The Oyster Part 11

The doctor bowed. "Ah! at such times there are ever fancies, better indulged. Ah! si, always better indulged."

The ladies were coming in December. He would call as required; there were worthy servants to be found. There was one, English.

"No," the elder woman shot out, "all Italian. We want your Italian cooking, Es--Denise and I. We want omelettes, macaroni, to amuse us in our solitude."

"But, sapristi! a strange amus.e.m.e.nt," said the doctor to himself.

"You will get us reliable servants, signor?" Denise asked.

"Che lo sa," said Luigi, absently. "Ah! yes, Madame, certainly."

"It is so kind of you," Denise went on graciously, "so very kind and good, signor."

He kept her back, he pressed his slim, strong fingers together.

"Madame, is it wise for your friend to be out here alone? She does not look strong; she is surely hysterical, nervous."

"It is her fancy, signor. I have left England to be with her and indulge it."

"The devotion of a friend," said Luigi. "And--Monsieur Sir Blakenee--is he satisfied?"

"He is abroad, shooting. Miladi has written, trusts he may meet her in England in time. We, will return before the event; but it is well to be prepared, to know of help if it is needed."

"That's all over," said Denise, coming out. "Why, child, don't look so white."

Denise had written to her husband, her letter was making its way up to a camping-ground under huge mountains, where Sir Cyril was shooting. It told her news; named March as the date; prayed him to meet her in London. Went on to talk simply of having been a fool, no more, a fool, and of how she had loved him before he went. But now she had left her old life, was travelling with Esme Carteret, enjoying herself as well as health would permit. The past was the past; in the future an heir to his name might make Cyrrie happier. She tried to tell before he left, but she was not sure then.

A shallow woman, scheming for her own ends, she did not see the man's face as he read the letter. Opening it carelessly, sitting stricken, staring at it; his strong face stirred, the harsh lines slipping from it.

"Poor Denise," he said. "It was that she wanted to tell. Oh! poor old Denise--after all these years. The letter's dated Florence; she says to write to England as they're moving about. Poor old Denise!" he went on, and looked into the fire. "Perhaps she was only a fool. But the mother of my child," said Sir Cyril, simply, "is my wife for evermore."

His man, one he had had for years, was making a stew with skill.

"Reynolds," he shot out, "Reynolds! We trek for the coast to-morrow.

Her ladys.h.i.+p wants me, Reynolds. There's an heir coming."

Reynolds gave polite congratulation.

"Comin' just in time," muttered the valet to the stew. "Just in time, milady."

Denise had no thought of how her husband's big nature would be moved.

How, with old tender thoughts crowding back on him, he sat in the shadows and made plans, plans which included her, Denise, his wife.

He'd take her on that yachting trip she'd hankered for; she'd want a change in the spring; they'd have a new honeymoon off her pet coast of Italy. But could they leave the child? The mystery of birth comes freshly to each man who calls himself Father for the first time. The child--He'd be in the old nurseries at White Friars, behind the wooden bars. He'd be a st.u.r.dy boy, strong, bright-eyed, no puling weakling, but a true Blakeney, clean-limbed and big. Soon he'd come toddling out in the gardens, a little creature wondering at big life; a mite who had to be taught the names of simple things. And later still he would ride and shoot and fish and swim, and learn that the Blakeneys were men of clean lives, and that he must follow the tracks of his fathers. Honour first, the house motto was carved over the old mantelshelf in the hall, where Cyril had been shown it as a boy.

Honour first! And when he re-read his letter, the letter which changed his life from loneliness to sudden hope of happiness, Denise was coming out of the little house in the Italian town, puckering her forehead lest she had forgotten anything to make her scheme perfect.

"If we catch that weekly boat we could get to England by February, Reynolds."

"Yes, Sir Cyril; just about the second or first week of February."

"I can cable from the coast. Tell her ladys.h.i.+p to meet me."

Sir Cyril was boyish as he sat dreaming. Big people have the power to put the past behind them, to see suns.h.i.+ne in the future.

The brown-skinned Italian nurse looked regretfully at the morsel of humanity in her arms. A bonny, bright-eyed little thing, blinking at the world solemnly.

"I shall miss my bambino, signora," she said sadly.

Esme talked haltingly; she bent over the boy, looking down at him; she was pale, a little worn and thin; some of the brilliance had left her eyes.

"Is he not a pride--a joy? Ah, signora. Old Beatrice has nursed many bambinos, but none such as this."

Esme turned away impatiently. She looked out across the Italian landscape, fair even in winter.

It was January. There would be time to hunt still in England, to enjoy herself. To taste the reward of her scheme. But....

"None such as this." The mite cooed at nothing, smiling and stretching his hands.

"Esme! I mean Denise!"

Lady Blakeney ran into the room, calling excitedly: "My dear, the post is in."

"Well! Carefully, Esme." Esme flung accent on the name. "Well?"

"The post! Cyril has written; oh, it's splendid."

The nurse bent over her charge, crooning to it, but there was a curious look on her face.

"Oh, carefully!" said Esme, shutting the door, going out on to the old marble terrace. "Carefully. One never knows what these people understand. You must not take the letters."

"I had to, Esme. He's caught some boat. He will be in London at once.

He--Cyril! He will hear--see the papers. We must leave at once, to-morrow. I am wiring to Paris, and to the nurse in London. Wiring for rooms. Ah! the doctor, prying at us."

But little Luigi was not prying. He came to advise, to counsel caution for the fair English miladi. She must not run about so much.

"There was a strain," he said. "Madame was not well--no, not well at all."

His dark eyes looked at Esme's drawn face; he grunted thoughtfully.

"Madame is not so strong," he said. "It is but three weeks--but three, and she is up and about."

"And we leave to-morrow," she said. "My husband is coming home, signor.

I must fly to meet him."

"He could come here," said Luigi Frascatelle. "You are not fit to travel."