The Oyster Part 53

Another rescuer went hurrying too.

"It's Cyrrie! My Cyrrie, dwownin'."

Baby Cecil left his castle, began to patter out along the rock, sobbing as he ran. "Wait, Cyrrie, wait! I tumin' to help. Oh, my Cyrrie!"

Half-way down Bertie knew that he ought to have run on to the path.

Sometimes he hung and thought he could go no further, then dropped and scrambled, and caught some point which saved him. He was still too high up to jump when he came to a jutting ledge and could see no way on.

There, Esme, clinging, slipping, as she called for help, looked up and saw him.

"Bertie!" she said. "You followed me."

She stopped calling out, clutched a new piece of seaweed and grew strangely quiet.

"Bertie, I'm not worth it," she said. "Don't risk anything."

Voices are strangely clear across the water; hers rang plainly.

"I'll come, Esme. I must find a way. I'll save you."

"I'm going to drown, Bertie. I'm so tired, it won't hurt much; but I've time to talk a little."

As he raged up and down his ledge he heard her voice telling, as quietly as though they were in some room, safe and sheltered, her story.

"Send for Luigi Frascatelle, he'll identify me as the boy's mother.

Bertie, I sold my birthright, but I've been punished for it, so forgive me now, and keep my Cyrrie--he's alive."

The pity of it as she clung there--young, pretty, once so happy. Truly, the punishment had been hard.

"Esme! I see a way. I'll get down in five minutes. Live on and let the past be."

Twice she had felt the water at her lips, once her boy had almost slipped from her arms.

"I would have swum round but one arm is hurt," she said weakly.

"Bertie, I think the boy is dying. If he dies let Denise be. Don't tell if she will clear my name."

A man ran out along the rock, heard the faltering words.

"By the G.o.d above us she shall clear it," stormed Bertie, "and give us back our child. No, Esme, no. Oh, wait! I'm down."

He was in the water now, swimming strongly, too late; the last strand of weed had parted; weak, tired Esme had slipped to her rest in the cool, clear water. And as she went, little Cecil, sobbing wildly, holding out his spade, fell over into the sea.

A clawing, twisted woman rose from the sands, screaming wildly, looking up as baby Cecil fell over.

Sir Cyril ran past her, kicking off his shoes as he went.

Bertie hesitated for a second, but the struggling, drowning mite had fallen in coming to try to save Cyril; he turned, swam to Cecil, and carried the child to the rock, where his father leant over.

"Quickly, man!--we'll dive," Sir Cyril cried.

"I give you back your child," Bertie said. "Mine is gone for ever." He swam on.

Diving, he brought up Esme, her boy clasped to her.

Estelle had fetched help. They carried the still figures quickly to the cliff and back to the house.

"You meant?" Cyril Blakeney said as he went with him, carrying his drenched boy.

"Cyril is Esme's child," Bertie said bitterly. "Your wife bought him from her. I heard it all as they talked on the sands. She told me where to find proof."

"Ah!" said Cyril, slowly. "Ah!"

Denise was tottering behind them, wild with fear, grey-faced, all beauty reft from her.

"G.o.d send," said Sir Cyril, reverently, "that both come to, and we live to repay for the blight we cast on your wife's name, Carteret."

"I cast a worse one," said Bertie, fiercely.

Then long-drawn working, as the living strive with death, as the poor quiet body is forced to life. But no working brought a quiver to little Cyril; they left him at last quiet in his cot; the motherless boy was at peace for ever.

Esme's breath came fluttering. She had closed her eyes on sea and sky, opened them to see watching, kindly faces.

"Hush, do not speak," they told her.

"Cyril?" she whispered, and knew without an answer.

"Then let it rest," she murmured, and so drifted out again, this time for ever, into the land of shadows, glad to go and rest.

Denise, half wild, had stumbled in alone, sobbing, shivering, unnoticed, as the household worked for the two lives.

Cecil had been put to bed; his hip was hurt; he lay still and exhausted; sometimes asking for "Cyrrie--my Cyrrie."

"Not you, mumsie--Cyrrie," he said fretfully. "I couldn't pull Cyrrie out--fetch Cyrrie."

Mrs Stanson, weeping for her eldest charge, came in. Seeing her, hope leapt up suddenly into Denise's heart.

"The boy, milady?" Mrs Stanson sobbed. "No hope. We've laid him to rest."

"And--Mrs Carteret?"

"Came to, and pa.s.sed away, milady."

The wave of hope swelled high. For as all the punishment had fallen on the woman who lay still in the pretty drawing-room, it might lie on her still. No one else knew.

"She spoke?" Denise faltered.

"Once, milady--to ask for Master Cyril; and again to say, 'Let it rest.'"