The Oyster Part 2

Something fell with a little clatter on the pavement. Sir Cyril stooped and picked it up.

"You've dropped this," he said to his wife.

It was a pear-shaped pink pearl set with tiny diamonds, a valuable toy.

Denise took it from him, hesitating.

"A pretty thing," said Blakeney, quietly. "Be more careful of it, Denise."

"Sit and smoke a cigarette with me," Esme heard Gore Helmsley's caressing voice close to her, "in my club. And look here--I've a lovely scheme--listen!"

The scheme was unrolled simply. As Carteret would be away, Esme must come to Leicesters.h.i.+re for a few days in the winter. He had a lodge there; she could get another girl to come.

"I'll lend you horses," said Jimmie. "You'd sell them for me with your riding. Brutally frank, ain't I, but you know I must keep going. Come for a month."

Another month's hunting after Christmas; the fun of staying with three men. Four or five days a week on perfect mounts. Bridge in the evenings; the planning of tea-gowns, the airing of new habits.

She was not afraid of Jimmie, or of any man. Esme did not know the lower depths Gore Helmsley was capable of in hours when he mixed with the underworld--the great stream which glides beneath London's surface.

"I'd love to," Esme began.

And then again the sudden fear. May--this was May. In January there might be no hunting, no enjoyment, nothing but a weary waiting for what must be.

"I'll come," she said gaily; "I must have my hunting. Oh! I must!"

Gore Helmsley smiled softly. "And--drop a hint to Denise Blakeney to go slow," he said. "Those big men think a lot."

CHAPTER II

May made her brilliant, treacherous way across her allotted span of days. A thing of suns.h.i.+ne, a lady of bitter winds, she laid her finger on London's pulse and felt it throb to life beneath her touch. She saw the golden sacrifices made to the G.o.ds of the season; money poured out as water in the huge city; money spent everywhere; in the crowded shops; in stately _salons_, where the great dressmakers created their models; on cabs and motors; on fruit and flowers and vegetables out of season--since it is ordained that when the gifts of the earth come to their ordinary time your entertainer has no use for them.

Strawberries in June are mere berries of no worth; asparagus in May becomes a comrade to cabbage. It is only that which costs much money which is of value in the eyes of the rich.

Hundreds of pounds on roses to decorate walls for one night; odd hundreds on a gown which will never be worn twice; the clerks, the poor, look on without envy, merely with admiration, with a glow perhaps of pride for the great country which can pour out gold as water.

Esme Carteret, in a soft muslin gown, sat in her pretty drawing-room; sat for a moment, jumped up restlessly, trying to escape her thoughts.

Suspicion had become certainty; there was no escape save through folly or worse; her easy happiness was at an end.

"Vilette has 'phoned, madame. She wishes to know if you will have your gown for Cup day quite tight, with a soft chiffon coat, she says."

"I'll think of it, Marie. No, tell her not to; make it loose, soft."

Marie coughed discreetly. Marie guessed--or knew.

Esme reddened, tore at a pink carnation, pulling its fragrant petals to pieces.

In ten minutes her guests would be there; she would have to talk to them, to laugh and chatter, and not show her uneasiness.

Dollie Maynard, fluttering in, a slender, bright-eyed woman, brainless and yet sharp-witted, weighing men and women by what they could give her. Denise Blakeney was coming; they were all going on to Ranelagh.

Esme's flat was not much out of the way.

Esme's little lunches were perfection in their way; there was sure to be some highly-spiced story to be discussed; someone would have transgressed or be about to transgress, someone would already have given London food for gossip.

"Esme, dear! what lovely flowers!" Dollie's quick eyes appraised the roses. "Oh! extravagant Esme!--or is it Esme well beloved, with a someone who wastes his income at a florist's."

"In this case--my lawful spouse! He sent them in yesterday." Esme omitted to say that she had asked for them.

"You are a model pair, Esme." Dollie sat down; she was a woman who was never hardly dressed; chiffons, laces seemed necessary to soften her sharp little face. "You've all you want. Oh--Denise!"

Denise Blakeney, looking worried--her soft, weak face was drawn a little. Dollie was fluttering softness; Denise Blakeney solid wealth; the pearls on her throat were worth a fortune; the diamonds pinned about her dress splendid in their flas.h.i.+ng purity.

Dollie detested Esme because she did so much on half the Maynards'

income; she envied Denise deeply.

"It's a mystery how the Carterets manage," Dollie would whisper. "A mystery--unless--" and then came the whisper which kills reputation, the hint which sets the world talking, in this case generally put aside with an "Oh! they've enough, those two, and people are very good to her--she's so pretty."

Another time Esme would have been proud of her luncheon; the soles in cunning sauce; the soufflet of peas; the cutlets; the savoury--Esme prided herself on original savouries. There was hock which was owed to bright smiles to a Society wine merchant, who sent it to her at cost price.

On other days Esme would have smiled to herself at Dollie Maynard's peevish envy, at the praise veiled by p.r.i.c.ks of innuendo.

"Esme dear, you might be a millionaire. How delicious this hock is.

Holbrook keeps it, but it's beyond poor little me; he told me the price. But to you perhaps he relents."

Coffee, liqueurs, cigarettes; then Dollie fluttered away, called for by friends.

"Shall we go?"--Denise Blakeney strolled to the window--"or shall I send the car away? Esme, I'm in bad spirits; it's raining, too!"

"And I am in bad spirits." Esme looked pinched, almost unhealthy. "Yes, tell her to come back, Denise--let's talk."

Speech is the safety valve of sorrow; a trouble which can be spoken of will not hurt gravely. It did Esme good to fling out her fears--to tell of what might--what would be.

"It will upset everything," she moaned. "Scotland--the winter hunting--and then the expense afterwards. We were just right together, Bertie and I."

Denise listened to the outburst, almost astonished, scarcely comprehending; half wistfully--she had no child; they would not have worried her. Her empty life might have been so different if they had come to her.

"And Bertie," she said, "he hates it, as you do?"

"He would, of course. He doesn't know. He would fuss and sentimentalize. Oh! Denise!" Esme began to cry hysterically. "It will spoil everything. Something will have to be given up."

Denise looked at her thoughtfully. This sheer selfishness was beyond her comprehension.

"Perhaps when I was thirty," sobbed Esme, "or thirty-five, and didn't want to fly about."