Grace Villars looked around the room and contemplated her guests. She had asked this gathering out of mischief, or rather love for situations which could make everybody uneasy except herself. Before the fireworks she wondered if she had succeeded in this aim. The idea of the party’s being a failure entered her head like a sign of distress, a further whisper, as there had been all that year, of her own decline. Grace had seen June come in, mysterious in the candlelight. She had not greeted her guest and this very omission troubled her. Was she after all afraid of this awkward, unformed girl; of any girl? But of course it was only the candles and if they gave so much to June they must surely be doing more for her, Grace. In the dark she had moved away from Jim Walsh, away from Stevens and his poor, plain young woman, to stand again near Eddie, and it was Eddie to whom later she gave the first drink, curtsying as she did so. Then, turning, she clapped her hands and called:

“Now I want everyone to fill their glasses and drink to our host, Jim Walsh.” She went softly up to Ronny who was still seated in his chair. “Have a sip of wine, Roddy,” she pleaded. “Because you’ll hear news tonight.” She gave him a little champagne and tried to hold it to his lips. Her pretty, teasing gesture, as she bent over her sullen son, her blond curls so near his dark head, made the men in the room react. June, standing behind Ronny’s chair, a little apart, looked at her hostess with wonder.

‘How good humoured she is!’ thought June, ‘and how hard she works for her effects. That will always be the difference between us.’ This reflection made her happy and proud. Yes they would have to do the work for her. June allowed her lips to form a scornful smile which she hoped was noticed by all. Grace, in fact, did see it, but she merely thought that the girl did not like the taste of champagne with its stinging bubbles.

Ronny had spoken to no one so far that evening. Now Jim Walsh, glass in hand, came up to the boy after his mother had left his side. A heavy, old man’s flush had tinged his cheeks, and as he walked he straddled an imaginary line.

“Say, bring me a chair,” he called to Jeremy where he stood talking to the crewman who had brought him from the “High Kick” to the beach. Walsh sat down with a wheeze and put his hand on the boy’s bare knee. “Listen to me, son,” he said.

Ronny turned.

“Your Ma and I had a talk,” said Jim. “I told her I’d like it if we could share you.”

“You mean, marry Mother?” asked Ronny.

“Good God, no,” said Walsh with emphasis. He shook his head and thought that he would never be happier than at this moment with his hand on his son’s knee. Because he knew that Ronny was his child. Somehow in this candle-lit room, discussing it with Grace, he had become sure. He would claim paternity in court, and Grace was only too willing to agree. She could have her son legally for half the year, like any divorcee, but Jim knew that money talked. With money, he could have Ronny almost entirely to himself. He would rescue the boy from this atmosphere, give him a boy’s life. They would take long cruises and fish the powerful tunny from the sea. Ronny would learn to use a harpoon, to race the speedboat and to do what Jim had never done: fly an airplane. He would have something besides cocktail parties to boast about to his friends at school. He would become a man and, later, would know about wealth and its accumulation. Perhaps Ronny would even go into politics, although that was far ahead. Jim Walsh would never live that long.

Jim rose abruptly. He had meant to ask Ronny’s consent, but now he saw that this was pure weakness. In life one must take what one wanted. “Get ready to leave tomorrow, Ronny,” he said, and was about to walk off when he noticed June. He patted her shoulder without saying anything. June took this to mean that it was all right; that she failed perhaps now, yet would one day have her triumph. She resented this caress profoundly. Then Jim called to her: “How’s your grandmother?” He did not even wait to hear the answer (he corresponded regularly with Mrs. Grey) but continued in the old man’s way that was growing on him: “Fine, fine.”

‘What if I’d said she was dead?’ wondered June, who felt suddenly like laughing. She was afraid to do so, however. The scratching throb in her throat might not be laughter at all.

All this time the tide rose. It stretched against the land and became high. Gambol in his watery stable did not mind. He had found that by standing near the rotten boats he was on a hill of silt, piled up there bit by bit by the drift of the sea. He did not think of leaving, although he could easily have done so. He simply stood with his back and belly quite dry and ruminated. Around him the air was pitch black but the water was alive with phosphorous so that every move he made was etched in flame. Beside him, and a little apart, a jelly fish made a globe of light. Its placid tide-rhythm was disturbed by the horse so that it rocked in the water. At first Gambol had been afraid of the jelly fish and had rolled his eyes at it, but he had got used to it after a while. This round, pure, swaying lamp brought comfort to his night.

Once Gambol’s vigil was disturbed. Steps sounded on the staircase and the air echoed voices. It was Flo and his girl Ruby. They had stumbled on the door to the landing and now, turning on the light, came down there. Ruby stopped short on seeing Gambol.

“Didn’t I tell you they were crazy?” she demanded righteously. “Keeping a horse in this kind of a garage!”

Flo was rather astonished himself, yet since he was down here for a purpose, he tried to pull Ruby into a corner. She resisted. Her lethargic nature was roused for once.

“Let go!” she said. “Do you think I’d do it here with that horse looking at me?”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Around midnight Mary helping clear the plates from the table said to her husband: “It’s true, they do look better under the candlelight.”

“Well, they won’t look better tomorrow,” said Jeremy, who had really enjoyed himself for once.

“They’re getting a head on all right,” said the sailor, nodding towards the other side of the room.

Mary turned to look and saw something strange. Eddie was sitting in a chair against the wall and on his lap perched Grace Villars. James Stevens was kneeling in front of them.

“Oh my!” said Mary.

The tableau caught thus at its peak had taken all evening to be assembled. From the time when he had walked with Jim Walsh in back of the two women, Stevens had made up his mind and determined to propose to Grace. He would make his offer tonight and it would be accepted. Stevens looked over to where Ronny sat. He noted the boy’s tense head turned away from the room. How quiet he was! Stevens wondered what Ronny would think of the marriage. Would he be happy to have his tutor for a stepfather? With a dull feeling of pain Stevens acknowledged to himself that Ronny would probably not care either way. He was unaware of Stevens, whose comings and goings he hardly observed. That somber glance was set on other things. That heart held already another name. Stevens pressed his lips when he thought of Ronny’s tattoo. When he and Grace were married, June would disappear from their lives and he would protect the boy from such influences. Yet her name graven on the quick of the boy’s flesh would remain.

At this moment Stevens saw June come in and then, soon, the fireworks had begun. He swallowed nervously in the darkness as he tried to prepare a speech. Lucy’s presence beside him irritated and put him off. Why ever had he brought her? What had he to do with this female who was suffering? Her constrained yearning was a tangible thing which revolted Stevens’ nature. Grace was to blame, of course—by that wicked remark about settling down and marrying a Star Harbour girl she had given words to Lucy’s desire. Lucy had reacted almost visibly and now her breath in the darkness was heavy, like continuous sighs.

Later Stevens drank to give himself courage and, while he drank, new groups formed. Jim, always a good host, came up and talked to Lucy. He could not pierce the mystery of her being asked, but he plied her with champagne and told her stories of his travels. He was so elated over his plans for Ronny that her expression escaped him, or seemed easy to wipe away. A few drinks were what she needed.

Flo and Ruby had disappeared. Grace was flirting with Eddie whose easy manner, contemptuous yet tender, filled her with a momentary excitement. Eddie, for his part, replied willingly to Grace’s sallies. She was no chicken perhaps, but she was on the ball and pretty. When he pulled her onto his knees her little cork-soled shoes dangled against his legs and her light frame twitched in his arms.

“Come over here, Stevie,” she called from the haven of Eddie’s lap.

Stevens was not used to seeing women sitting in a man’s lap, but to his flushed senses the situation became usual at once. He gave her his youthful grin and came over to stand in front of Eddie’s chair.

“Say something new and interesting,” commanded Grace, looking up at him impudently.

“Will you marry me?” asked Stevens, as though it were the least request in the world.

Eddie was convulsed. His moles were swallowed up in laughter. He thought he had never seen such an absurdity as this school teacher. “Well, Grace?” he urged, squeezing her waist.

But Stevens, having said that much, now became pale and in earnest. “Grace,” he said, “it just slipped out and this isn’t a very good time, yet I do mean it.” Strangely enough, that Grace was sitting on Eddie’s knee brought for the first time a twinge of amorous desire into Steven’s blood. Eddie’s thick, hairy wrist against that toy waist, his powerful thigh beneath the spread of skirt, awoke in Stevens the sleeping brute. He continued, almost stammering now: “You see, I’ve thought it all out. I’ll give up my job, of course, and sell the house. It’s enough to start something in New York and I have a small income, too.”

Eddie suddenly thrust his ugly face from behind Grace’s shoulder. “Why talk of money?” he demanded. “You should be talking of love. What are you anyway?” Turning up his hand from Grace’s waist, he crashed his other fist into the palm. “Down on your knees, man!” he commanded. “That’s the way to do it where I come from.”

Eddie’s soft tones, contrasting with the sound of his fist in his palm, made Stevens thrill with fear. The difference between that voice and the heavy sinews in his hand raised the sweat on the tutor’s body. At once and without reflection he fell on his knees. The scene took on its final perfection and Grace was delighted.

“Now plead your case young fellow,” demanded Eddie, looking sideways into the schoolmaster’s eyes.

Stevens’ glance grew rigid with fascination. “Will you marry me, Grace?” He said it almost in a whisper.

As though these repeated words were a signal, Eddie rose, spilling Grace from his lap. He had forgotten her in an instant and went over to talk to Jeremy and the sailor.

Grace straightened her skirts and was completely composed. Stevens shuddered as people do when they have taken a draught too strong for their palates. He looked at the little doll to whom he was offering his life and understood nothing. Her blond curls, the forced childishness of her apparel, bewildered him. The signs of age in her face held his attention for the first time. She was a fading toy, a columbine traveling the roads because her big-town days were over. Ah, but she had produced Ronny! This thought was like cool water on Stevens’ brow.

“I mean it, Grace,” he said. “Won’t you answer my proposal?” ‘And who knows,’ he thought, ‘if this disgust won’t wear itself away.’

Grace had every intention of accepting Stevens. She had turned the idea over well in her mind. A husband of her own age would give her a new grip, set back the years a little. In partnership they could, as he suggested, start something, go into some enterprise; interior decorating, perhaps, or antiques. Her vast number of acquaintances, no longer of the most personal use, would become vital in another sense, and Stevens would furnish a basic capital. Yes, it would be a good move.

Grace put back her head. “Are we going to shake on it like two pals, or will you break down and kiss me?”

Stevens took her by the shoulders with a forced roughness that covered his indecision. The feel of her sharp bones in his hands, the sinews that twitched nervously in his grasp and the red paste like a greasy stain between their lips made his gorge rise.

“Jim,” called Grace in her clear voice. “Come over here—and you too, Miss Philmore. We need congratulations.”

She did not call to June and Ronny but left them together at the other end of the room, not as though she were unaware of them, but as though they were inanimate, two pieces of furniture whose attitudes she had already fixed.

“Well well!” remarked Jim, lowering his heavy lids sardonically. Yet his face was jovial. “Good idea, Grace,” he said.

Lucy wondered whether the taste in her mouth came from the champagne or whether it were not some spinster acid fabricated in her own blood which she must swallow from now on. She merely said with her pleasant smile: “I hope you’ll be very happy.”

“Oh thank you, my dear!” Grace’s teeth, small and pointed, gleamed in the candlelight. She touched Jim’s sleeve. “Isn’t it lovely of Stevie to propose just now, just when I was so sad about letting you have Ronny?”

Above the boathouse, in a tree overlooking the yard, Shalimar was huddled. The stable door was closed to him and he was no longer called home at night. Also, peer down as he would the livelong day not one glimpse of Ronny riding Gambol had showed through the trees. Shalimar made a small croak of distress. He was as disgruntled, as ruffled and as timid, as a hen left out of its roost.

The party had been like one of the fireworks. It had risen, unfolded, bloomed, given forth different colours and now was fading. The candles had burned down in their sockets leaving lumps of wax on the furniture. The groups had disintegrated and appeared not to recall why they had formed. June thought it was time to go and left as she had come, alone and without farewell.

The night breeze crossed her throat and her bare arms. Now and then a leaf touched her, cold with dew, and the chorus of the tree frogs grew shriller as she passed. Ronny was leaving tomorrow. He was going away with the millionaire. She would never see him riding through the woods again nor hear him in the evening calling to his hawk. Her family would return. They would relate their adventures and think them interesting. They would never ask her about the summer, since what could happen on Grey’s Neck? They would never know about anything real; about the cry in the dusk each evening, or the tattooed heart.