,” replied Ransom with a laugh, “and this day we’ll make a real day.”

  He had a small yellow two-seater open car garaged at the end of the quay.

  “We’ll motor to Saint Wandrille and see the abbey. Then we’ll carry on to Rouen and lunch there. We’ll pick up your dress for the party.”

  “Yes, it’s at the station. I heard yesterday.”

  “Then in the afternoon we’ll cross the river and motor down to the Château du Caillou.”

  Lydia shivered suddenly, and he put an arm about her waist and held her to him.

  “You don’t look forward to that?”

  “I told you I was afraid.”

  And in a whisper he said:

  “I too! I too!”

  He had more reason indeed for fear than Lydia herself at this moment. He had watched the growth of Lucrece Bouchette’s hatred for Lydia and knew it for the hatred which would find a pleasure that was quite exquisite in inflicting pain upon her victim. He, too, was aware of something being planned — something which aimed at Lydia. And beyond all that he was troubled by the riddle of Guy Stallard. That he was the chance tenant of the house across the river, he did not believe. There had been a few minutes when Mr. Ricardo had put the millionaire from Arizona to a good deal of discomfort. Left to himself, Ransom would have insisted that Lydia and he should refuse Guy Stallard’s invitation. But Carruthers had wanted it to be accepted.

  “We shall be there together,” he had said. “I, too, am waiting for Nahendra Nao just as anxiously as any of you. Every little shadow frightens me too. But so long as we are together, we shall be all right.”

  The invitation could hardly, therefore, have been refused. It had been accepted, and Scott Carruthers had gone off to Trouville on the excuse of arranging suitable accommodation for his Indian Prince. There he had stayed, however; and Oliver Ransom was beginning to wonder whether he would join the rest of the party that afternoon at the House of the Pebble.

  Lucrece Bouchette was in her most gracious mood that morning when Lydia and Oliver Ransom were waiting in the stern for the dinghy to come alongside and set them ashore. She looked at her watch and said:

  “You ought to get off if you are going to get your enjoyment out of the day. It’s ten o’clock already, and you have got to get your car out of the garage. You haven’t told me yet what you’re going to wear to-night, Lydia.”

  “No! I’m going to keep that a secret,” said Lydia teasingly. “As a matter of fact, it’s too elaborate for the occasion, but I can’t help it. It’ll hide these pearls better than any other dress which I have got.”

  “All right,” said Lucrece. She was not interested at all in the dress which Lydia had sent for from her little store of operatic costumes. What she wanted to do this morning was to get both her and Oliver out of the way as promptly as she could. She turned to Oliver as the boatman brought the dinghy up. “We are to have a floor of the house to ourselves, Monsieur Ransom, tonight. I’ll arrange for the rooms so that there’ll be no risk at all. You’ll be at the house in the afternoon some time. Enjoy yourselves!”

  She watched them land and walk along the embankment to the quay. It was a broad stretch of earth like a parade ground, and at the far side stood the garage in a row of shops. Lucrece Bouchette looked a little uneasily down the river. It did not matter, she assured herself, but she wanted those two to hurry. They were sauntering along, side by side, as if time was their servant, and Lucrece Bouchette’s face lost all its beauty as her eyes followed them, or rather, followed one of them. There had been an hour on the Riviera when she had felt a pang of pity for Lydia Flight. But that hour during this last month had been altogether erased from her recollections.

  “Fools!” she said to herself angrily. “Why don’t they hurry? They have got one day, and they’re wasting it.” And again her eyes glanced anxiously down the river.

  The yellow car was wheeled out from the garage, and its tanks filled. She could hear faintly the roar of its engine as Oliver Ransom started it. She saw it turn and disappear between the houses up the hill to Rouen.

  “Just in time,” said Lucrece with a little mocking bow towards the cloud of dust it left behind. For at the wide seaward bend of the river, a fast motor launch was dividing the water at its bows into two white swathes.

  Mr. Guy Stallard came on board ten minutes later, debonair and Byronic, with a straw hat and a careless black silk tie.

  “I reckon you’ve had a letter this morning, Lucrece,” he said.

  Lucrece Bouchette nodded.

  “Telling you to take your orders from me?”

  “Yes, Guy.”

  “And to ask no questions.”

  “Yes.”

  Guy Stallard looked at her with amusement.

  “You’re up to some trick, you know, Lucrece. You’re being fine and modest, and whatever-you-want, sir, but you’re up to some tricks, my lady. That girl, Elsie Marsh! What did you bring her here for?”

  His tone was gentle and smooth and his lips were smiling, and he seemed to be asking the most innocent of questions. Lucrece Bouchette raised her eyes to his and shook her head.

  “Won’t answer, eh?” he went on softly. “Did Harvey Carruthers know that you were asking her?”

  Lucrece raised her eyebrows languidly.

  “I think you are the only person except myself who calls Major Carruthers Harvey,” she said.

  “Meaning?” said he.

  “That we will leave it at that,” she returned.

  Guy Stallard was at a disadvantage. Carruthers had worked out his plan upon one clear principle. It was better that each agent of it should know no more than it was necessary for that agent to know for the successful performance of his own particular job. Guy Stallard suspected and, in spite of his demeanour, with a good deal of alarm, that Lucrece was twisting the threads of this plot to make a more attractive pattern for herself. If she was, she might be spoiling altogether a careful and elaborate scheme; and bringing an exceedingly nasty catastrophe upon them all. But he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure.

  “Very well,” he said grudgingly, at length. “Is your maid here?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d better go into the saloon and have her in.”

  They went into the saloon, and whilst Lucrece rang the bell, Guy Stallard drew up a chair towards the table. The foot of one of the legs, however, caught in something on the floor.

  “What’s this?” asked Stallard, as he stooped down and freed the chair.

  “A fishing net we’ve been making,” said Lucrece, and Marie came into the saloon.

  “Now,” said Stallard. He told each in turn exactly what she was to do. He showed each one how to do it. He made each one rehearse her movements and her actions, timing them, criticising them, until each one was exact and neat and noiseless. Outside the windows, the ships went up to Rouen and down from Rouen to the sea; Caudebec basked in the sun, its visitors and inhabitants going about their pleasant, easy occasions. Here in the saloon the grim and ugly rehearsal was repeated until even Lucrece Bouchette began to shiver with the horror of it.

 

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