The Oyster Part 31

She got up, smiling sweetly. It had been charming of Mr Beerhaven to look after her; she was feeling so much better now.

"But," he stood in front of her in her corner; she could see the eager look on his face. "But--she must let him go on taking care of her.

Wouldn't she dine with him to-night? Do a theatre--have supper afterwards?"

Angy unadulterated from seven until one! Esme smiled.

Unfortunately she was engaged, all day, every day this week. But would he lunch on Sunday? They were having a little party at the Ritz. He would meet her husband.

The eager look changed to one of sulky indecision. Angy Beerhaven was not sure if he could. If she'd have tea with him to-morrow he'd tell her.

Esme promised to lightly; went away leaving the boy frowning.

"Is she one of your real stand-offs, or just wants to put a value on herself?" he muttered. "Bah! It's too much trouble if she does--pretty as she is."

Clutching the rest of her money, Esme strolled about aimlessly; she gave up two engagements, would not go to her club because she was too restless to talk to her friends. Turned in at last to a tea-shop, where brown curtains made little alcoves, and thick blinds shaded the light.

There were three or four tiny rooms, one opening from the other; the first where the decorous matron might sit and drink tea and eat m.u.f.fins; the second and third where one could smoke; these rooms were separated by portieres of Indian beads, rattling as one pa.s.sed through.

Tired, her head aching from the champagne, Esme went to the second room, sat down in a dim corner just by the door into the last, and ordered tea. It made her head clearer; she smoked, thinking deeply.

Voices drifted to her from the inner room. It was a mere cupboard, kept in semi-darkness.

She listened at length, listened with a start.

"Is it safe here by the door?"

The beads rattled. She heard Jimmie Gore Helmsley's voice.

"Only a few people get away. It's early yet. Look here, Syl, meet me at Brighton on Sunday. Do! We'll have a lovely day. I'll have a cousin--she lives there--to do propriety. Make some excuse and get off.

We never have a day together."

"But if people heard of it?" Sybil Chauntsey faltered.

"No one will. No one we know goes to Brighton on Sundays, and if they do we are just taking a stroll. Do, Sybil! I deserve something. I--I wasn't hard-hearted over those bridge debts now, was I?"

Poor Sybil, with her hand pressed to her throat. She owed this man two hundred pounds now. If he went to her people she would be sent home in disgrace.

"No," she whispered. "No."

"We'll wipe 'em out for ever if you'll be a good child and have a simple spree. I'll give you back your I.O.U., your letters."

Her letters. Sybil knew that she had written two foolish, girlishly gus.h.i.+ng notes, open to several constructions. In one she had spoken of that ripping tea at his rooms. She s.h.i.+vered again.

"I'll let you know," she faltered. "Oh! I'll try to come."

Esme listened, but heard no more. Moving silently she slipped away to the blind-shaded window and got there just as the two came out. Her back was to them, her head hidden in a hastily-s.n.a.t.c.hed-up newspaper.

They did not notice her.

Tragedy and comedy were being played out, to each their lines and part.

Denise Blakeney, dressing for dinner, had to play her part without rehearsal.

"The sapphires, Sutton," she said, "the sapphires and diamonds. They'll go with this cream gown. And the aigrette with the sapphire stars."

Sutton's prim voice rose a little as she bent over the safe.

"Are you wearing the heavy diamond pendant, m'lady?"

"No." Denise flushed, bending over something on the dressing-table to hide her rising colour.

"It's not here, m'lady, and it was here at luncheon-time when I gave you the pink pearls."

"What's that?" Sir Cyril, big-jowled, heavy, strolled in.

Sutton repeated the news of the loss, turning over the cases. "The case is here," she said, "but I noticed it open."

"The pendant old Aunt Sukey sent?" Sir Cyril went to the safe himself.

"That's valuable."

"I--it must be there somewhere. Lock the safe, Sutton." Denise would have told the maid she had sent the pendant to be cleaned. Cyril was one of the men who question closely. It would have been: "To which shop, Den? I could get it for you to-morrow."

"It must be there," she repeated sharply. "It's just muddled away; or I may have lost it. I'm very careless."

"We'll look to-morrow. It's time to go now." But big Cyril Blakeney stood still for a minute, staring at the safe; thoughts which he longed to smother rising in him.

He had seen Esme Carteret bending over the safe, fingering the jewels.

She could not ... it was a monstrous thing!

He put the idea away resolutely as though it were some crawling beast; came down to where his wife was getting into her motor.

"You must have dropped it," he said slowly, "but I thought you never wore the thing. We'll offer a reward."

"Oh, very well," Denise Blakeney answered nervously, pulling at the b.u.t.tons of her gloves. "Oh, I may find it to-morrow. Wait and see. I often stuff things away into other places, if I am in a hurry."

"Esme Carteret"--Denise could see the big, heavy face thrust forward, as Sir Cyril lighted a cigarette--"Esme Carteret is--er--pretty well off, isn't she, now that old Hugh's sons are dead?"

"She says she's racked by poverty." Denise flushed and faltered at this mistake.... "Oh, yes, of course, he makes her a splendid allowance; he must, or Esme could not go about as she does."

"You're an extravagant little monkey yourself," said Sir Cyril, equably. "I asked Richards a fortnight ago what your balance was, and he said five hundred. Yesterday I was in at the bank and he told me it was only a hundred."

"I paid bills and things." Denise was not enjoying her drive. Supposing this inquisitive husband of hers looked at her bank-book and saw a cheque for two hundred to self. He would ask what she had spent it on; if she had gambled? He was curiously particular about high play, and women losing foolishly.

Denise thought that she would change her bank; then knew again that she would be forbidden to. Cyril was indulgent, almost absurdly generous, but master in his own home. And--if he ever guessed--ever knew--Denise grew cold with chill fear; for, combined with dread, her shallow nature clung now to the big man beside her; she had forgotten her follies in the past.

It is a shallow nature's joy, it has power to forget.

On several separate stages the dramas and comedies were being played out, but in one great last act they might all come together for the finale, and be called true tragedy then.

Sybil Chauntsey was playing her little part. Half frightened, half resentful, trying to call herself a baby, to tell her awakening woman's mind that Jimmie Gore Helmsley was only her pal, that she was a fool to think otherwise. And then the look in the black eyes, the little subtle caresses he had given her, gave this the lie.