The Oyster Part 4

The guests went on to a big dance; the Blakeneys were left alone; they were not going out.

Quite quietly Sir Cyril came across to his wife, stood looking at her.

"A lovely gown," he said. "But--do you need new jewels, Denise?"

His fingers, big, strong, deft, fell on the pink pearl, undid the fastening.

Denise turned pale, stood stammering, seeking excuse.

"Don't bother," he said smoothly. "I saw the boy give it you. You've been foolish there, Denise--foolish. Well, I'm off for months, and when I come back--"

"Yes?" she said, dry-lipped, or rather tried to say yes and merely made some sound.

"If we had had a child, Denise," he said, his head bent. "They make a difference--one makes allowances then."

"If we had--now," she said. "Now, Cyrrie!" her voice rang shrilly.

He laughed. "If we had--you might be thankful," he said. "Come, you look tired out. Go to bed."

"I have not been feeling well," she faltered.

If she was to be saved, something must be managed.

Esme was still in her wrapper of silk and lace, when Lady Blakeney came to her next day. Came, white and excited, her eyes blazing, her face tense. For half an hour Esme sat almost silent, listening to an outpouring of plot and plan. The weak, flighty woman developed undreamt-of powers of organization.

Esme wanted money, freedom. Oh! it had often been done before. She flung out its simplicity. Away in some remote part of the Continent the child which was to come should be born as a Blakeney.

What was easier than a change of names?

"See, Esme--I'll give you a thousand a year always. Honour! Think of it! Five hundred pounds every six months, and you and Bertie can be happy when he comes back. And I--it will save me. We'll go away together in the autumn; we are always together. We'll go without maids.

Oh--do--do!"

Esme flung up her pretty head.

"I'll do it," she said, "but I must have a doctor. I must not die."

"A doctor to attend Lady Blakeney. Why not? Strange servants, a strange place, who would know?" Denise remembered everything.

"Yet it is wonderful how people do know," said Esme, shrewdly, half afraid now that she had agreed; wondering what might happen. Yet she looked round her flat with a little sigh of relief. She could live her merry, careless life, live it more easily than before, and she did not want a child. She hated children, hated their responsibility.

"Some day," said Esme, "I won't mind; then there can be another."

May had given way to a dismal June. Cold winds and showers swept over the world. Flowers were dragged from grates and fires put in. Esme had lighted hers; sat over it, as her husband came in; they were lunching out.

He hung over her, delighting in her soft beauty, crying out at her pale cheeks.

"You're tired, girlie; we're always out. And now that I must leave you alone you'll do much more."

She leant back against him, ruffling her cloud of fair hair.

"We're absolutely happy, aren't we, Bertie? I'll be here when you come.

I can let the flat until the spring, and you must leave that stupid army and live here all summer in dear London."

He held her close, sat silent for a time.

"I was at Evie's yesterday," he said. "Eve Gresham's my cousin. I saw her boy."

"Horrid little things at that age," said Esme, unsympathetically.

"It wasn't--it was fat and bonny; and Eve is so proud of it. If we had a sonny, b.u.t.terfly, you and I, I'd like him to be like Eve's."

Esme sat astonished. Bertie wishing for a third in their lives. Bertie!

knowing the difference it would make.

She jumped up, almost angrily. "If we had, we couldn't hunt, or do half what we do," she said. "And you've got me, Bertie. Do you want more?"

She began to cry suddenly, broke down, overwrought by her morning's plot, by this new idea of Carteret's.

Something, stronger for the moment than her selfish love of amus.e.m.e.nt, fought with her. If she gave up their mad scheme, told him now, he would not go to Africa; he would stay, watching her, guarding her. Esme wavered.

"I looked at those emeralds too, yesterday," Bertie said; he was staring into the fire; had not noticed her agitation. "You know that queer old clasp. Fifty pounds. I couldn't manage it, girlie, for you."

"I wanted it," said Esme, fretfully.

"A note from Lady Blakeney, madame."

Marie brought the letter up, wondering at its plump softness, feeling the wad which the notes made. The chauffeur had bidden her be careful; refused to give it to the porter of the flats.

"Oh!" Esme opened it, her back to her husband. There were bank notes, crisp, delightful; she saw five of them; five for fifty pounds each.

Denise was beginning the payment already.

"Milady Blakeney also wishes to know if Madame will use the car to drive to luncheon. It is at Madame's service until five," Marie said.

"Denise is very good to you," Carteret turned round. "You have a lot of friends, my b.u.t.terfly."

Esme crushed the notes up. The impulse to tell was gone. She wanted money, comfort, ease; the chance was hers, and she would take it.

The luncheon party was a big one, given by Luke Holbrook, the wine merchant. He paid his cook a clerk's income, and she earned her salary elaborately. What her dishes lacked in taste they made up for in ornament; if a white sauce be merely smoothly flour-like, who shall grumble if it is flecked with truffles, c.o.c.ks-combs and pistachio nuts.

No gourmet enjoyed eating at the Holbrooks', but ordinary people who are impressed by magnificence talked in hushed tones of the cook.

The house was as heavily expensive as the meal; gold plate shone on the vast sideboard; orchids decorated the tables; one's feet sank into deep carpeting. Mrs Holbrook, a plumply foolish little woman who had married the big man obediently that he might have a wife who claimed the prefix of "honourable" on her letters, accepted the magnificence placidly. She had a shrewd idea that outward show helped the business, and that they were not as rich as they seemed to be.

The dining-room had been opened into the study so that it ran right across the house, and to increase the apparent size at the end wall was a huge mirror reflecting the room.

They lunched at small tables. Sylvia Holbrook knew how to divide her guests. Esme found herself one of four with Jimmie Gore Helmsley, Sybil Chauntsey, a soft-hued debutante, and a dark young soldier vividly in love with the girl.

"Going to the Bellews? Lord! I'm weary of cream pies done up in colours." Jimmie waved a sweet away. "Going, Mrs Carteret?"

"Bertie has to go home." Esme had eaten nothing; she was feeling sick and tired. "He doesn't like my going there."