The Oyster Part 37

"Oh, Rose, he didn't lisp," laughed Hilda.

"Well, he ought to, he's such an idiot. Yes, I'll take m.u.f.fins, thank you. How clever toasting them."

"There was a fire," said the dull youth, sapiently; "it made it easier."

"Oh, it would." Miss Rose giggled over her m.u.f.fin.

The opal tints grew wider on the sea as it creamed in over the sands; the murmur of the baby waves grew louder.

Marie was airing her triumphant return at the door of Esme's pretty house. She had tripped into the bedroom, altered and arranged, peered into the cupboards.

"Ciel! but Madame has now an outfit," said Marie; "it is good that I return. Evidently Madame has an income."

Scott, the ousted one, waited stolidly for her wages, and grumbled in the kitchen, hinting spitefully that she might not receive them at once.

Marie settled and sang, and settled, poring over the heaped letters on Esme's tables, raising her thin eyebrows at the gathering of bills.

"I wonder"--Marie laid down an urgent letter from a Bond Street firm--"where Madame went when she sent me away. I have always wondered," said Marie, tripping down the path of the little garden.

A young man strolling by stopped in amazement, listened to Marie's voluble explanations. A freckled youth, who kept a little hairdresser's shop, and hoped in time to keep fair Marie over it as part proprietress. Marie possessed schemes for moving westwards and becoming affluent. The youth's name was Henry Poore, his hobby photography.

"Tiens! they come, and you must go," said Marie, seeing the big motor humming to the door of the Blakeneys' house. "Ah! it is well that I came here, for there are many clothes and a fine wage, and voila! there is Monsieur le Capitaine. See, he stands with a thin mees."

Henry Poore looked down the road. "Seems I've seen him before," he said. "Sure I have."

"Laikely. Ze world is full of meetings," observed Marie. "He was soldier; he has now retire. Oh, Henri, I am happy. Nevair did I have so good a time as with this Madame. You shall come to do her hair for ze Court. You shall be great hairdresser. Allez vite, quick!"

Marie made an appointment, and Henry walked off. But the invisible lines of fate were closing round Esme. She had taken up one herself when she re-employed Marie, who knew just a little too much.

Scott, dourly respectful, waited for her due.

"Four months, mem, if you please."

"Give it to her, Bertie. I am tired."

"But--I gave you the wages cheque each month, Esme," Bertie said sharply. "Why did you not pay the woman?"

"I suppose I spent it on something else. Don't fuss over a few pounds.

Give it to her and let her go. Tell her not to come to me for recommendations."

Esme strolled off to give herself over to the deft brown hands, to be powdered, tinted into new beauty, to have her golden hair re-done.

"It is not the money. It is only a few pounds, but it is always the same thing," muttered Bertie to himself as he wrote the cheque, "always."

"Sure to be right, sir?" Scott permitted herself a little veiled insolence.

"Right? What do you mean, Scott?"

"Mrs Carteret's were not always, sir," snapped Scott, primly. "Several shops have had to apply again. Thank you, sir. Good-night."

The block of a fat cheque-book was looked at unhappily. The balance left was so small, and there was no more money due until Christmas.

Bertie Carteret sighed drearily. Another lot of shares must go; long-suffering luck be trusted to replace them.

Esme, in one of her gay moods, came down, dressed in filmy white, black velvet wound in her burnished hair, a glittering necklace at her throat. She chattered incessantly, hung about Bertie with one of her outbursts of affection.

Marie had given Madame ah, but a tiny thing for the nairves, a thing she had learnt of at Madame la Comtesse's and treasured the prescription. Marie had prescribed further, suggested ma.s.sage, a sure cure for nervous ills.

Esme made plans in her head; leapt from reckless despair to reckless hope. She spent in imagination the big allowance Bertie's uncle would give them; she saw herself "my lady." She felt clinging fingers in hers, saw baby faces in her house. She would brush away the effect of her own wicked folly; she would be happy and rich and contented.

So, with her thoughts leaping ahead, she frightened Bertie by talking of her plans; they comprised country houses, a yacht, hunters, jewels, new frocks.

"I'll have that sable coat altered. The Furrier Company will do it for a hundred pounds. I'm sick of it. We'll go to Tatts, Bertie, and buy you a couple of hunters."

"Out of what?" he asked gravely.

"Out of--futurity," Esme laughed. "Estelle, don't look sensible; it worries me. Look here, children, I'm not well. I'm going over to Paris to see Legrand. That dull doctor's wife I met to-day says he can cure death itself. And then, when I am well--"

With flushed cheeks and shining eyes she perched on the arm of Bertie's chair, her fingers caressing his hair. "And then," she said, bending and whispering to him.

He flushed, but took her hot white fingers in his.

"Oh, it's for that," he said, in a low voice--"for that, Esme."

"For that. Then I'll settle down--give up Society," she said, jumping up and running to the window. "Come, we'll go out and join the trippers. I wonder Denise has not sent for me to play bridge. No, we won't go out; ring up the Adderleys, Bertie. They'll always play....

It's too dull just walking out in the dark."

It was always too dull to do anything which left room for thought.

Esme played until morning, then, with the effect of the nerve tonic worn off, went irritably upstairs, knowing that nothing but chloral would give her rest that night.

"Tell Monsieur I am not well, that I must sleep alone. That will do, Marie. You can go."

Marie held the cobwebby nightdress ready to put on, but Esme sent the maid away.

Marie laid down the scented silken thing and went thoughtfully.

CHAPTER XII

"I fear it is unlikely, Madame. I am very sorry." Dr Legrand put his capable finger-tips together, looked sympathetically at the tall, golden-haired Englishwoman who had come to consult him.

"The child died, then, Madame--that another is so important?" he asked kindly.

Esme flushed scarlet. "It--yes--I lost it," she said bitterly, her eyes filling with tears. "I lost him. And I am not likely to have another?"

"Frankly, no, Madame. But you are young. Madame is nervous, says she cannot sleep without something. Give the something up, Madame; there is a little death, a little madness, bottled in each innocent dose. Go to the country, live in the open air. Get Madame's nerves well, then perhaps your wish may be realized."