The Oyster Part 49

The spring day slipped away to the hour when the curtain rose on the new musical play. Well-named, for it was light and sweet as spring himself, full of tenderly pa.s.sionate music, of waking love, of budding youth. Tame blood which would not run a little faster as the south and west winds, the sunshine and the showers, came creeping to wake the spring earth maidens. Girls veiled in tender green, their limbs and faces seen through a mist of some transparency. The wild winds blew the draperies aside; a mock gale blowing from the wings; sunshine turned the green to a glow of gold; the showers came, mistily green, with light behind them, but to each the maidens turned, trembled, and gave themselves to the wooing arms.

The whole piece was full of suggestion and of fantasy.

Quiet Estelle, watching, felt the longing in her blood grow stronger; was youth to pa.s.s and leave her unwoken by a lover? Was she never to know the madness of hot kisses, the restful heaven of the afterwards?

"I dreamt once that I had found Spring"--Bertie's voice sounded far away to her--"and it was a mocking wraith. Estelle, if we might find it together--you and I."

"If!" She moved her hands to the time of a haunting dance.

The house was full. People who had been the Carterets' friends were here and there. Dollie Gresham, with the Blakeneys; the Holbrooks in a box, often looking sadly at a pair in the stalls--the Marquis and Marchioness of Boredom.

One big box at the left, empty until the middle of the second act, was suddenly filled by a noisy crowd. Three women came to the front, throwing back rich cloaks, showing over-bare necks and arms, flashing with jewels; the background was filled in with the black-and-white uniform of dining mankind.

"Esme," Bertie whispered, "with those people."

Poor Esme, glaring defiance at the friends who had cut her, her cheeks scarlet, her lips crimson, dazzlingly handsome still, but haggard, bad style, laughing too gaily, talking too loudly, holding up her careless happiness too openly. And straight opposite, Denise, quietly dressed, placidly happy, avoiding Esme's challenging looks.

The parts had been played and gone strangely for the players.

"My wife," said Carteret, bitterly, "with a crowd of fourth-rate impossibilities--and looking...." He paused, expressively. "Estelle, do you think a man likes to see his wife look like that? I hope she may not see us."

A vain hope. Esme's restless eyes looked everywhere. She started, turned laughingly to Lord Francis Dravelling.

"See my immaculate spouse and his flame," she said, "there, in the stalls. I used to like the girl once, but I leave her to Bertie now."

"Hot stuff, eh?" said the boy, his eyes devouring Esme. Then he whispered to her eagerly.

Esme's eyes grew hard, her face set bitterly.

Bertie, the man she had once loved dearly, was sitting with another woman, and she was listening, without anger, to a bold suggestion. And all, everything, had come from that one rebellion against nature and custom.

"I am not taking you among the world to-night," Bertie said to Estelle.

"I've ordered a quiet supper in a quiet place."

It had turned cold; they drove to a hotel, went to a warm room, its stiffness tempered by huge bowls of flowers, supper laid on the table.

The waiter discreetly presumed that they would ring if he was required; he left them with a faintly un-waiter-like grin.

Estelle was not hungry; she pecked at aspic and foie gras, but drank champagne; glad as the sparkling wine banished care, did its allotted work.

It was peaceful in there; the scent of the flowers filled the room; the fire burnt brightly.

They left the half-eaten meal and came to the glow of the blazing coals.

"Estelle!" The last strand snapped. Bertie's arms closed round the girl, crushed her supple body to his, kissed her with the reverence of great pa.s.sion. "Estelle!" he said. "You are spring--turn to me."

The lips that answered his, the arms that clung about his neck told him she loved him.

Forgetting the barrier of custom and law, they s.n.a.t.c.hed bliss from the greedy G.o.ds. Yet, even as he held her, Bertie knew this was no creature of light intrigues; she might come to him in a glory of sacrifice, to be his for all time; she would not sink to the furtiveness of secret meetings, to the sharing of her man with another home.

He put Estelle in a big chair, knelt before her, told her all the folly which is never old, which the great master Pa.s.sion can tune anew each time. And what were they to do? Part--and let the world rob them of their joy, or....

"It must be all or nothing now," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "We could meet so often, little sweetheart--be so happy."

"Living a lie," she said bravely, though with all her nature yearning for him. "No, Bertie, no."

He pleaded on--pleaded with lips which touched her hotly and yet reverently, with soft whispers of what life might mean. "Estelle--then come to me. Let us go away altogether. Take some house in the country, and live for each other. People would forget in time."

"And Esme?" Estelle asked simply. "How would she live?"

"I would give her money, what I could spare; then she has someone who supports her; there is no doubt of that, Estelle, or I would not be here now. I would have buried my love for you, taken her away to Cliff End if she had been faithful to me."

"You do not know," Estelle faltered.

"I know she can pay bills, do as she chooses. It comes from someone."

Estelle sat silent. People said it came from stolen jewels, and she did not tell him. She knew him so well; she feared his burst of wrath, his going straight to Cyril Blakeney and demanding proof or retraction.

"It is time to go," Estelle said. "Bertie, I'll tell you to-morrow.

Come to me about four. I'll be alone. I'll tell you then."

With a sudden thrill of fear and joy she knew that in her own sultry room she might be less strong.

"For if I lose you, I shall go to the Devil without you," Bertie said recklessly.

The heart of woman delights in self-sacrifice. Estelle knew that she would lose the world gladly to make her man happy. She was pure enough to look pa.s.sion in the face and not hide hers; to joy in the thought of giving herself and to realize what it would mean.

"I will come to-morrow," Bertie said, his hands heavy on her bare shoulders, his eyes more eloquent than words.

The discreet waiter came padding noiselessly, took his bill and tip.

"But not our sort," he muttered, as Estelle went out.

Bertie Carteret walked home alone. Estelle would not let him drive with her. Far up the stars blinked in a violet sky, the cool spring wind blew against his flushed face. Having been, up to the present, a mere ordinary honourable man, he was miserable. Gloss it over as he might he knew what he was asking for.

The tall ma.s.s of the mansions towered high above him; he hated the place, its comfortless show.

"Mr and Mrs Rabbit, who live in a warren," he said, as he let himself in.

The little sitting-room was dusty, neglected, but he sat in it smoking until the stars went out and grey dawn came sickly pale to oust the night.

A motor siren bleated below. After a little he heard the swish of silk.

Esme, haggard and flushed, came into the room.

How she had changed. The childish look had gone for ever, replaced by a hard bitterness, by mirthless smiles.

"You!" she said carelessly. "You've made a night of it, my friend."

"I have been home for hours," he said coldly.