CHAPTER XII

THE CASKET LINED WITH PINK

It was such a very large room. And the child left over wanted badly to cry, because her toys had all been broken, because it was her birthday, because Peter had gone. But who could possibly cry in such a very large room, that unwound itself and escaped at the corners, whenever she tried to seek comfort in tucking the walls close about her like an eiderdown quilt. She could have cried in a little room, quite easily; but this regal apartment was Second Empire--somebody important had slept here once.

Nicole knocked and entered: “It is time for Mademoiselle to dress. Is Mademoiselle completely rested?” beaming, she exhibited an elaborate bouquet, white lilac and lilies of the valley, that had just been sent by a middle-aged admirer from the Legation.

Madame des Essarts trailed in, to discuss in what costume Merle would shine to the best advantage, at the dinner-party given in her honour that evening.

“The apricot ninon? What do you think, Nicole?”

Nicole was in favour of a quaint old-rose brocade, which suited Mademoiselle _à merveille_. Merle was invited to take part in the discussion. She could have indicated a startling preference for a sea-faded jersey and cap ... but she said that she preferred the brocade. Her grandmother laid cool fingers, heavily beringed, upon her head.

“Mignonne, we must call in _ce bon_ Docteur Dufour again; you are slightly feverish. The excitement of your fête, is that it?”

Merle smiled. A doll had returned to its elaborate wrappings; a bon-bon was replaced in its satin casket; a jewel laid back in its nest of cotton-wool. Merle smiled: Yes, she was excited because it was her birthday. Nice things always happened on one’s birthday, was it not so? And murmuring benignly an epigram on _la jeunesse_, Madame departed to put herself in the hands of the coiffeur.

Merle lay back among the pillows, and watched Nicole laying out silk stockings and embroidered shoes; soft underwear; a string of pearls; a handkerchief edged in fine old lace; Nicole, drawing the curtains, fetching hot water.... “Good Heavens! that I should own a friend who owns a maid. You know it’s quite easy to pull on your stockings, once you’ve learnt the way”--How long would the memory of Peter’s mischievous remarks entangle themselves like alien threads through the dainty artificial pattern that must henceforth be woven only in dim pastels and misted silver?

“Mademoiselle is now ready for me to arrange her hair?” Ablutions performed, Merle slipped around her a silk kimono. The monogrammed tortoise-shell hair-brushes stood at hand on the panelled dressing-table; the room was deliciously warm, and fragrant with the scent of white lilac. Merle had enjoyed with all her heart this parade of luxury and ceremonial when it had stood as contrast to her secret life of adventure with Peter; their stolen days, their long tramps--oh, it had been fun, while roughing it, to remember Nicole and the waiting casket lined with pink.

But now the casket stood for all there was; the tortoise-shell toilet-service had to be taken seriously; and Merle’s eyes, looking back at her from the oval mirror, were wide and frightened with the knowledge that one could not laugh alone.

* * * * *

Mademoiselle des Essarts, in old-rose brocade and pearls, stands beside Madame in the Louis salon, and, with charming self-possession, helps to receive the entering guests. And now they have all arrived: well-known figures in foreign ministerial circles; courteous and urbane old gentlemen wearing decorations; brilliant and polished young gentlemen from the various embassies; the two daughters of the new Consul (invited because they were of Merle’s age); the elegant wives of numerous consuls; the white-haired Marchese di Salvador, whose rule it is never to make a remark that is not unpleasant; finally, a middle-aged member of the Legation, tall, kindly, and distinguished, his head already beflecked with grey: Jean Raoul Théodore, Comte de Cler, who so admires Mademoiselle des Essarts, and is enchanted to find that he is to lead her down to dinner.

General conversation round the table is mostly of a political nature, and carried on in foreign languages, the assembled company slipping with ease from one tongue to another. Merle’s partner considerately leaves her alone, remarking with instinctive delicacy that the charming child beside him is troubled, and not in a mood to talk. But presently le Vicomte d’Alençon turns from a spirited contest with the Marchese, to Merle on his other side, and enquires if she has received many gifts in celebration of the day which seventeen years ago was responsible for such a beautiful and talented addition to the world. His tone is sugary and indulgent, as to a petted child. She blushes and deprecates, correcting his mistake--“Twenty-two? _Ma non è possibile!_”--and watches him return with unmistakable relief to his argument with the Marchese.... “I agree with you, _mon ami_, he should never have been put in responsible office; I will see what can be done....”

Undoubtedly fascinating to insiders, this game of diplomacy. Merle would not be averse to be admitted as equal to the intricacies of wire-pulling, instead of being tossed an occasional sugar-plum to keep her quiet; but she realizes that these people are justified in thrusting her outside of their world--why is she not in her own? The universe is a series of cosy cubicles, but dreary for the strays who wander beyond the drawn curtains.... She sends a swift thought to the Room, the Perfect Piratical Playroom. Will it be sub-let, now that two of its owners are grown-up? And she imagines a grave discussion with Peter and Stuart on the subject of a suitable tenant, who would be kind to the giraffe, and keep on Squeith as included in the inventory, and....

--Twinkling the pear-shaped emeralds in her ears, the wife of the new Consul asks deferentially of her hostess if her little granddaughter will be allowed to spend a week-end at their country-seat: “My two girls here are of her age, I believe; and they would be so delighted, _chère_ Madame.”

Madame is also delighted, and vouches enthusiastically for Merle’s delight. And the two daughters murmur their double delight, and wish Merle were not so beautiful, and continue to coquette with the young gentlemen from the embassies.

“But lately one never sees _cette méchante petite_,” shrills the widowed sister-in-law of Madame; “she neglects _la vieille tante_ shamefully.”

“Merle is so much with her special friend,” Madame explains in apology; “Peter Kyndersley--a sweet girl; they are inseparable. Even now they have but just returned from a visit to Devonshire.”

“Ah, she must indeed have enjoyed that,”--they are talking _at_ Merle, not to her--“And how well she is looking.”

“The fresh air,” says Madame; and turns the subject. Youth has received sufficient attention for the moment.

... Dancing before Merle’s eyes, a sudden vision of a tea-party of nice young girls, to celebrate her last year’s natal day, and the arrival of Peter in the rôle of Inseparable Friend, bearing the present of a particularly hideous work-basket: “_Dearest_ Merle, _so_ many happy returns of the day. Just a _little_ remembrance for your birthday; oh, a mere nothing, but I always say it’s the _spirit_ and not the _gift_ that matters!” A murmur of approbation here from grandmother, aunts, and visitors--and Merle, meeting the wicked twinkle in Peter’s eye, controls herself with difficulty.

--Last year.

And again: “We can’t quarrel really,” laughed Peter, “because of your grandmother. One would hear nothing but: ‘You never ask that charming Peter Kyndersley to tea, _chèrie_, and you were once so fond of her.’...”

Well, that will have to be gone through as well.

The table is one blaze and glitter; the light falling on the Salviati vases; wine trembling and reflecting in the long-stemmed glasses; vivid splashes of fruit and flowers; flash of epigram from one lip to another. The Marchese is in great form to-night.... “Oh, _là là_!” and peals of laughter--

... Peter ... Peter....

The other two will not miss the games so intensely; they had played because it was their nature to play, as now they loved because it was their nature to love. But Merle had played for all her wasted years of Château and Convent; played for the prim little maiden with her toes turned out, who hung in a frame on the wall of the boudoir; played for all the children of all the world who had not the chance to play enough....

“But you are grown-up. Grown-ups cannot play.”

“We did! we did!”

“Are you sure? Were _they_ playing--all the time?”

Had they indeed ever played, all three of them together? Yes; Merle saw clearly now when the change had occurred; when the pendulum, vibrating equally between herself and Peter, had swung completely over. It was after the April night when Stuart had come to her in his trouble, and she had given him comfort.

“But he asked for it--I only gave him what he asked for.”

Just so, my dear. Just so.

--“Merle! _chèrie!_”

Merle starts guiltily from her absorption; becomes aware of Monsieur le Vicomte d’Alençon, as the oldest present, making a few appropriate remarks in her honour. He tugs his white imperial; bows gracefully in the direction of the so charming granddaughter of their so delightful hostess--

And now they are all clinking and drinking to the good health and good fortune of Mademoiselle des Essarts!

* * * * *

“It’s Merle’s birthday,” said Peter, facing Stuart over their particular table at the Billet-doux.

“Then we’ll drink to Merle’s good health,” Stuart replied.

Glasses raised--eyes meeting steadily over the rims--meeting steadily--kindling to flame--

By the time the circular stems again touch the table-cloth, Merle is forgotten.

END OF PART I