The Oyster Part 46

Esme got up slowly, came numb and white to her hostess.

She had had bad news; she lied dully, carelessly; a cousin was ill; she must leave at once. But if they liked to keep Bertie she was sure he would stay.

"I must be near him; I must be near him," rang the tortured longing of her heart. If he died she must see him buried; stand by his grave.

Something in the stricken face touched Mrs Holbrook. A motor could come round at once; catch the eleven-o'clock train; she was sorry.

"Thank you. My maid can follow. Thank you and good-bye."

"She went herself, my love," said Luke, contentedly.

Oh! crawling slowness of the big car; of the flying express train; biting fear of what might be as she reached London.

Their flat was cold, dusty; Esme did not notice it; she unhooked the telephone.

"Who is that--Mrs Stanson?" A pause. "_How_ is the child?"

Swaying, Esme listened.

"Better--almost out of danger. It was exaggerated; his arm is crushed, but there are no internal injuries we hope. Who am I to say asked?"

The nurse had not recognized the hoa.r.s.e voice.

"The ... d.u.c.h.ess of Boredom. Thank you ... thank you!"

A great wave of relief swept over Esme. Her boy would not die. Then, later, fresh waves of depression. He was not out of danger. Children went out in a minute. The hours dragged and she was afraid to ask again. Then, still sitting there, hunched in a cold room, she rang up.

Denise's voice answered. "Who? Oh, it's you, Esme. I'll shut the door.

Now don't get hysterical, don't! The boy's doing well. He was naughty; it was his fault."

"You pushed him," stormed Esme.

"Who told you?" Denise stopped, her voice grew ill-humoured. "No, you must not come here. I'll let you know. Oh, I promise I will. Don't be absurd."

Esme sat on, taking no count of pa.s.sing hours.

"But, oh, my poor Madame," wailed Marie, as she came in, "perished and alone."

Marie, of course, had made up her mind to an intrigue. Madame had not gone for nothing. Marie was disappointed. But she lighted the fire, sympathized, sent for hot tea and toast, flitted about with a world of surmise hidden behind her black eyes.

What was it? What trouble was Madame in? Knowledge was useful to clever people.

The telephone bell whirred; before Esme could come Marie had s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver.

"Is that you, Esme? Quick! I've no time. The boy is doing well. What?

Not Mrs Carteret? Oh, call her--at once."

No necessity to call the woman who came flying in, her eyes wild with anxiety. Esme listened for a moment, then came back to her tea slowly.

It was Milady Blakeney's voice; Marie knew it.

"There is something then amiss with the little Master Blakeney, Madame?" the maid said softly.

"He is hurt, ill. His mother hates him," Esme burst out, then checked herself.

"It is sad that Madame who loves so much a bebe should not have a little son," said Marie. "I thought ... when I left Madame...."

Esme felt the flood of scarlet rus.h.i.+ng to her tell-tale cheeks. With a quick movement she dropped her cup and cried out.

"When I left Madame," murmured Marie to herself, "and Madame is now so attached to the little boy Blakeney. I wonder, oh, I wonder!" muttered the Frenchwoman.

Little Cyril mended rapidly. His hand and arm were crushed, might never be used freely again; but there were no fatal injuries.

Deep in her heart, after the first remorse for the angry push which she had given the child, Denise had hoped that he might die. Once dead there would be no more danger of detection. Esme would give up worrying her.

There was a dance next night given by a newcomer to London, an Italian Marchese.

Denise went to it, for Cyril was out of danger.

Three times Esme had rung up to know if she might see the child, and Denise had answered: "No, no! Cyril was suspicious. Esme must not come."

The Marchese had taken a big house in Eaton Place, had spared no expense on her entertainment.

Esme, with her cheeks too pink, her eyes bright and hard, felt anew the frost which was creeping about her. Friends bowed coldly; she saw nods, shrugged shoulders.

She met Jimmie Gore Helmsley near the ball-room door. He was watching for a new love, a pretty little woman of twenty, married to a dull man who merely adored her and therefore took no pains to show it. The girl turned from gold to tinsel, because tinsel glittered and was more pleasing to the eye.

"Oh, Jimmie, you!" Esme was glad to see him. "Any news?"

"Heaps!" he said coolly. "Sorry I can't stay to tell it you, fair lady.

It's curious news."

Jimmie was paying off a score. He was openly unfriendly. Esme stood partnerless, hurt by the snub for a time, until she flashed smiles on boys who bored her, simply that she might not be alone.

She saw Denise splendidly dressed, glittering with jewels; saw, too, that Denise backed and tried to slip away to avoid a meeting.

"How is he?" Esme darted through the crowd. Sir Cyril stood near his wife, his big face set coldly.

"The boy? Oh! much better, thank you. So nice of you to take an interest in him." Denise's voice shook from nervousness.

"May I not come to see him?"

Sir Cyril interrupted quietly. "Impossible," he said, "impossible, Mrs Carteret. The boy is to be kept quiet. Come, Denise."

It was an open snub, given before people who looked on full of malicious curiosity.

Esme stood, white under her rouge; there was something, and she did not know what it was.

"Come, let us go to supper." She turned, laughing, to her partner. "I'm thirsty."