The Oyster Part 30

"You'll be away in August," Esme said. "You can't send me so much in a cheque."

"No. I'll get notes. I'll be sure to. I shall be at home. Wonders will never cease. I've got to keep very quiet just now," said Denise. "It's wonderful--and I'm not afraid."

"Oh!" Esme sat up. "And--if it's a son, Denise, your own son--you--what will you do?"

"Yet must the alien remain the heir." Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I should never dare to tell. You don't know Cyrrie. He'd send me away somewhere with three hundred a year, and never see or speak to me again. For Heaven's sake, Es, remember that. Besides, it would all take some proving now."

"Be good to my boy or I'll claim him," said Esme, stormily.

"Hush! Es. Don't!" Denise looked terrified. "And you dare not, either.

Your Bertie would not forgive. Look here! I've got a pendant I don't want; take it and sell it. It's worth two hundred. And I'll sc.r.a.pe out three for you somehow. Oh, here's Cyrrie."

The big man came in. There was a sense of power about him and of relentless purpose. His under jaw, his deeply-set eyes, were those of a man who, once roused, could be cruel, and even merciless.

"h.e.l.lo! Mrs Carteret." He was always cordial to Esme. "We've missed you lately. Den, the boy's peaky--wants fresh air, his nurse says."

Esme turned white, clenched her hands until her gloves split and burst.

"Send him to the sea," said Denise, carelessly. "Broadstairs, Cromer, anywhere, Cyrrie."

"No, I think we'll go home. It's better for you too." Sir Cyril's big jaw shot out. "We'll go home, Den. I've wired, and the boy can go on to-morrow. Drive down, it will do him good, in the big car."

"Oh!" Esme saw that Denise objected, hated going, yet was afraid to object once her husband had decided.

"Oh, I'm glad you're sending him out of London," Esme burst out. "He looks wretched. I am glad."

"He's your G.o.dson, isn't he?" laughed Blakeney. "You were good then, Mrs Carteret. Seen to-day's paper? That little fool of a Cantilupe woman has made a mess of it, and Cantilupe was right to take it to court. Seen the evidence? She forged his name to a cheque for five hundred to give to this wretched man. Trusted to Canty's absolute carelessness. He never looked at accounts. But the bank grew uneasy, 'phoned to Canty, and he said it was his signature all right and paid.

Then he found out where the money had gone to, and all the rest, and she defended like a fool. The kindest fellow in the world, but he's merciless now. Told about the cheque so as to shame her."

"She was his wife. He should have remembered that," faltered Denise.

"She had deceived him," Sir Cyril answered. "No man worth the name forgets that. She deceived him. I couldn't forgive five minutes of it, especially as there are no children; not that sort of deceit. I was even too hard on folly once, but that's different." He went out of the room, big and strong and determined.

"Bother that boy!" stormed Denise. "There are three or four things I hate missing. Oh, bother! bother!" She stamped her foot in her impatience, frowning and biting at her fingers. "Oh, here, Esme. Come to my room."

The maid was there, laying out a new gown.

"You can go, Sutton. Here! slip it away." Denise opened a case, pulled out a heavy pendant, a tasteless, valuable thing.

"Old Susan, Cyrrie's aunt, sent it to me when she heard I was a mother." Denise laughed. "Green said it was worth three hundred. I've loads of others, and no one will miss this. I'll get you the notes."

Denise was friendly again, more like her old self, but moved, as Esme knew, by fear, and not by grat.i.tude or love.

Denise was called to the telephone. Esme was left alone for a time in the luxurious bedroom, standing by the open safe, enviously fingering the jewels. How lovely they were. A necklace of diamonds and emeralds; Cartier work; a jewelled snake with ruby eyes. A rope of pearls.

Sapphires, opals, emeralds, all glowing as Esme opened the cases.

"Oh, I thought her ladyship was here, mem," the maid had come in quietly. Esme turned with a start.

"Her ladyship went to the telephone." Esme closed her hand about the pendant, which she had been holding carelessly. She could see the maid watching her covertly.

"Oh, there you are, Denise." Esme still held the heavy pendant, afraid to put it in her bag before the maid, afraid to show it.

"Yes. I'm late too. Cyril's waiting. We're lunching out. My hat, Sutton, my veil, quickly!"

Esme slipped the pendant into her bag as the maid turned away. The Blakeneys drove her to Jules, where she said she would be lunching.

But, not hungry, she went on to Benhusan, a well-known jeweller, offering her pendant.

The head man took it, looking at the heavy stones.

"Yes, we could give two hundred for this, to break up. It's tasteless."

He examined it carefully. "Came from us, originally," he said. "We all have our private mark, madam. Made to order, no doubt. I'll speak to Mr Benhusan, madam. One moment."

Esme flushed with annoyance. They might look up the pendant, perhaps speak of it to someone.

She got two hundred and thirty for it and went out.

Mr Benhusan nodded at the heavy bauble. "It was made for the Dowager Lady Blakeney," he said. "I remember it. The centre stone is worth all the money we have given for it."

Absently, with a lack of her usual shrewdness, Esme went to the door, opened it, and remembered her notes; they had paid her.

She had put three into her bag, when a thin hand shot out, grabbed the rest, and before she could even cry out, the thief was lost in the crowd.

Esme stood stricken, shaking more with futile anger than anything else.

Her brains were quick. If she went back, raised the hue and cry, what then? Bertie would ask her what pendant she was selling. The whole thing would come out.

Esme walked away, her face white, her hands shaking. She counted what was left at her club in Dover Street; three notes for fifty each. So she was robbed of over a hundred, and someone must go unpaid. Unless Denise would make it up. There was too much loyalty in Esme to think of working on her friend's fears. She sat brooding, smoking, too much upset to eat. A boy she knew came in, noticed her white cheeks--a thin and somewhat stupid youth, who posed as a Don Juan, considered himself irresistible.

"Not lookin' a bit well," he said. "No luncheon? Come along down to the Berkeley and have a little champagne. Let me look after you, dear lady."

Esme was a beauty; he walked proudly with her, looking at her dazzling colouring, her well-formed, supple limbs.

She let herself be distracted by flattery, listened to foolish compliment, to praise of her glorious hair, her beautiful eyes.

Wouldn't she come for a drive some Sunday? The new Daimler was a dear.

Down to Brighton or away into the country for a picnic. She must let him see more of her.

Angy Beerhaven leant across the table, _empresse_, showing how ready he was to love, to be a devoted friend.

Over champagne and sandwiches Esme babbled a little, told of her loss, of how hard up she was.

With sympathy discreetly veiled behind his cigarette smoke, Angy hinted. Pretty women need never be hard up. Fellows would only find it a pleasure to make life easy for them if--there was friendship, real friendship, between good pals.

The restaurant was almost empty; they sat in a quiet corner. With wits suddenly sharpened, Esme looked at the thin, weakly vicious face, at the boy's eyes glittering over her beauty, already seeing himself chosen. His carefully-tended hands were opening his gold cigarette-case. She shuddered. If she allowed those hands the right to caress her she could be free of debt and care--for a time.

Love affairs were b.u.t.terflies of a season. Next year it would have to be someone else; there would be the distraction of it, the adoration which always pleases a woman; and then the fading, the breaking free.

The meeting again with a careless good-morning, with the shame searing her soul as she remembered.

Distraction, a little less time to think, was what Esme wanted. She saw too clearly for this. She had sold one birthright without thought; but not this second one of her self-respect.