The Oyster Part 34

"Nothing. We spent the day here--waiting for Mrs Gore. And oh, I was afraid."

"Mrs Gore is in London. I saw her as I was looking for your mother."

"In London!" Sybil's cheeks grew very white. It had all been a lie. She would have dined at the small hotel, waiting for the woman who could never have joined them. And afterwards, alone with the man she feared and yet who influenced her.

Sybil was no innocent fool; the blackness of the chasm she had just missed sliding into was plainly before her eyes.

She flung herself suddenly into Knox's arms.

"Oh, Oliver, if you want me still, take me," she sobbed, "for I am a fool, and not fit to look after myself. I don't mind being poor; I only want you."

Captain Gore Helmsley, meanwhile, was listening to a few softly-uttered home-truths from Esme Carteret.

"You might have ruined the child's reputation," she said angrily. "She was a fool to come here with you. Married women are fair game, Jimmie, but a girl has not learnt how to guard. It's not fair."

Sybil, with the frightened look gone from her eyes, came back to the table on the veranda.

"I owe you some money, Captain Gore Helmsley," she said clearly, "for bridge debts. It was good of you to let it stand over." She laid a cheque on the table. "Will you give me back my acknowledgments? Oliver is paying for me--we are going to be married."

Jimmie, smiling sweetly, pulled out his pocketbook, took from it a neatly-folded paper.

"And--two letters--referring to the debt," said Sybil, steadily.

"Not altogether to the debt." Jimmie laughed. "You are as unkind now, Miss Chauntsey, as you are dramatic."

"I want them," she said coldly. "You gave me your promise that I should have them back."

Jimmie took out the letters.

"I am giving them to Oliver to read, and then we'll burn them," she said simply.

"Oh, hang it!" said Gore Helmsley, blankly; "this _has_ been a nice evening!"

"In which you got your dinner and desserts," flashed Esme, laughing openly.

CHAPTER XI

A solemn child, healthy in body, but with wistful eyes, paddled his spade into wet shingly sand at Bournemouth. He was precociously wise, already given to thought, to wondering as children wonder.

What Cyril wondered was why there were so many scold words in the world? Why it was always, "Don't, Cyril!" and "Cyril, run away!" or "Cyril, I will not have you rough to your brother."

Why mother, who was a beautiful thing, would catch up little Cecil and look so bitterly at him, and on more bitterly still to Cyril.

"Funny how her ladyship adores Master Cecil," Mrs Stanson would confide to the under-nurse; "being delicate, I suppose."

Cyril was heir to four places, to grouse moors and fishings, to diamonds and plate and pictures, all entailed. Cecil would have a younger son's ample portion, and no more. Cecil was puny, a weakling; his father sighed over him.

Paddling his spade, Baby Cyril came round the castle, brushed a little roughly against Baby Cecil; the spoilt child fell and whimpered.

"Cyril sorry. I sorry, Cecil."

"Cyril, you rough little wretch!" Lady Blakeney leant forward, slapping the boy harshly. "You little bully!"

"I"--Cyril touched the white place which stung on his soft cheek, the white which turned to dull red. "I--" His mouth quivered, but he said nothing, merely looked out at the heaving sea.

The pathos in his child's eyes might have touched anyone but a mother jealous of another woman's child, storming behind a rage which must be hidden.

Esme Carteret's baby must oust Denise's son from his kingdom.

"Ah, Denise! How can you?" A pained cry, another woman springing forward, catching the slapped baby to her. "Denise! How can you!"

"Why not, Esme? He's a born bully. Bad-tempered, always hurting Cecil.

A great strong tyrant."

The women's eyes met with anger and dislike flashing in both glances.

It was not altogether chance which had brought Esme to Bournemouth. She hunted health now, strove for what once had been hers to trifle with--hunted health and peace, and found neither.

Denise's payments were desultory; she had to show outward civility to Esme to make up for the half-yearly hush-money. Sir Cyril had houses at Bournemouth; she had offered one to the Carterets for nothing.

"Poor Esme, Cyril. I told her she might have the little lodge. She's looking wretched."

"She's the most restless being on earth. Of course, Den; give it to her. If she had a pair of boys, now, as you have."

"Yes." Denise had to hide the pain in her eyes, for with Cecil's birth had come a fierce mother-love, making the careless indifference which she had felt for Cyril turn to bitter dislike. He got the measles, brought it to her boy, who almost died of it; whooping-cough, before the child was old enough to bear it well.

They were down at Blakeney Court when Denise told her husband that she had lent Esme the lodge. The boys were playing outside; the little one crawling solemnly, Cyril arranging sticks and flowers into a pattern.

"He's got an extraordinary look of someone," said Sir Cyril. "Cecil's a true Blakeney, if he wasn't so delicate; but Cyril's finer--not like us; he mopes and dreams already."

If there were no Cyril! Denise clenched her hands, understood how men felt before they brushed aside some life in their path. That day was wet later; she found the children playing in the picture-gallery, with Nurse Stanson showing a friend the Romneys and the Gainsboroughs, and other treasures which represented a fortune.

Cyril loved one cavalier, painted on a fiery charger, an impossible beast, all tail and eyes and nostril. The boy was happy staring at the picture, patting at the great frame. "Cyrrie's man," he would say.

"Cyrrie's man."

"Oh, Cyril's man--all Cyril's men," Denise flashed out furiously. "No men for Cecil."

"Cecil not care for Cyril's man, mummie," the child's eyes looked wistfully at Denise. "He never look up yet."

"Oh, they'll all be yours--gloat over it!" snapped Denise. "Take your friend on, Mrs Stanson; show her the picture of Lady Mary Blakeney--the one by Lely. Yes, all yours!" Half unconsciously she pushed Cyril; he slipped on the polished floor, slid toward the fireplace, fell with his yellow head not three inches from the old stone kerb.

Nurse Stanson ran to him, screaming. Demon-driven, Denise had watched.

If--if--the little pate had hit the hard, cold stone, if her boy had been left heir.

"All right, mummie--Cyril not hurt," he had said, bravely, as he got up.