The Oyster Part 29

Man, with his pipe in his mouth and sitting in silence, dreams foolishly as some growing girl.

In Bertie's dream he saw Cliff End inhabited; he went round his farms, came back to the gardens to walk in them with a slender figure by his side, with a hundred things to think of, a hundred things to do. The simpler things which weld home life together. He saw toddling mites running to meet him, crying to their dada; a boy who must learn to swim and shoot and ride; a bonnie girl who would learn too, but less strenuously. He saw cold winter shut out, and two people who sat before a great fire, contented to sit still and talk or read. So thinking, the dream pa.s.sed from waking; his eyes closed, and he, too, fell asleep.

A man strolling along the cliffs paused suddenly, whistled and paused, looking down at the two.

A sly-eyed, freckled youth, who whistled again, drew back, clicked the shutter of the camera he carried, and went on, laughing.

"A pretty picture," he said contemptuously.

Bertie awoke with the faint whistle in his ears--woke to find Estelle's ruffled head close against his own. He sat up, wondering how long he had been asleep.

The freckled stranger was visible just dipping down to the steep path which led to the sea.

"I hope he did not see us. Good Lord! I hope he did not see us!"

Estelle woke too, coming from sleep as a child does, rose-flushed, blinking, rubbing her eyes.

"Oh! I have been asleep," she cried, "wasting our day."

"Our day," he said, as if the words hurt him.

He pulled her to her feet. Estelle was not beautiful, but in her sweet, clear eyes, in the curve of her mouth, the soft brownness of her skin was something more dangerous than mere beauty. It was soul shining through her grey eyes, the power of love, the possibility of pa.s.sion.

It was intelligence, sympathy. Who wisely said some women make nets and others cages?

Esme, Denise, Dollie, women of their type, could hold their cages out, catch a bird and watch it flutter, but, wearying of him, forget his sugar and his bird-seed, and leave the door open with the careless certainty of finding another capture.

But with a net woven about him, a strong net made of such soft stuff that it did not hurt, the captive bird was caught for life, meshed, ensnared for ever.

"Come--it is late," Bertie said.

As his hands closed on hers, Estelle felt the flush on her cheeks deepen, her hands grow cold. There is a wonder to all in the dawn of love; with some it leaps from the cold night into a sudden glow, not so much dawn as a glorious revealing of the sun. It was so with Estelle; there was no trembling opal in her mental sky, no gradual melting of the mists of twilight. She knew. She loved this man. He was another woman's husband, but she loved him--would love him to her life's end.

He must never know, and yet, being intensely human as he helped her up the bank, there was a sick longing that he might care too, even if it meant their instant parting.

She fought it back; she was loyal and simple; her love must be her own; her joy and her despair.

"Hurry, Estelle; we shall miss the train," he said. "It's very late."

They were further away than they thought. The path by the river was rough; they ran panting up to the old house to see the man driving the dog-cart away from the door.

"It bain't no use, sir," he said; "she'm near station now, and it's two mile an' more."

"There's another?" Bertie said.

There was one more, getting them into London at four next morning.

Estelle was put out, half frightened. Her aunt would be annoyed.

"But she will know it is an accident," she said. "And we can see the sea by moonshine now."

They saw it as they drove to the slow train, a wide shimmer of mystery, silver and grey and opal, frostily chill, wondrously limitless; the hoa.r.s.e whisper of its waves booming through the still night.

"Esme! Will Esme mind?" Estelle asked as they steamed into London.

"She has gone to several b.a.l.l.s; she will never know," he said a little bitterly.

He did not see Esme again until next evening. The knowledge of this new thing in his life made him penitent, anxious to find again the charm of the golden hair, of the brilliantly-tinted skin. He came from a long interview with his uncle, whipping himself with a mental switch; determined to be so strong that his friendship with Estelle might continue as it was--reasoning out that he had been mad upon the cliffs, half asleep and dreaming.

He came in to find Esme in one of her restless moods, reading over letters, peevishly crumpling bills, grumbling at poverty. He did not know that the memory of a pinched baby face was always before her eyes--that she feared for the life of the son she had sold.

"Why, Es," he said, and kissed her.

"Don't rumple my hair," she answered; "it's done for dinner."

"Worrying over bills?" he asked gently.

Esme pulled away one letter which he had taken up. "I can pay them,"

she flashed peevishly. "Don't worry." Denise's allowance was due again--overdue--and Esme did not like to write or telephone, and had not seen Lady Blakeney for a week.

It was due to her, and overdue to others. Claire's bill ran in for four pungent pages, and ran to three figures, which did not commence with a unit. There were jewels, the motor hire. Oh! of what use was five hundred pounds?

If she had had the boy here she would have gone to the country, been content for his sake.

"Don't worry." Bertie put his hand on hers. "Es--I've been talking to Uncle Hugh."

"Well?" She woke up, suddenly hopeful.

"Well, I'm his nephew. He will make me a big allowance, leave me all he has--if--"

"If what?" cried Esme.

"If we have a son before he dies," said Bertie. "That is the only stipulation. If not, I remain as I am. He has some craze about another Hugh Carteret. Of course there will be the t.i.tle later on."

"If we have a son." Esme stood up and laughed. "A son!" she said, "a son! I--"

"Why, Esme!" Bertie ran to her. "Oh, don't cry like that. My dear, don't cry like that."

The wild outburst of a woman in hysterics filled the little room.

CHAPTER X

"OH, of course, I'd forgotten." Denise had been reminded of her promise--looked vaguely annoyed. "H'm! I'm short now. Can't ask Cyrrie, can I? I'll bring you two hundred, Esme! Give you some more in August, my quarter day."

"But I want it. I've run into debt counting on it," said Esme, sullenly.

"Oh, you've got old Hugh to fall back on now Bertie's the heir. If I could ask Cyrrie--but I can't! Two hundred's a lot, Esme. You must make it do."