The Oyster Part 38

Esme sat silent, growing sullen, raging at fate. Why should this be?

Why had she been treated so cruelly?

If--oh, if! The word which makes our sorrow into madness--that word "if." If she had known, had guessed, what the future would bring.

As she sat there fuming it did not come to her that the great scales of the world weigh and adjust; that for sinning we are punished, either by the bitterness of our own remorse, or by something withheld. Right holds its steady poundage, while wrong flies upwards, light of weight and false.

A mother had sold her child, carelessly, heartlessly, that she might enjoy her life. What did it matter? Children were easy things to find if one wanted them. And now she sat baffled, miserable, the price no use to her, spent before it came, yet did not blame herself, but cruel chance.

"Well"--Esme got up slowly, putting the great man's fee on the table--"bon jour, Monsieur."

"Adieu, Madame." He took the dry hand kindly. "It was no doubt the loss of the boy which has made Madame nervous, not well. It has preyed on your mind, Madame."

"It has," she rasped out bitterly, "and always will. Well, adieu, Monsieur."

Dr Legrand wrote an entry in his book: "Mrs Eva Smith of West Kensington, London."

"And yet," he said to himself, "she looked more angry than sorrowful."

Pulling down her thick veils, Esme followed the man-servant across the hall. She had dressed very plainly, hidden her face by thick black gauze and net.

A little dark man was coming on to the steps, whistling cheerily.

Seeing him Esme started and jumped into her waiting taxi.

The little man pa.s.sed her, went into the doctor's, as one who had an appointment. For a moment he, too, had hurried, but the taxi had sped past him.

"A cher Nonno," he cried, gripping the Frenchman's hand.

"A la bonne heure, Luigi."

"So Milady Blakeney comes to consult you," Luigi said. "She pa.s.sed me."

"Milady Blakeney? No! A Meeses Smith, of Londres, a handsome creature, but artificial, racked by late hours and chloral."

"It was so like Milady," Luigi said. The doctor's consulting hour was over; the two were at leisure. "I attended her. A fine boy."

"Yes." The Frenchman appeared to be very interested in his finger-nails. "Yes--there were no complications, were there?"

"H'm!" Luigi Frascatelle sighed. "She came through well. But--I did not tell her--there is never likely to be another bambino." He dropped into medical explanation, gave a few details.

"Never," said Luigi. "But why tell her?"

Legrand took up his book. "Mrs Eva Smith, of London," he said thoughtfully. "H'm! She was dark, this milady?"

"Dark? No, but fair as the angels," exclaimed Luigi. "Golden-haired, splendid. Each year the Sposo, Sir Blakeney, sends me a gift from the boy. It is good of them to remember."

"Oh!" The French doctor closed his book. "Then it can't be," he said to himself, "since the boy is alive. But"--he looked again at the entry--"from what you tell me a second child would be a practical impossibility," he said.

"Well, it is so," answered the Italian.

"And, in this case, also. Yet the boy is alive. Come, Luigi, out. I shall be in London next week at the great Conference, but I leave happily my patients to you, mon ami."

Esme, once again Mrs Carteret, lay sobbing on the high narrow bed in her room at the Meurice. She would never be rich now; her heartache never stilled. Wild schemes went drifting through her brain. Could she do as Denise had done? No, for Denise was rich, and to cheat one must have money. Half-maddened, she buried her hot face in the pillow; then would spring up with clenched hands, railing against the world.

Her boy, her boy! who would have meant so much to her. Her baby, ill-used, neglected!

There is no sorrow so bitter as that of a sin which has failed to succeed; no remorse so biting as that which eats with decayed teeth, which whispers as it grows painfully, "I come from your own fault."

Esme got up at last, powdered thickly and carelessly, put away her plain gown and got into a blue velvet, pinned on a huge hat, and went down to tea.

She could think no longer. A bunch of pale mauve violets tempted her.

With her fair hair, her done-up skin, her brilliant gown, men turned and stared and drew their own conclusions.

Esme wanted new gowns. Denise owed her money. She drove to her dressmaker's.

But Madame Lilie was cool, unenthusiastic. Madame Carteret's accounts were over-difficult to get in.

"If Madame would pay cash, but certainly. But otherwise money was scarce. English accounts so ver' difficult to get in. For cash there were one or two gowns."

With deft hands Madame showed a model of emerald velvet, bizarre, remarkable, but exquisite in its supple grace. Another of sapphire cloth. An evening gown of chiffon and satin, clinging, opal-hued.

The three could be supplied--they would fit Esme easily--for one hundred and twenty pounds for cash, with jupons to match thrown in.

Esme was going to the Holbrooks. She must wear her old clothes; and Dollie Gresham would be there, and Denise.

"You know that I would pay you," Esme flashed out. "It is nonsense. I could send you half in a month."

Madame grew cold again. After all, the blue was almost sold to a customer, but as Madame had come all the way from Londres, bien! she had showed it.

It was in Esme's mind to lose her temper, to call the woman insolent and suspicious. But the three models lying together, green and blue and s.h.i.+mmering opal, held her tongue.

She would come back to-morrow, buy the gowns; she had meant to leave next morning, but she would not.

It was dusk outside, and cold; she hurried on to the Ritz.

A stout man, barring her path, swept his hat off to her, murmuring some words.

"Monsieur!" Esme said haughtily.

"But, Madame"--the man's French halted. "If Madame would come to tea with a humble admirer--"

"Monsieur!" she stormed, hurrying on across the open s.p.a.ce in front of the huge hotel. The man followed her, apparently unabashed, into the lounge, his eyes fixed admiringly on her.

With a little gasp of relief Esme saw a man she knew, Sir Thomas Adaire--a round-faced, jovial youth, with cunning blue beady eyes, and a distorted imagination.

"Don't make a fuss," she said, "but that dreadful person is following me."

The stranger sheered off rapidly, with a smile of understanding more insulting than his pursuit.