The Oyster Part 45

Legrand turned, caught a fleeting glimpse of Esme, started.

"Meeses Carteret," he half whispered. "But surely, it is so like the Mrs Smith of London. I seem to know this Mrs Carteret," he said aloud.

"She is a pretty woman. Oh!"

For Legrand had slipped away, struggled to the far doorway to get to Esme, caught a glimpse of a fair head on the stairs, but got no nearer.

But that night he drew the strands of fate closer, for he wrote to Luigi:

"I have seen your Lady Blakeney, and she is brown-haired, ordinarily pretty, no fair-haired G.o.ddess. If you will join me here for a day--get Cartier to act for me. Thy Nonno."

Luigi arranged to come to London in ten days' time.

As fog spreads, cold and bitter, so a whisper crossed London.

Esme, restlessly pleased by new dresses, by money to gamble with, went to the Holbrooks. Came, without thought of the scandal which was biting at her name, down to dinner.

The new dinner-gown clung to her long, thin limbs; she was haggardly, dazzlingly handsome.

Lady Mary Ploddy was at the fire.

"How cold it is!" Esme had played bridge for years with the Ploddy women.

Lady Mary went on talking to Vita St Just as if she had heard nothing.

"How goes bridge, Lady Mary?" Esme said, carelessly. "Been winning lately? We can play in the mornings here."

Mary Ploddy's powdered profile was slowly turned.

"Oh, you, Mrs Carteret," she said icily. "I am rather off bridge. Vita, shall we sit down?"

The whisper to yet another friend:

"Oh, something. Her old friend, Denise Blakeney, has had to cut her.

Sir Cyril insisted. I heard that it was something about a pendant. Amos Benhusan told one or two people--you know, the big jeweller."

The chill deepened. Esme was left alone at the fire, realizing suddenly that the women had drifted away from her. She looked at them curiously, turned to talk to a couple of men who came in, and forgot it. Something had put out the old Ploddy women, she decided carelessly.

But that evening, next day, Esme began to realize people were avoiding her. She saw glances as she came into a room; she noticed the sudden hush which told her she was being discussed.

What was it? What could it be? The Holbrooks' party gave her no pleasure. For a time she tried to think it was jealousy, envy of her gowns, but Esme was not small-minded; the thought had to be put away.

She sat up for Bertie one night, called him in from the small room off hers, where he slept.

"Bertie! these women are avoiding me," she flung out. "What is it? I've done nothing. They keep away from me--are almost rude; there's something, Bertie."

"Lord!" He sat down, staring at his wife. She looked haggard, worn; older than her years. He began to think. People had been curiously _kind_ to him since he had come. He had been almost feted by the men; they had "dear old chapped" him, asked him to play bridge and billiards, praised his shooting, offered to lend him horses, with a whispering undernote of pity in it all.

"Lord! It--must be nonsense, b.u.t.terfly," he said kindly, with something telling him that it was not. They had got wind, he thought, of Esme's extravagance, and then he shook his head. What were debts to women who thought it smart to evade them, who paid exorbitant bills because they had been running too long to check them, who all wanted a little more than they had got?

"It must be nonsense," he said gruffly. "Scandal wouldn't offend them, even if you'd ever gone in for it. Want of money is nothing. Perhaps you've won a bit too much off 'em at bridge, or attracted someone's private man-property."

"I haven't," she said irritably. "Well, good-night."

Luke Holbrook, big and good-natured, paddled across his palm-court next day to the stiff room where he knew he would find his wife writing letters.

"Seem to have made another mess of it, my love," he said mildly. "Went to Sukey Ploddy now about what you told me, and she swears it's true.

Telephoned to Benhusan. He wouldn't commit himself. Very awkward, my love, having the woman here."

"Too awful," said Mrs Holbrook. "To have stolen a friend's diamonds!

That's it, isn't it? Gracious!" said Mrs Holbrook, weakly. "And Daisy Ardeane coming to-day."

"Bad as the dancer, my love." Luke Holbrook stroked his fat chin.

"Bad as the dancer. See the _Morning Post_, my love?"

He picked it up.

"'A marriage has been arranged and will take place immediately between the Marquis of Boredom and Miss Maisie Moover, of Magnificent fame.'"

"The d.u.c.h.ess, my love, is having hysterics at the Hyde Park Hotel.

Ploddy informs me that his cousin Trentwell is attending. She cut me dead last week in the Park, my love; and all because we wished to amuse a Cabinet minister."

"That affair," said his wife, "may alter the Boredoms' missing chins.

But this is important. I can't have Esme Carteret here."

Mr Holbrook remarked that actions for libel were unpleasant, and that Carteret was an excellent fellow; then he sighed.

"The woman has been living at a ridiculous pace," snorted Mrs Holbrook.

"French frocks, furs, out everywhere and in debt."

"I'm afraid I'm horribly sorry for her; she looks wretched." The big man got up. "Debt's the devil, Maria."

"The reminders generally go to a hot place," said his wife, absently.

"Think it over, Luke. Help me."

"I must, my love," said Luke, meekly.

And then chance cut the difficulty in two. Esme, picking up the _Morning Post_, saw another paragraph.

"Sir Cyril Blakeney's son and heir was to-day run over by a taxi-cab.

Lady Blakeney was with her two children, returning to her house, when the eldest boy stepped off the footpath and was caught by the wheel of a pa.s.sing cab. Faint hopes are entertained of his recovery."

The paper slipped from Esme's hands; she grew numb and cold.

"She pushed him," she whispered to herself. "She was angry and pushed him."

Her boy! Her baby! She knew now what she had sold and lost. Panting out his tiny life, dying!