The Buccaneers

by Edith Wharton

But if the young ladies enchanted him he saw in the young men his immediate opportunity. Lady Richard’s brother-in-law, Lord Seadown, was, for instance, one of the golden youths to whom Mr. Robinson had vainly sought an introduction. Lord Richard Marable, Seadown’s younger brother, he did know; but Lord Richard’s acquaintance was easy to make, and led nowhere, least of all in the direction of his own family. At Runnymede, Lord Richard was seldom visible; but Lord Seadown, who was always there, treated with brotherly cordiality all who shared the freedom of the cottage. There were others too, younger sons of great houses, officers quartered at Windsor or Aldershot, young Parliamentarians and minor government officials reluctantly detained in town at the season’s end, and hailing with joy the novel distractions of Runnymede; there was even—on one memorable day—the young Duke of Tintagel, a shrinking neutral-tinted figure in that highly coloured throng.

  “Now if I were a Duke—!” Robinson thought, viewing with pity the unhappy nobleman’s dull clothes and embarrassed manner; but he contrived an introduction to His Grace, and even a few moments of interesting political talk, in which the Duke took eager refuge from the call to play blindman’s-buff with the young ladies. All this was greatly to the good, and Mr. Robinson missed no chance to return to Runnymede.

  On a breathless August afternoon he had come down from London, as he did on most Saturdays, and joined the party about the tea-table under the big cedar. The group was smaller than usual. Miss March was away visiting friends in the Lake country. Nan St. George was still in Cornwall with her governess. Mrs. St. George and Mrs. Elmsworth, exhausted by the heat, had retired to the seclusion of their bedrooms, and only Virginia St. George and the two Elmsworth girls, under the doubtful chaperonage of Lady Richard Marable, sat around the table with their usual guests—Lord Seadown, Santos-Dios, Hector Robinson, a couple of young soldiers from Windsor, and a caustic young civil servant, the Honourable Miles Dawnly, who could always be trusted to bring down the latest news from London—or, at that season, from Scotland, Homburg, or Marienbad; as the case might be.

  Mr. Robinson by this time felt quite at home among them. He agreed with the others that it was far too hot to play tennis or even croquet, or to go on the river before sunset, and he lay contentedly on the turf under the cedar, thinking his own thoughts, and making his own observations, while he joined in the languid chatter about the tea-table.

  Of observations there were always plenty to be made at Runnymede. Robinson, by this time, had in his hands most of the threads running from one to another of these careless smiling young people. It was obvious, for instance, that Miles Dawnly, who had probably never lost his balance before, was head-over-ears in love with Conchita Marable, and that she was “playing” him indolently and amusedly, for want of a bigger fish. But the neuralgic point in the group was the growing rivalry between Lizzy Elmsworth and Virginia St. George. Those two inseparable friends were gradually becoming estranged; and the reason was not far to seek. It was between them now, in the person of Lord Seadown, who lay at their feet, plucking up tufts of clover, and gazing silently skyward through the dark boughs of the cedar. It had for some time been clear to Robinson that the susceptible young man was torn between Virginia St. George’s exquisite profile and Lizzy Elmsworth’s active wit. He needed the combined stimulus of both to rouse his slow imagination, and Robinson saw that while Virginia had the advantage as yet, it might at any moment slip into Lizzy’s quick fingers. And Lizzy saw this too.

  Suddenly Mabel Elmsworth, at whose feet no one was lying, jumped up and declared that if she sat still a minute longer she would take root. “Walk down to the river with me, will you, Mr. Robinson? There may be a little more air than under the trees.”

  Robinson had no particular desire to walk to the river, or anywhere else, with Mab Elmsworth. She was jolly, and conversable enough, but minor luminaries never interested him when stars of the first magnitude were in view. However, he was still tingling with the resentment aroused by the Lady Audrey de Salis’s rejection, and in the mood to compare unfavourably that silent and large-limbed young woman with the swift nymphs of Runnymede. At Runnymede they all seemed to live, metaphorically, from hand to mouth. Everything that happened seemed to be improvised, and this suited his own impetuous pace much better than the sluggish tempo of the Saltmire circle. He rose, therefore, at Mabel’s summons, wondering what the object of the invitation could be. Was she going to ask him to marry her? A little shiver ran down his spine; for all he knew, that might be the way they did it in the States. But her first words dispelled his fear.

  “Mr. Robinson, Lord Seadown’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  Robinson hesitated. He was far too intelligent to affect to be more intimate with anyone than he really was, and after a moment he answered: “I haven’t known him long; but everybody who comes here appears to be on friendly terms with everybody else.”

  His companion frowned slightly. “I wish they really were! But what I wanted to ask you was—have you ever noticed anything particular between Lord Seadown and my sister?”

  Robinson stopped short. The question took him by surprise. He had already noticed, in these free-mannered young women, a singular reticence about their family concerns, a sort of moral modesty that seemed to constrain them to throw a veil over matters freely enough discussed in aristocratic English circles. He repeated: “Your sister?”

  “You probably think it’s a peculiar question. Don’t imagine I’m trying to pump you. But everybody must have seen that he’s tremendously taken with Lizzy, and that Jinny St. George is doing her best to come between them.”

  Robinson’s embarrassment deepened. He did not know where she was trying to lead him. “I should be sorry to think that of Miss St. George, who appears to be so devoted to your sister.”

  Mabel Elmsworth laughed impatiently. “I suppose that’s the proper thing to say. But I’m not asking you to take sides—I’m not even blaming Virginia. Only it’s been going on now all summer, and what I say is, it’s time he chose between them, if he’s ever going to. It’s very hard on Lizzy, and it’s not fair that he should make two friends quarrel. After all, we’re all alone in a strange country, and I daresay our ways are not like yours, and may lead you to make mistakes about us. All I wanted to ask is, if you couldn’t drop a hint to Lord Seadown.”

  Hector Robinson looked curiously at this girl, who might have been pretty in less goddess-like company, and who spoke with such precocious wisdom on subjects delicate to touch. “By Jove, she’d make a good wife for an ambitious man,” he thought. He did not mean himself, but he reflected that the man who married her beautiful sister might be glad enough, at times, to have such a counsellor at his elbow.

  “I think you’re right about one thing, Miss Elmsworth. Your ways are so friendly, so kind, that a fellow, if he wasn’t careful, might find himself drawn two ways at once—”

  Mabel laughed. “Oh, you mean: we flirt. Well, it’s in our blood, I suppose. And no one thinks the worse of a girl for it at home. But over here it may seem undignified; and perhaps Lord Seadown thought he had the right to amuse himself without making up his mind. But in America, when a girl has shown that she really cares, it puts a gentleman on his honour, and he understands that the game has gone on long enough.”

  “I see.”

  “Only we’ve nobody here to say this to Lord Seadown” (Mabel seemed tacitly to assume that neither mother could be counted on for the purpose—not at least in such hot weather), “and so I thought—”

  Mr. Robinson murmured, “Yes—yes—” and after a pause went on: “But Lord Seadown is Lady Richard’s brother-in-law. Couldn’t she—?”

  Mabel shrugged. “Oh, Conchita’s too lazy to be bothered. And if she took sides, it would be with Jinny St. George, because they’re great friends, and she’d want all the money she can get for Seadown. Colonel St. George is a very rich man nowadays.”

  “I see,” Mr. Robinson again murmured. It was out of the question that he should speak on su
ch a matter to Lord Seadown, and he did not know how to say this to anyone as inexperienced as Mabel Elmsworth. “I’ll think it over—I’ll see what can be done,” he pursued, directing his steps toward the group under the cedar in his desire to cut the conversation short.

  As he approached he thought what a pretty scene it was: the young women in their light starched dresses and spreading hats, the young men in flannel boating-suits, stretched at their feet on the turf, and the afternoon sunlight filtering through the dark boughs in dapplings of gold.

  Mabel Elmsworth walked beside him in silence, clearly aware that her appeal had failed; but suddenly she exclaimed: “There’s a lady driving in that I’ve never seen before.... She’s stopping the carriage to get out and join Conchita. I suppose it’s a friend of hers, don’t you?”

  Calls from ladies, Mr. Robinson had already noticed, were rare and unexpected at the cottage. If a guardsman had leapt from the station fly, Mabel, whether she knew him or not, would have remained unperturbed; but the sight of an unknown young woman of elegant appearance filled her with excitement and curiosity. “Let’s go and see,” she exclaimed.

  The visitor, who was dark-haired, with an audaciously rouged complexion, and the kind of nose which the Laureate had taught his readers to describe as tip-tilted, was personally unknown to Mr. Robinson also; but, thanks to the Bond Street photographers and the new society journals, her features were as familiar to him as her reputation.

  “Why, it’s Lady Churt—it’s your landlady!” he exclaimed, with a quick glance of enquiry at his companion. The tie between Seadown and Lady Churt had long been notorious in their little world, and Robinson instantly surmised that the appearance of the lady might have a far from favourable bearing on what Mabel Elmsworth had just been telling him. But Mabel hurried forward without responding to his remark, and they joined the party just as Lady Churt was exchanging a cordial hand-clasp with Lady Richard Marable.

  “Darling!”

  “Darling Idina, what a surprise!”

  “Conchita, dearest—I’d no idea I should find you here! Won’t you explain me, please, to these young ladies—my tenants, I suppose?” Lady Churt swept the group with her cool amused glance, which paused curiously, and as Robinson thought somewhat anxiously, on Virginia St. George’s radiant face.

  “She looks older than in her photographs—and hunted, somehow,” Robinson reflected, his own gaze resting on Lady Churt.

  “I’m Lady Churt—your landlady, you know,” the speaker continued affably, addressing herself to Virginia and Lizzy. “Please don’t let me interrupt this delightful party. Mayn’t I join it instead? What a brilliant idea to have tea out here in hot weather! I always used to have it on the terrace. But you Americans are so clever at arranging things.” She looked about her, mustering the group with her fixed metallic smile. With the exception of Hector Robinson, the young men were evidently all known to her, and she found an easy word of greeting for each. Lord Seadown was the last that she named.

  “Ah, Seadown—so you’re here too? Now I see why you forgot that you were lunching with me in town today. I must say you chose the better part.” She dropped into the deep basket-chair which Santos-Dios had pushed forward, and held out her hand for a proffered mint-julep. “No tea, thanks—not when one of Teddy’s demoralizing mixtures is available.... You see, I know what to expect when I come here.... A cigarette, Seadown? I hope you’ve got my special supply with you, even if you’ve forgotten our engagement?” She smiled again upon the girls. “He spoils me horribly, you know, by always remembering to carry about my particular brand.”

  Seadown, with flushed face and lowering brow, produced the packet, and Lady Churt slipped the contents into her cigarette-case. “I do hope I’m not interrupting some delightful plan or other? Perhaps you were all going out on the river? If you were, you mustn’t let me delay you, for I must be off again in a few minutes.”

  Everyone protested that it was much too hot to move, and Lady Churt continued: “Really, you had no plans? Well, it is pleasanter here than anywhere else. But perhaps I’m dreadfully in the way. Seadown’s looking at me as if I were....” She turned her glance laughingly toward Virginia St. George. “The fact is, I’m not at all sure that landladies have a right to intrude on their tenants unannounced. I daresay it’s really against the law.”

  “Well, if it is, you must pay the penalty by being detained at our pleasure,” said Lady Richard gaily; and after a moment’s pause Lizzy Elmsworth came forward. “Won’t you let me call my mother and Mrs. St. George, Lady Churt? I’m sure they’d be sorry not to see you. It was so hot after luncheon that they went up to their rooms to rest.”

  “How very wise of them! I wouldn’t disturb them for the world.” Lady Churt set down her empty glass, and bent over the lighting of a cigarette. “Only you really mustn’t let me interfere for a moment with what you were all going to do. You see,” she added, turning about with a smile of challenge, “you see, though my tenants haven’t yet done me the honour of inviting me down, I’ve heard what amusing things are always going on here, and what wonderful ways you’ve found of cheering up the poor martyrs to duty who can’t get away to the grouse and the deer—and I may as well confess that I’m dreadfully keen to learn your secrets.”

  Robinson saw that this challenge had a slightly startling effect on the three girls, who stood grouped together with an air of mutual defensiveness unlike their usual easy attitude. But Lady Richard met the words promptly. “If your tenants haven’t invited you down, Idina dear, I fancy it’s only because they were afraid to have you see how rudimentary their arts are compared to their landlady’s. So many delightful people had already learnt the way to the cottage that there was nothing to do but to leave the door unlatched. Isn’t that your only secret, girls? If there’s any other” —she too glanced about her with a smile—“well, perhaps it’s this; but this, remember, is a secret, even from the stern mammas who are taking their siesta upstairs.”

  As she spoke she turned to her brother. “Come, Teddy—if everybody’s had tea, what about lifting the tray and things on to the grass, and putting this table to its real use?” Two of the young men sprang to her aid; and in a moment tray and tea-cloth had been swept away, and the green baize top of the folding table had declared its original purpose.

  “Cards? Oh, how jolly!” cried Lady Churt. She drew a seat up to the table, while Teddy de Santos-Dios, who had disappeared into the house, hurried back with a handful of packs. “But this is glorious! No wonder my poor little cottage has become so popular. What—poker? Oh, by all means. The only game worth playing—I took my first lesson from Seadown last week.... Seadown, I had a little porte-monnaie somewhere, didn’t I? Or did I leave it in the fly? Not that I’ve much hope of finding anything in it but some powder and a few pawn-tickets.... Oh, Seadown, will you come to my rescue? Lend me a fiver, there’s a darling—I hope I’m not going to lose more than that.”

  Lord Seadown, who, since her arrival, had maintained a look of gloomy detachment, drew forth his note-case with an embarrassed air. She received it with a laugh. “What? Carte blanche? What munificence! But let me see—” She took up the note-case, ran her fingers through it, and drew out two or three five-pound notes. “Heavens, Seadown, what wealth! How am I ever going to pay you back if I lose? Or even if I win, when I need so desperately every penny I can scrape together?” She slipped the notes into her purse, which the observant Hector Robinson, alert for the chance of making himself known to the newcomer, had hastened to retrieve from the fly. Lady Churt took the purse with a brief nod for the service rendered, and a long and attentive look at the personable Hector; then she handed back Lord Seadown’s note-case. “Wish me luck, my dear! Perhaps I may manage to fleece one or two of these hardened gamblers.”

  The card-players, laughing, settled themselves about the table. Lady Churt and Lady Richard sat on opposite sides. Lord Seadown took a seat next to his sister-in-law, and the other men disposed themselves as they pleased.
Robinson, who did not care to play, had casually placed himself behind Lady Churt, and the three girls, resisting a little banter and entreaty, declared that they also preferred to walk about and look on at the players.

  The game began in earnest, and Lady Churt opened with the supernaturally brilliant hand which often falls to the lot of the novice. The stakes (the observant Robinson noticed) were higher than usual, the players consequently more intent. It was one of those afternoons when thunder invisibly amasses itself behind the blue, and as the sun dropped slowly westward it seemed as though the card-table under the cedar-boughs were overhung by the same feverish hush as the sultry lawns and airless river.

  Lady Churt’s luck did not hold. Too quickly elated, she dashed ahead toward disaster. Robinson was not long in discovering that she was too emotional for a game based on dissimulation, and no match for such seasoned players as Lady Richard and Lady Richard’s brother. Even the other young men had more experience, or at any rate more self-control, than she could muster; and though her purse had evidently been better supplied than she pretended, the time at length came when it was nearly empty.

  But at that very moment her luck turned again. Robinson could not believe his eyes. The hand she held could hardly be surpassed; she understood enough of the game to seize her opportunity and fling her last notes into the jack-pot presided over by Teddy de Santos-Dios’s glossy smile and supple gestures. There was more money in the jack-pot than Robinson had ever seen on the Runnymede card-table, and a certain breathlessness pervaded the scene, as if the weight of the thundery sky were in the lungs of the players.

  Lady Churt threw down her hand, and leaned back with a sparkle of triumph in eyes and lips. But Miles Dawnly, with an almost apologetic gesture, had spread his cards upon the table.

  “Begorra! A royal flush—” a young Irish lieutenant gasped out. The groups about the table stared at each other. It was one of those moments which make even seasoned poker-players gasp. For a short interval of perplexity Lady Churt was silent; then the exclamations of the other players brought home to her the shock of her disaster.