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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/35217-8.txt b/35217-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..150d6e8 --- /dev/null +++ b/35217-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11122 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Oyster, by A Peer + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Oyster + +Author: A Peer + +Release Date: February 8, 2011 [EBook #35217] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OYSTER *** + + + + +Produced by Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + + +The Oyster + + +By + +a Peer + + + + +London + +John Long, Limited + +Norris Street, Haymarket + +[_All rights reserved_] + + + + +_First Published in 1914_ + + + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + +In Two Editions, 6s. and 1s. net. + + Theo + The Hard Way + The Decoy Duck + A Wife Imperative + To Justify the Means + The Ordeal of Silence + +_All Published by_ + +JOHN LONG, LIMITED, London + + + + +The Oyster + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Gleams of bright sunshine came through the windows of the trim little +flat into the drawing-room furnished in miniature aping of luxury. The +chairs and tables were Sheraton--Sheraton passably imitated--the +covering rich brocade. Soft white cushion covers, fine as cobwebs, +clothed the big squares stuffed with feathers. Late narcissi and early +roses made the air heavy with scent. The place was small, but it +carried the air of comfort; it was a miniature of its roomy brothers +and sisters in big town houses. The door of the dining-room, standing +open, showed the same taste. Polished inlaid mahogany, good silver, +embroidered table linen. Early as it was there had been strawberries +for breakfast, and cream, and hot bread. + +"Luncheon at the Berkeley. It will be a good one too. I'm driving with +Denise to that show at the Duchess's. Tea at the Carlton. Dining with +Robbie at his club; the Gay Delight afterwards; supper at Jules. Oh! +the days are not half long enough." + +Long-limbed, slender, gracefully pretty, Esmé Carteret turned over the +leaves of her engagement-book. Her blue eyes sparkled behind dark +lashes; her skin was fair and carefully looked after. She was so +bright, so dazzling, that at first sight one missed the selfishness of +the weak, red-lipped mouth, the shallowness of the blue eyes. + +"Not half long enough," she repeated. "Oh, Bertie, you--" + +A flashing smile, a hand held out, yet in the greeting no look of the +real love some women feel for their husbands. + +"Well, Butterfly." Bertie Carteret had a bundle of letters in his +hands; he was opening them methodically with an ivory cutter. + +A dark man, with a quiet, strong face. Dazzled, attracted by this fair +piece of womanhood, loving her as men love when they do not stop to +look further than the flesh and blood they covet, and so, married. And +now, loving her still, but with eyes which were no longer blinded, with +little lines of thought crinkling round his eyes when he looked at her, +yet still her slave if she ordered him, thrilling to the satin softness +of her skin, the scented masses of her hair. + +"Well, my Butterfly," he said, opening another letter. + +Esmé did not pay her own bills. She had not as yet sufficient wisdom to +keep the house accounts. It saved trouble to let Bertie take them. + +"Esmé child!" He looked at the total written under a long line of +figures. "Esmé! those cushion covers are not made of gold, are they?" + +"No--hand embroidery," she said carelessly. "Everyone gets them." + +"They seem to represent gold, you extravagant child." + +"Dollie Maynard had them; she kind of crowed over mine last day we had +bridge here. I must have things same as other people, Bert. I can't be +shabby and dowdy." + +"So it seems." He opened several other letters. "Well, we can just do +it, girlie, so it doesn't matter. Breakfast now. I was working hard +this morning." + +"And I was eating strawberries. Bobbie sent them. There are eggs for +you." + +"Once upon a time laid by a hen," he said resignedly. "Got the stalls +for to-night. That blue gown suits you, Butterfly." + +"It ought to," she said, coming in to give him his breakfast. "It cost +fifteen guineas." + +Bertie Carteret was adjutant of volunteers in London; he had taken it +to please Esmé, who would not endure the idea of a country station in +Ireland. + +Now Carteret was going abroad, his adjutancy over. His battalion was in +South Africa; he was to join it there until he got something else to +do. Esmé flashed out at the thought of the place. + +"Dust and bottled butter; black servants and white ants. No thank you, +Bertie--I won't go." + +No one expected sacrifice from Esmé; she was too pretty, too brilliant, +to endure worry or trouble. Bertie Carteret smiled at her. She should +stay at home. They would soon get something else to do, and he would +come back. + +Esmé bent across to him that day, her face set in unwonted thought. + +"Just think if your Uncle Hugh had no sons," she said, "he'd leave you +everything. We'd be rich then." + +Bertie laughed. Two boys made barrier between him and hopes of the +Carteret money. + +A pleasure-loving pair, absolutely happy in their way. Well enough off +to have all they wanted, and pleasant enough to get the rest from their +friends. + +They chattered through breakfast of engagements, parties, trips, of +days filled to the brim. Bertie was lunching at the Bath Club. Esmé, +with her friend, Denise Blakeney, at the Carlton. + +"And oh, Bert--ring up those fruiterer people. Dollie dines here +to-morrow. We must have strawberries, and asparagus--the fat kind--and +peas, Bert. She had them--Dollie. I don't want her to go away and talk +of 'those poor Carterets and their mutton chops'--and send in matron +glaces, Bert, and sweets from Buzzard's, will you, and some Petit Fours +for tea." + +"Anything else?" he said. "Esmé, do you know, my Butterfly, that we +spend every penny we have, and a little more?" + +With a laugh she slipped a supple arm about his neck. "And why not?" +she said lightly--"why not, Sir Croaker?" + +He drew her to his knee, kissing her firm neck, her soft arms--on fire +to her touch. + +"She was a witch," he told her, "and a Butterfly, hovering over a man's +heart." She should have her strawberries, her sweeties. "And--what is +it?" + +For Esmé had turned white, put her hand to her throat, a sudden nausea +seizing her. + +"I've been like that twice before," she said; "it's the racket. Bertie, +I don't feel up to luncheon now, and I like to be hungry when I lunch +with Denise. Oh, thank you, dear." + +For he brought smelling-salts, holding the fragrant, pungent, scented +stuff to her nostrils. He was genuinely anxious. + +"It's nothing," she said lightly; "something disagreed with me." + +"Lunching with Denise?" He lighted his pipe. Carteret was not a +cigarette-smoker. "Ever see Blakeney with her now, girlie?" + +"No-o," she said reluctantly. + +"H'm! I hear they're not too good pals. Denise has been playing the +fool with young Jerry Roche--the 'wily fish' as they call him. She'd +better not go too far with Cyril Blakeney. I was at school with +him--came just when he left. But I knew his brother there also. I tell +you, Esmé, they're a bad lot to vex." + +Esmé shook her head thoughtfully. + +"Hope Jimmie Helmsley won't be at luncheon," Carteret went on. "Steer +clear of him, old dear." + +"I'm lunching with him on Saturday, Bert." + +"Well, don't again. He's a beast. Of course there's no fear of you, but +there was the Grange Stukeley girl, poor soul, married off to a parson +cousin; and Lettice Greene, and--oh, heaps of his victims." + +There are some women who create trust. The dazzle about Esmé was not +one of warmth. It was cold as she was selfish. Her husband, without +realizing this, yet knew that he might trust her implicitly, that +beyond mere careless flirtation nothing amused her. + +"Well, good-bye, Esmé. I must go to do a few things which don't want +doing, even as this morning I paraded unwilling youths at seven." + +Carteret strolled out. Esmé picked up the salts bottle, sniffing at it. +She rang for a trim, superior maid to take away, going back herself to +the pretty drawing-room to write a few notes. + +"I'm feeling rotten," wrote Esmé to a girl friend, "slack and seedy--" +and then she jumped up, crying out aloud. + +"Not that! Not that! Not the end of their dual in the treble. Not the +real cares of life forced on her. Oh, it could not be--it could not!" +Esmé raged round the room, crying hysterically, fighting off an +imaginary enemy with her hands. + +It would mean a move from the little expensive flat. Doctors, nurses, +extra maids swallowing their income. + +"It can't be!" she stormed. "I'm mad!" and rushed off to dress. + +She looked hungrily at her slim figure in her glass, watched her maid +fasten hooks and buttons until the perfectly-cut early summer gown +seemed to cling to the slender figure. There was that, too--a figure +spoilt. Dowdy, disfiguring clothes, and fear, the fear of the +inevitable. She was counting, calculating as the maid finished +fastening her dress, brought her a cloudy feather wrap, deep brown over +the creamy gown, long white gloves, a scented handkerchief, a bunch of +deep pink roses. + +"Shall I alter Madame's yellow gown?" Marie wondered at Esmé's silence. +"Madame is weary of its present aspect, with silver and violet. I can +make it new--and the waist, it seemed a little tight last evening for +Madame." + +"It wasn't," Esmé flung out. "It's quite right. Get me new corsets, +Marie--these are old. A taxi, yes." + +Speeding westward swiftly, but with dread flying as swiftly. Not +that--not the ending of her careless, selfish life. + +"Why, Esmé, what a pretty gown; but you look pale, dear." + +Lady Blakeney was at the Berkeley. A big, soft woman, with a weak, +pretty face, palpably face-creamed, powdered, tinted, yet the whole +effect that of a carefully-done picture, harmonizing, never clashing. +With her brown hair, her deep brown eyes, she was a foil to flashing, +dazzling Esmé. + +"Just four, you see," Lady Blakeney sauntered to her table. She was in +dull rose, exquisitely dressed. + +"Yes, Jerry and Jimmie Helmsley." + +Lord Gerald Roche, slim, distinctly young, just getting over being +deeply in love, and still trying to think he was a victim to it, more +impressive, as if to whip his jaded fancy, came in; a bunch of rare +mauve orchids, fresh from a florist's, in his hand. Behind him, Jimmie +Gore Helmsley, a tall man, dark, with satyr's ears, thick, sensual +lips, and black eyes of cool determination. No one realized Jimmie's +fascination until they spoke to him. It was in his manner, his power of +subtle flattery, of making the woman he spoke to feel herself someone +apart, not of common attraction, but a goddess, an allurement. + +Unkind men, unfascinated, called Jimmie's black eyes boiled sloes, and +swore that he rouged his cheeks; but women raved about him. + +Jimmie was a pursuer of many women, a relentless one if his fancy were +touched; there were girls--girls of his own rank of life--who whispered +his name bitterly. The plucking of a bird sometimes amused him more +than the wearing of a full-blown rose. + +"Ah you! the sunshine is here now." He bent over Esmé's hands, and his +flattery was as water pattering off polished marble. Esmé had no use +for the Gore Helmsleys of life; she had laughed when he had given her a +flower as though it were made of diamonds. Jimmie made things as cheap +for himself as he could. + +But Esmé talked to him now. Jerry was almost whispering to Denise +Blakeney, making his adoration foolishly conspicuous. + +The restaurant was filling. Denise had ordered luncheon; she never +trusted to chance. A soufflet of fish, asparagus, grilled fillets of +beef. + +As the fish was handed to them, Denise Blakeney started and flushed +painfully. Her young admirer had been showing her a jewel flashing in a +tiny box--a pear-shaped pink pearl. + +"Oh!" she cried sharply, and pushed the box away. + +A bluff man, with heavy features, had gone up the room and sat down at +a small table. His companion was an elderly woman, dowdy, rather +fussily impressed. + +"It's Cyrrie!" said Denise. "Cyrrie and his old Aunt Grace. He asked me +to have her at Grosvenor Square to-day, and I told him a fib to +escape." Denise fidgeted uneasily, her colour changing. "I told one +fib," she said, "now it will take a dozen more to make it credible." + +"The fib is a mental fly," said Jimmie, laughing; "he's grown large +quickly. Cheer up, Milady, don't look tragic." + +The big man nodded to his wife with a careless smile. It is an +Englishman's need to be outwardly pleasant, to glaze a volcano with a +laugh--in public. + +"He hasn't scolded me enough lately," said Denise, grimly. "And the +nature of husbands being to scold, it makes me nervous." She watched +Cyrrie narrowly. + +"Aunt Grace is having boiled chicken, specially ordered for her; she +will finish up with stewed fruit and rice. It makes it so difficult +when she comes. My cook is uncertain as to boiling chickens plainly." +Lady Blakeney tried to fling off her depression, to do her duty as +hostess. She muttered something sharply to Lord Gerald, she talked a +little too fast, a little too gaily. + +Esmé would flash smiles, planning some future gaiety, forget for a +moment, and then, across her happiness, a cloud rose looming, +threatening. Oh! it could not be! It must not be! There were so many +things she meant to do. Bertie's appointment was up; he was going to +South Africa until they got something else, or his other battalion came +to Aldershot. Exchanges could always be managed. And Esmé was due at +Trouville in August; she was going on to Scotland; she had been asked +to Cheshire to hunt for two months. It must not be! + +Once, in a spasm of fear, she clenched her hand, crushing her glass in +her fingers, spilling her champagne. Esmé drank champagne on a hot May +day because it looked well to see it there, because it brightened her +wits, made pleasure keener. She liked expensive dishes, ordering +them recklessly when she was asked out, taking the best of everything. +She was never tired, never knew sleeplessness; could dance until four +and be out riding next morning, with her bright colour undimmed. +Perfect health makes perfect temper. Esmé was an unruffled companion, +provided she got her own way. Down in the country, without amusement, +she would have fretted, beaten against bars of dulness. + +"Oh, Mrs Carteret!" she heard Jimmie exclaim as the amber liquid +vanished, as the broken glass tinkled together on the cloth. "What +dream moved you?" he whispered, bending close. "What, lady fair?" + +A man who could throw meaning into his lightest word, here it was +implied, had she thought of hidden things; the eyes burning into hers +expressed that she had thought of him. Though every road in the map of +love was known to Jimmie Gore Helmsley, he hinted at unknown turns, at +heights unclimbed to each fresh companion he took by the route, knowing +how women love mystery and hate the flat, soft paths they can see too +well. + +"Of what?" he whispered. "If I dared to think. It would make Friday--" + +"Don't dare," Esmé flashed at him mockingly. "And Friday--where do we +lunch on Friday?" she asked carelessly. "Let it be near Dover Street; I +must be at the club at half-past two." + +Esmé looked shrewdly at the man, wondered what women saw in the +sloe-black eyes, the high-coloured cheeks; wondered why girls had made +fools of themselves for him. + +"I heard of an old friend of yours to-day," she said--"Gracie +Stukeley--I forget her married name." + +Jimmie nodded carelessly; there were no chinks in his armour. He gave +no thought to a little fool who had come flying to his rooms because +someone vexed her, who prattled to him of divorce; he was rather fond, +in a way, of his big, swearing, hard-riding wife. He remembered that +Grace Stukeley had to be married off to save her people's name. + +"Nice girl," he said carelessly; "but a fool." + +"Ah, Denise! You did not lunch with Eva? She put you off an hour ago; I +see." + +Big Cyril paused as he passed his wife. Denise made sweetly-drawled +apology to Aunt Grace. + +"I see," said Sir Cyril, his big face set a little grimly; "and now, +whither away, Denise? To drive--to the cloth show? Well--we meet at +dinner." + +"Yes--to drive;" but first Denise knew that she had meant to go home to +spend an hour with Jerry in her boudoir. And now she was afraid; she +faltered and flushed. Would not Aunt Grace drive? Esmé could come any +day. + +Aunt Grace, easily flattered, gravely believing the previous +engagement, accepted willingly. + +She quite understood how difficult it was to find time to receive +visitors from the country. Engagements were sacred. The vicar had never +forgiven her once because she forgot to go to tea to meet the bishop's +wife, and the hot buns were overcooked waiting for her. Mrs Lemon made +a speciality of hot buns. Grace Bullingham chattered on, delighted with +her luncheon, her day in London; but Sir Cyril stood silent, a curious +smile on his lips. + +"You're coming, Cyrrie? Denise, isn't Cyrrie coming?" + +"The electric limousine of the moment has only room for two--and an +interloper," said Blakeney. "No, I'm not coming, Aunt Grace. I should +be the interloper. But I'll meet you at four at the station, the car +can take you there, and--" + +Denise was still flustered; still talking nervously. She arranged to +meet Esmé again; she fussed uneasily, afraid that Jerry might be openly +impressive, that he might try to whisper his regret. + +"Now, auntie, come along. Au revoir, Esmé. Good-bye, Lord Gerald. See +you some time next week--to luncheon on Sunday if there's no other +attraction." + +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," Esmé 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, Esmé must +come to Leicestershire 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. Esmé 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," Esmé 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 sunshine, 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 gods 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. + +Esmé 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. + +Esmé 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. +Esmé's flat was not much out of the way. + +Esmé'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. + +"Esmé, dear! what lovely flowers!" Dollie's quick eyes appraised the +roses. "Oh! extravagant Esmé!--or is it Esmé well beloved, with a +someone who wastes his income at a florist's." + +"In this case--my lawful spouse! He sent them in yesterday." Esmé +omitted to say that she had asked for them. + +"You are a model pair, Esmé." 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 flashing purity. + +Dollie detested Esmé 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 Esmé would have been proud of her luncheon; the soles in +cunning sauce; the soufflet of peas; the cutlets; the savoury--Esmé +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 Esmé would have smiled to herself at Dollie Maynard's +peevish envy, at the praise veiled by pricks of innuendo. + +"Esmé 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? Esmé, I'm in bad spirits; it's raining, too!" + +"And I am in bad spirits." Esmé 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 Esmé 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!" Esmé 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 Esmé, "or thirty-five, and didn't +want to fly about." + +"And then"--Denise Blakeney lighted another cigarette--"then, my Esmé, +you might pray for the child you want--in vain." + +She got up, her weak mouth set slackly, her blue eyes shining. + +"Es--I'm in mortal fear--fear of Cyril." + +Esmé stopped crying to listen. + +"He'll divorce me," said Denise, dully. "He's off to Central Africa or +somewhere now, but I know he means to, and what troubles you is the one +thing which would save me. He told me once that if his wife had +children he would never disgrace their mother. He meant it. Cyrrie says +very little, and he means it all. He's so quiet, Es, so big. I'm +afraid!" + +"But surely," Esmé queried, "there's no evidence?" + +"Oh! evidence!" Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I've been reckless +lately, Es--a fool. I've stayed with those Bellew people near Ascot. +I've been a fool with Jerry; he was such a boy that I was too open; +being very little harm in it, I judged the opinion of onlookers by my +own feelings; and Cyrrie's found out. He knows the mad things I've +done. The boy was so proud of being my belonging--bah! I know! I can +see Cyrrie look at me with a threat behind his eyes. Think of it, Esmé! +The disgrace! Those vile papers reporting; poor Jerry defending; and +then the after life. Oh! if one could only see in time. If I had +stopped to think two years ago--it may be too late now. I've been +absolutely making love to Cyrrie lately, and he looks at me with such a +smile on his big face. You see, there's the title--it's as old as the +world, almost--and all the money; and we have no heir; that vexes +Cyrrie horribly. He'll get rid of me and marry Anne Bellairs, his +cousin, a great, healthy, bovine country girl, while I sit in outer +darkness and gnash my teeth." + +"Oh, Denise! Oh! if we could change--" Esmé's voice rang so shrilly +that Lady Blakeney dropped her cigarette and picked it up again from +the skirt of her rich white dress. + +"Esmé," she said, "it's burnt a hole in it. Heavens! yes! if we could!" +She threw away the cigarette. "If we could!" + +In her heart she knew she ought to tell Esmé not to be foolishly +hysterical. Talk quietly and soothe her. Instead, with her eyes alight, +she fed the flame of the fear of loss of fun. Talked of how a baby was +a nuisance in London, of how much they cost. + +"If you could give me yours," she said, "and pretend that it was mine. +Lord! what a difference it would make for me." + +Esmé sat staring at her, puzzled. + +"Oh! I suppose it's too melodramatic to think of," Denise said, getting +up. "It's still pouring, and I'm going home. We have people to dinner +to-night. Cheer up, dear." + +She left Esmé sitting brooding alone; she had been so happy with her +husband; there was just enough--enough for amusement, for entertaining +mildly, for paying visits. Her pretty face won many friends; people +were kind to so pleasant a guest. + +"Oh! I can't afford it! I'd love to go!" and then someone found an +outsider at ten to one, or a stock which was safe to rise, and someone +else sent wine at wholesale prices; someone else fruit and flowers. +They were such a merry pair; they ought to enjoy themselves, was the +world's verdict. + +Esmé knew the value of smiles; in shops, in Society they were current +coinage to her. She did not want to be tied, to have to weary over a +something more important than she was. + +"If we could only change," said Esmé, dolefully. "Denise quite sees how +it will spoil everything." + +"Call a taxi, Marie. I'll go to the club to tea." + +Denise went to pay some calls, and then to her house in Grosvenor +Square. The scent of flowers drifted from the hall; she loved to fill +it with anything sweet. The butler handed her her letters as she +passed--invitations, notes. + +She went into her boudoir at the back of the drawing-room, a nest of +blue, background for her fair beauty, with flowers everywhere. + +Denise shivered; she was a Someone--a well-known hostess in society; a +personage in her way; she went to dull house-parties, where royalty was +entertained; and she yawned sorely but yet was glad to go. Where one +ate simple food and had to smoke in the conservatories, because a very +great lady was an advocate for simplicity. + +"And if--if--" her fears were not unfounded. + +Denise knew what it would mean. A few loyal friends writing kindly +letters before they slipped away from her. Cold, evasive nods from +people who would not cut her; the delighted, uplifted noses of the +people she had ignored. + +A hole-and-corner marriage somewhere with young Jerry, who was already +wearying of his chains; a marriage reft of all things which makes +marriage a joy. Life in some poky place abroad or in the country, +received on sufferance or not at all. + +Denise flung out her hands as if to ward off an enemy. She heard her +husband coming in; his heavy step on the stairs; his deep, even voice. + +"Her ladyship in? Yes? A message from Lord Hugh Landseer; wished Sir +Cyril to lunch there to-morrow to discuss guns, etc. Yes. Dinner at +eight or half-past? At eight-fifteen? The champagne? Better have two +sorts out, Lady St Clare didn't like Bollinger." + +There was a cool reserve of strength in Cyril Blakeney's trivial words; +he thought slowly, spoke slowly, but seldom idly. He was a man who +could wait. Wait for a day which he believed would be good, wait for a +young dog which he thought might improve. "Give him a year--we'll see +then." And if at the end of the time the setter was still hopeless, he +was not seen again. Cyril Blakeney would not sell a dog to be beaten +into submission--and the end was swift and painless. A vicious horse, a +bad jumper, went the same way. People did not dispute his opinions; if +they could not agree they listened to the arguments and wondered at +their quiet shrewdness. + +Denise heard the heavy step go on; he did not come into her boudoir. +She went up herself, fidgeting over her dresses, coming down at last in +shimmering opal satin, a crown of pearls in her soft hair, pearls at +her throat, and in the lace on her bodice one pear-shaped and pink. +Stanley, her maid, had fastened it in, picking it out of several jewels. + +Denise looked at them and shivered again. Her diamonds were +magnificent, but they were not hers; they were heirlooms of the +Blakeneys; she thought of the old house in Yorkshire, big, heavy, solid +as her husband himself; full of carved panels, of cold, stately rooms; +a home which Cyril delighted in. She dreaded the keen moorland air, the +loneliness of the country; but they spent the winter there hunting and +shooting; and she knew how Cyril longed for a boy to come after him. + +"That will do, Stanley. What do you say?--That I told you to remind me +of new dresses for Stranray Park. Yes. Anything will do for the +mornings, and tea-gowns are forbidden; but I'll want six evening gowns. +Oh! Cyrrie!" + +Catch of nervousness in her voice; she met her husband on the stairs; +put out a hand and touched his arm. Quietly he lifted it, held it out, +and laid it lightly where her wedding ring gleamed behind a blaze of +diamonds. + +"Had a pleasant day?" he asked. + +Denise recounted it almost eagerly. The big man listened, held her hand +still as they came to the drawing-room. + +"And you gave up Ranelagh--stayed talking to Esmé Carteret." She saw +him smile finely. "Friends, Denise, to waste an afternoon. I was at +Ranelagh and missed you. Dollie Maynard told me she left you just +starting. I wondered where you were. Oh! here is Elsie." + +They were a merry little party of four, taking an evening off until it +was time for one or two balls. + +Elsie St Clare, her husband, and a Baron de Reville. + +Denise was a charming hostess; she knew how to order a dinner; there +was no hint of the fluttering wings of trouble as the four talked and +laughed. + +"Stanley would not let me rest in peace to-night," she said, "she +reminded me of Stranray in October. Cyril will not be there; it will be +worse than ever. No smoking there after dinner," laughed Denise, "and +it all seems standing up and taking the weather's temperature with our +tongues; we are so bored we talk of nothing else. And H.R.H. likes the +Stranray babies down to breakfast. One of them upset an egg over her +one day, on purpose; they are outwardly mild, and inwardly demons. And +when we are not out we work, because it looks domestic. I put three +stitches in last time, because I saw eyes upon me. I shall never forget +the day we found the three babies playing when we came in. Jinnie, the +eldest, gravely smoking paper cigarettes. Just as state entry was made, +she shrieked out: + +"'That's when they're gone to bed; that's what we do. _I_ saw over the +bannisters. Now you're so loud, Nettie; and you, Tim, you say thank +goodness.' But H.R.H. was quite nice about it; and only laughed and +kissed them all. + +"'I expect it's what you all do and say,' she said, and kissed Nettie +again." + +"I shall disport myself at Swords," Elsie St Clare laughed. "I couldn't +stand the strain of behaving perfectly for a week. Prince Wilhelm goes +to you at White Friars some time, doesn't he?" + +"Next spring for the races," said Denise. "But she's a dear, and if you +give her a chair to sleep in she bothers no one; the only thing which +worries her is that Wilhelm will play the bridge game. + +"'It hass my orphanage ruined,' she told me last time." + +After dinner they played bridge. Denise forgot her fears a little, +though her luck was against her; she could not hold a card. + +"How I hate paying you, Cyrrie," she said, laughing, as she took gold +from her purse. + +"Women always hate the day of reckoning." Something in his quiet voice +made her heart thump. "The game is full of excitement, but it must +end--and your sex dislikes the ending." + +The guests went on to a big dance; the Blakeneys were left alone; they +were not going out. + +Quite quietly Sir Cyril came across to his wife, stood looking at her. + +"A lovely gown," he said. "But--do you need new jewels, Denise?" + +His fingers, big, strong, deft, fell on the pink pearl, undid the +fastening. + +Denise turned pale, stood stammering, seeking excuse. + +"Don't bother," he said smoothly. "I saw the boy give it you. You've +been foolish there, Denise--foolish. Well, I'm off for months, and when +I come back--" + +"Yes?" she said, dry-lipped, or rather tried to say yes and merely made +some sound. + +"If we had had a child, Denise," he said, his head bent. "They make a +difference--one makes allowances then." + +"If we had--now," she said. "Now, Cyrrie!" her voice rang shrilly. + +He laughed. "If we had--you might be thankful," he said. "Come, you +look tired out. Go to bed." + +"I have not been feeling well," she faltered. + +If she was to be saved, something must be managed. + +Esmé was still in her wrapper of silk and lace, when Lady Blakeney came +to her next day. Came, white and excited, her eyes blazing, her face +tense. For half an hour Esmé sat almost silent, listening to an +outpouring of plot and plan. The weak, flighty woman developed +undreamt-of powers of organization. + +Esmé wanted money, freedom. Oh! it had often been done before. She +flung out its simplicity. Away in some remote part of the Continent the +child which was to come should be born as a Blakeney. + +What was easier than a change of names? + +"See, Esmé--I'll give you a thousand a year always. Honour! Think of +it! Five hundred pounds every six months, and you and Bertie can be +happy when he comes back. And I--it will save me. We'll go away +together in the autumn; we are always together. We'll go without maids. +Oh--do--do!" + +Esmé flung up her pretty head. + +"I'll do it," she said, "but I must have a doctor. I must not die." + +"A doctor to attend Lady Blakeney. Why not? Strange servants, a strange +place, who would know?" Denise remembered everything. + +"Yet it is wonderful how people do know," said Esmé, shrewdly, half +afraid now that she had agreed; wondering what might happen. Yet she +looked round her flat with a little sigh of relief. She could live her +merry, careless life, live it more easily than before, and she did not +want a child. She hated children, hated their responsibility. + +"Some day," said Esmé, "I won't mind; then there can be another." + +May had given way to a dismal June. Cold winds and showers swept over +the world. Flowers were dragged from grates and fires put in. Esmé had +lighted hers; sat over it, as her husband came in; they were lunching +out. + +He hung over her, delighting in her soft beauty, crying out at her pale +cheeks. + +"You're tired, girlie; we're always out. And now that I must leave you +alone you'll do much more." + +She leant back against him, ruffling her cloud of fair hair. + +"We're absolutely happy, aren't we, Bertie? I'll be here when you come. +I can let the flat until the spring, and you must leave that stupid +army and live here all summer in dear London." + +He held her close, sat silent for a time. + +"I was at Evie's yesterday," he said. "Eve Gresham's my cousin. I saw +her boy." + +"Horrid little things at that age," said Esmé, unsympathetically. + +"It wasn't--it was fat and bonny; and Eve is so proud of it. If we had +a sonny, Butterfly, you and I, I'd like him to be like Eve's." + +Esmé sat astonished. Bertie wishing for a third in their lives. Bertie! +knowing the difference it would make. + +She jumped up, almost angrily. "If we had, we couldn't hunt, or do half +what we do," she said. "And you've got me, Bertie. Do you want more?" + +She began to cry suddenly, broke down, overwrought by her morning's +plot, by this new idea of Carteret's. + +Something, stronger for the moment than her selfish love of amusement, +fought with her. If she gave up their mad scheme, told him now, he +would not go to Africa; he would stay, watching her, guarding her. Esmé +wavered. + +"I looked at those emeralds too, yesterday," Bertie said; he was +staring into the fire; had not noticed her agitation. "You know that +queer old clasp. Fifty pounds. I couldn't manage it, girlie, for you." + +"I wanted it," said Esmé, fretfully. + +"A note from Lady Blakeney, madame." + +Marie brought the letter up, wondering at its plump softness, feeling +the wad which the notes made. The chauffeur had bidden her be careful; +refused to give it to the porter of the flats. + +"Oh!" Esmé opened it, her back to her husband. There were bank notes, +crisp, delightful; she saw five of them; five for fifty pounds each. +Denise was beginning the payment already. + +"Milady Blakeney also wishes to know if Madame will use the car to +drive to luncheon. It is at Madame's service until five," Marie said. + +"Denise is very good to you," Carteret turned round. "You have a lot of +friends, my Butterfly." + +Esmé crushed the notes up. The impulse to tell was gone. She wanted +money, comfort, ease; the chance was hers, and she would take it. + +The luncheon party was a big one, given by Luke Holbrook, the wine +merchant. He paid his cook a clerk's income, and she earned her salary +elaborately. What her dishes lacked in taste they made up for in +ornament; if a white sauce be merely smoothly flour-like, who shall +grumble if it is flecked with truffles, cocks-combs and pistachio nuts. +No gourmet enjoyed eating at the Holbrooks', but ordinary people who +are impressed by magnificence talked in hushed tones of the cook. + +The house was as heavily expensive as the meal; gold plate shone on the +vast sideboard; orchids decorated the tables; one's feet sank into deep +carpeting. Mrs Holbrook, a plumply foolish little woman who had married +the big man obediently that he might have a wife who claimed the prefix +of "honourable" on her letters, accepted the magnificence placidly. She +had a shrewd idea that outward show helped the business, and that they +were not as rich as they seemed to be. + +The dining-room had been opened into the study so that it ran right +across the house, and to increase the apparent size at the end wall was +a huge mirror reflecting the room. + +They lunched at small tables. Sylvia Holbrook knew how to divide her +guests. Esmé found herself one of four with Jimmie Gore Helmsley, Sybil +Chauntsey, a soft-hued debutante, and a dark young soldier vividly in +love with the girl. + +"Going to the Bellews? Lord! I'm weary of cream pies done up in +colours." Jimmie waved a sweet away. "Going, Mrs Carteret?" + +"Bertie has to go home." Esmé had eaten nothing; she was feeling sick +and tired. "He doesn't like my going there." + +"To Thames Cottage? Oh, how I'd love to go," Sybil Chauntsey broke in. +"They have such fun there." + +Her peach bloom deepened; the beauty of youth, which is as no other +beauty, sparkled in her deep grey eyes. + +The big dark man looked at her, his own eyes taking fire. These men +delight in rosebuds, find an unflagging zest in seeing the tender +petals unfold to their hot admiration. + +"Easily managed," he said. "If Madame the mother permits." + +Captain Knox, a mere no one, son of a hunting Irishman, flushed. + +"It's not a nice house," he said. "I've heard of it. Don't go, Miss +Chauntsey." + +"Lila Navotsky will be there"--Jimmie turned to the girl, carelessly +ignoring the man--"she'll dance. It will be rather a bright party. +Prince Fritz of Grosse Holbein is going, Lady Deverelle, and Loftus +Laking, the actor. We'll have a moonlight dance, all costumes home +made." + +Fresh from the country, doing her first season, the great names dazzled +the child. Mother's friends were so dull; the peach-bloom flush +deepened, the sweet eyes flashed for Jimmie, who had watched so many +flushes, seen so many bright eyes flash into his. Sybil was very +pretty, soft and fresh as fruit just ripe; sun-kissed, unpowdered, +roundly contoured. + +With a smile Esmé saw that the conqueror's glances were no longer for +her. He was growing fascinated by Sybil. Even the best of women hate to +lose an admirer; no one knew better than Gore Helmsley how they will +suddenly put good resolves aside to keep the slipping fancy. How many +are morally lost because they fear to lose. + +Young Knox turned to talk to Esmé, his handsome face troubled. A mere +ordinary young fellow, capable of ordinary love, cleanly bred, cleanly +minded, with nothing to offer the girl but the life of a marching +soldier's wife, and some day a house on the shores of a lake far away +in the west. + +"It's--it's _very_ rowdy, isn't it?" he asked. + +But Esmé was not thinking of him. + +"Oh, sometimes not," she said absently, eating a forced nectarine; +"depends on the party there. Now they're moving." + +Up to a drawing-room of oppressive luxury; the Staffordshire groups, +the Dresden shepherdesses seemed larger than other people's; the +brocades gleamed in their richness, the flowers stood in Venetian +glasses; the whole room seemed to shake its wealth in your face, and to +glitter and shine with colour. Coffee came in Dresden cups set in gold +holders; sugar candy peeped from a gilt basin studded with dull stones. +The cigarettes had their name blazoned over them in diamonds. + +Luke Holbrook came among his guests, big, kind, frankly vulgar, +redeemed by his good-natured eyes. Openly proud of seeing a Duchess in +his drawing-room, pointing out to her a pair of historical figures +which stood on the mantel-shelf. + +"Wonderful they tell me," he said. "I don't know, but I like size when +I buy." + +"Yes," said the Duchess, blandly, looking round the room. "Yes. If you +must pay thousands better pay them for two feet of glaze and colour +than for two inches, no doubt." + +"That's it," he said gaily, "that's it. Of course, you've such heaps of +the stuff at Blenkalle. But my boy's collection has to be gathered now." + +Holbrook's pure wines gained many orders in his own house. He had +stored away, kept for customers with palates, a few casks of port which +was not branded and flavoured for the English taste, some good hock and +claret. But the pure wines he made his millions off did not deserve +their title. + +Esmé, sipping Turkish coffee, saw Sybil Chauntsey come hurrying to her +mother. The girl was fresh and sweet, heads turned as she passed. + +"Oh, Mumsie, Captain Gore Helmsley has telephoned. Oh, Mumsie, they've +asked me to the Bellews for Saturday to Monday. Oh, may I go?" + +"But alone, Sybil," said her mother. + +"Mrs Carteret will take me. I'll ask her. Oh, Mumsie. Prince Fritz of +Grosse Holbein will be there, and Madame Navotsky, Lord Ralph Crellton, +Lady Deverelle. Mumsie, I might be asked to Deverelle if I meet her." + +Princes, countesses, dancers. Might not Sybil attract the attention of +Lord Ralph, who would one day be a Marquis. "But, aren't there +stories?" Mrs Chauntsey wavered. + +Jimmie strolled across. "Mrs Bellew is so anxious for your daughter to +go to her," he said. "It's rather an honour, they are generally full +up, and there's a dance this time." + +He omitted to remark that his reply down the telephone had been: "Who? +I don't know the brat. Oh, send her along; I'll invite. Suppose you'd +sulk and wouldn't manage the cotillon if I refused. Can't you let girls +alone, Jimmie? Yes, I've got the address--I'll invite--bother her!" + +Mrs Chauntsey wavered, gave way, turned to a stout lady who was +anxiously waiting for the brougham she still clung to, and told her. + +"I wouldn't let my girls walk past the garden wall," said Lady +Adderley, grimly. "Sybil's a child, too." + +Mrs Chauntsey grew doubtful again. This stout and dowdy woman held the +keys of the dullest and most exclusive houses. And Sybil had once been +asked to luncheon there on Sunday; but a Prince, and a future +Marquis--one must give a girl her chance. + +Esmé was going on to a tea-party. She sat down by the open window, +looking out at the Park, a dull place now, its afternoon hour not yet +upon it. + +"Rather full here." Jimmie Gore Helmsley's dark face appeared close to +her; he pulled up a chair and sat down. "Feel as if we're all Aunt +Sallies being pelted with gold; the riches jump out and hit you in the +face." + +"He's kind," said Esmé, remembering her hock. + +"Kind? Oh, yes! he can be! Appreciate," he muttered, "what I've done +coming here--to meet you, eh? I've talked to Lady Susan and Lady Hebe +Ploddy for ten minutes, and I've only just escaped from the horns of +Lady Hebe's jersey cattle. They have been going out for ten years," +said Jimmie, "and Mamma, her grace, still calls them 'my baby girls.' +They are coming this way," he added, "with the pigs and cows in the +leash of their minds. Are you off it--hipped?" he whispered softly, +"you look pale." + +Whispers had gained him many things in life; a sudden drop of voice, a +change of tone, an intimacy as it were of sympathy. But Esmé scarcely +noticed it. She was too carelessly selfish to dream of the +inconveniences of a lover, even if she had not been fond of Bertie. + +"Coming Saturday," he asked, "to the Bungalow?" + +"Oh, I suppose so. I've promised that child. Where am I going to? To +buy a toy which has taken my fancy. Yes, you may come with me." + +Half an hour later one of the new crisp notes had gone for the emerald +clasp, and the Ladies Susan and Hebe Ploddy, coming by chance into the +shop, told all their friends that Captain Gore Helmsley had given it to +that Mrs Carteret. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Esmé Carteret had chosen her own picture in the _tableaux vivants_ at +the Leigh-Dilneys. It was called Joy. + +"I'm so happy," she had said merrily, "it will suit me." + +The Leigh-Dilneys gave entertainments in the name of charity, and since +charity is all-powerful, and the pheasants at Leigh Grange were as +flies in summer, everyone who was anyone in London gasped for air in +the big drawing-room. + +Faint breaths of summer breeze eddying over scarlet geraniums and white +marguerites were powerless to stir the heat generated by the crowd +which packed itself in resignation on hired chairs and dreamt of +getting away. Lady Delilah Leigh-Dilney looked as though she spent life +trying to live down her name. A high-nosed, earnest woman, with an +insatiable appetite for organized entertainment. Her bridge winnings +went to support missions in distant China; an invitation to tea was +certain to plunge the accepter into the dusty uncertainty of a bran pie +at five shillings a dip, proceeds for something; or the obligatory +buying of tickets for a vase or cushion which was too ugly ever to be +used. + +Electric fans, Lady Delilah said, were noisy, useless and merely +fashionable. Her guests sweltered on hard chairs as an overheated stage +manager scrabbled the blue curtains of the miniature stage to and fro +and wished he had never seen a tableaux. + +And Esmé was Joy. Merely herself, dressed in a cloud of rosy pink, her +setting an ordinary room; her hands outstretched to, as it were, meet +Life; her radiant face lighted by smiles; her burnished hair fluffed +out softly. + +"Yet not so much Joy as self-satisfaction," murmured a panting cynic as +he finished applauding. "For true Joy is a simple thing--its smile of +the eyes and not of the teeth." + +Esmé had chosen the scene because she was really so happy. She seemed +to have everything she wanted. Popular, young, helped by a dozen kindly +friends, with Bertie as lover and husband satisfying every whim. + +The audience fled from sandwiches and thin coffee to amuse themselves +after self-sacrifice. Esmé, in her pink gown, had danced the night away +at two balls. + +She had not felt ill again; she put her secret fear away, hoping +eagerly that she was mistaken. Went out next morning to shop. Was there +not always something one wanted? + +Joy! She had acted her part yesterday, flashed her dazzling smile at +the world. To-day discontent walked with her on the hot pavement. + +She had been contented, happy, in her little flat, childishly pleased +with her new life, her pretty clothes, her gaieties. And now she wanted +more. Electric motors glided by, silent, powerful; wealth which would +not have missed the Carterets' yearly income for a day passed her on +all sides. + +A fat woman got out of a car; the Pekingese dog she carried had cost +two hundred pounds. + +"Oh! Mrs Carteret!" Mrs Holbrook held out a fat hand. "Hot, isn't it? +I'm just going in to Benhusan's here. This necklace Luke gave me +yesterday has a bad clasp. So dangerous! I want a pendant for it too. +Come in and advise me--_do_!" + +Into the shop with its sombre splendour. Background to pearl and ruby, +to diamond and opal and sapphire and emerald. + +These spread before this merchant's wife, dazzling toys of pink and +blue and sparkling white. + +Esmé wanted them. Mere youth ceased to content her. She could not buy +even one of these things. She must look and long. + +"This one is two hundred guineas, madam." + +"Oh! Luke said I might go to that. Mrs Carteret, do advise me. This +pearl, the pear shaped; or the circle of opals--or what do you think of +the sapphires? I am so stupid." + +Sapphires would not go with the pearl and diamond necklace. Esmé's slim +fingers picked up the pearl pendant, held it longingly. + +It was the only possible thing, and even then not quite right, but it +would do, she said. + +"You've such perfect taste, child. Luke always says so. So _glad_ I met +you. Well, see you soon again--to-morrow. We've a large party." + +Men and women buying lovely--perhaps unneeded--jewels, spending +hundreds, thousands, that they might see someone turn to look at their +adornments. A millionaire American grumbled over the merits of pearls +spread on purple velvet. + +He wanted something extra. "Get these anywhere. Mrs Cyrus J. Markly was +going to Court. He'd promised she should have a string to knock +creation. No, these wouldn't do." + +Hurried calling on heads of departments, rooting into hidden safes. +Fresh glistening treasures laid out. + +Mr Markly might trust Benhusan's. The rope with its diamond links and +clasps should be magnificent. He might leave it in their hands. They +would ransack London for perfect pearls. + +With a little gasp of impatience Esmé Carteret went out. + +She wanted money. Mere comfort was nothing to her to-day. + +Furs are neglected in summer, but Esmé strolled into the great Bond +Street store. She was sending a coat for alteration and storage. + +Denise Blakeney was there, a stole of black fox spread before her. + +"Summer prices, my lady. See, a rare bargain." + +"And out of fashion by September or October; but it _is_ good." Denise +held up the soft fur. "Oh! you, Esmé! See, shall I have it? These +things are always useful." + +Esmé stroked the supple softness of the furs, held the wrap longingly. + +"Twenty pounds off our winter prices, madam. And perfection. Skins such +as one seldom sees. The price a mere bagatelle--seventy guineas." + +"Oh! put it with my other things then. Store it. Are you +bargain-hunting, Es?" + +"No--_I_ have no money." Esmé looked almost sullenly at the stole which +Denise did not want and bought so carelessly. "No, I cannot +bargain-hunt. I came to see about my one coat." + +"What is it, my Joy? You are out of spirits to-day. You looked so +lovely yesterday, dear." + +Lady Blakeney touched Esmé's arm affectionately. + +"Tired of genteel poverty, Denise. I paddle on the edge of the world's +sea, where you people swim. Yes--we'll meet at the Holbrooks' lunch. +Will their new gold plate have diamond crests on it? Good-bye." + +Left alone again in the fur shop, envying, longing for the treasures +there. + +Out into the crowded streets. A flower-shop caught her eyes. One sheaf +of roses and orchids, pale cream and scarlet and mauve, made her stop +and long. Denise could take these home if she wanted them. + +Esmé went in, paid five shillings for a spray of carnations. + +"Those orchids and roses? Oh! they were ten guineas. Mr Benhusan had +just bought them for his table that evening." + +So on again with this new discontent hurting her. She went on to +another shop; saw a painted, loud-voiced girl buying silk lingerie, +taking models carelessly, without thought of price. Her dog, a +pathetic-looking white poodle, had on a gold collar set with jewels. +The girl struck him once, roughly, across the nose, making him howl. + +"Straighten him up," she said carelessly. "There, that's all. You know +the address. Enter the lot; send 'em with the other things." + +Esmé knew the girl by sight; had seen her dancing at the Olympic. She +knew, too, who would pay for those cobwebby things of silk and real +lace. + +The spirit of discontent held Esmé Carteret with his cruel claws, +rending her, hurting her mentally. + +She was Joy no longer. Her little flat, her merry, careless life, could +not content her. + +Her mood led her to her dressmaker's to look at model gowns, and on to +Jay's and Fenwick's. Discontent urging her to look at rich things which +she could not buy; the blended beauty of Venetian glass, jewels, laces, +silks, all seemed to come before her with a new meaning. + +And then the sudden fear; stopping as if a blow had been struck at her. +She was not safe; hope was not realization. The flat and the life she +grumbled at might--would--pass to something smaller. To a house in a +cheaper district, to money spent on cabs and dinners going to keep the +child she dreaded. + +Esmé hurried on, faster and faster, as if she would escape the fears +which followed her. She wheeled, panting, into Oxford Street; turned +from its crush and flurry, and went again down Bond Street, her colour +high as she raced on. + +"Dear lady, is it a walking race or a wager?" Esmé cannoned into Gore +Helmsley. He stopped her, holding her hand impressively. + +A handsome man, if sloe-black eyes and high colour constituted good +looks. Women admired him. Men shrugged their shoulders impatiently. + +"Neither. I was running away from my own thoughts." + +"Ah!" He drew a soft breath. When women hurried to escape their +thoughts Gore Helmsley thought he could guess at the meaning. + +"I feel lost to-day." Esmé was glad to find a friend to speak to. +"Poor, an outcast amid the wealth of London." + +"Joy," he said caressingly, "looked yesterday as though the world +denied her nothing." + +"A week ago she would have said so. To-day--" Esmé frowned. + +The dark man used his own dictionary. He had grown to admire this +dazzling woman. Discontent on married lips generally meant the fruit +grew weary of its tree and would come lightly to the hand stretched to +pick it. + +"Lunch with me," he said. "I can break a dull engagement. To-morrow we +shall endeavour to assail eight courses at the Holbrooks. To-day we +might try the Berkeley, or the Carlton, or the Ritz." + +Esmé had promised to meet Bertie at his club; the club was dull; she +wanted to play at being rich to-day, to look enviously at the people +who spent money. + +"The Ritz," she said. "If you'll tempt me with quails and asparagus. +And if you can get a table." + +Jimmie was not given to extravagance, but this was worth it. + +They strolled across seething Piccadilly, with its riot of noise and +traffic; they went into the big hotel. + +An ordered luncheon takes time. They sat in the hall waiting, watching +the tide of wealth sweep in. The glass doors swung and flashed as +motors and taxis brought the luncheon-goers to their destination. + +Jimmie knew everyone. + +"Coraline de Vine." He nodded at the girl whom Esmé had seen buying. +"And Trent. He says he does not know what his income is. People say he +may marry her--he's infatuated. Did you see her new car? It cost two +thousand. I saw him buying it for her. That emerald she's wearing is +the celebrated Cenci stone. He got it at Christie's for her last +week--outbid everyone." + +Thousands--thousands. Esmé's eyes glittered hungrily. She opened her +pretty mouth as if she were thirsty for all this gold, as if she would +bathe herself in it, drink it if she could. + +"And see Lord Ellis and the bride. She was no one--his parson's +daughter. She has probably spent more on that frock than papa has for +half a year's income." + +A big, rather cunning-looking girl, healthy and young. + +"Mamma wanted to send the two children up to me this week," she said, +as she paused near Esmé. "I said it was absurd, in the season. They can +slip up in July before we shut up the house. Doris wants to see a +dentist, mamma says; they _are_ so expensive up here. I have +discouraged her; the man at home is much cheaper." + +Already anxious to keep her prize money to herself. Not to share it +with her sisters. Later, when they grew up, she would give them a +chance, not now. Already a _grande dame_, spending only where it +pleased her. + +Wealth everywhere, and with Esmé this new discontent. + +The table next to theirs was half smothered in orchids. The American +millionaire was giving a luncheon party. A duchess honoured him, a +slender, dark little lady, shrugging mental shoulders at the +ostentation. Lady Lila Gore, heavily beautiful, was one of the party. +The sallow master of millions devoured her with his shrewd, sunken +eyes. This splendid pink-and-white piece of true English beauty made +his own thin, vivacious wife nothing to him. + +He had bought Mrs Markly a rope of pearls that she might shine at the +Court, but he was prepared to pay ten times their price for a smile +from the big blonde Englishwoman, who knew it, and considered the +question. + +The quails were tasteless to Esmé. She could not eat. The fear returned +as she felt a distaste for her food, as she refused the ice which she +had specially ordered. + +She grew restless, tired of Jimmie Helmsley's caressing manner, of the +undercurrent of meaning in his voice. + +"I shall see you to-morrow at Luke's," he said. "You are looking pale, +fair lady. What is it? Can I help? You know I'd do anything for you." + +"I've not been well," she said irritably. "We're so far out. The flat's +so poky and stuffy. Oh! I shall be all right in a day or two." + +She would be. Hope spread his wings again. + +She telephoned to Bertie and met him for tea. + +For a few hours she was content again. The flat looked its prettiest. +Her flowers were lovely. Denise Blakeney had sent her a sheaf of roses; +their fragrance filled the air. Marie had put them in the vases. + +Esmé tried to love it all, to realize that in her way she wanted +nothing. She had been so happy with Bertie in their careless life. + +She sat on the arm of his chair. He was allowed one big one in the +flat. She laughed as he did accounts. + +"Butterfly, we spend every penny we have got, and a little more +besides." He looked up into her radiant face. "We seem--we seem to buy +a lot of things, Es." + +"Not half as many things as we ought to." She put her cheek to his. "We +want _all_ new chair coverings, Bert, and I got the old ones cleaned." + +"Oh! model of economy," he said gravely. + +"And I bought a new hat instead. I should have to have got the hat in +any case, you see. And if I do spend a little, am I not worth it, boy?" + +With the fragrance of her hair so close to him, with her soft cheek +against his own, could he say or think so? He was losing time up there, +rusting when he ought to have been with his regiment, all for Esmé's +sake, because she loved London. But if it made her happy it was enough. + +He told her so, holding her closely. Told her how everyone loved her; +poured out the flattery she was never tired of. + +"We can't do anything for these people; they are content to see you. +Your face is repayment," he said. "No one would bother about me without +you, sweetheart. You were born for society." + +"Yes." Esmé's voice grew strained. If Fate had sent her Arthur Ellis +and his coal mines! How she would have loved to act hostess in the big +town house, in Ellis Court, and Dungredy Lodge; she put the thought +away, almost angrily, for she loved Bertie. + +Yet, clinging to him, his arms about her, his lips on hers, she missed +something. Was she growing older that kisses failed to thrill? + +"I am so tired, Bertie," she said suddenly. "I have not been well all +day." + +Fear and discontent swept love aside. In a moment she was querulous, +irritable, all the evening's happiness gone again. + +It was time to dress. People were coming to dine; there would be new +salad; iced rice cunningly flavoured. But the thought of food made Esmé +wretched. + +"I _want_ to be happy. Why cannot the Fates let me be?" she almost +whimpered to her glass. + +Brilliantly pretty, slim, young, she wanted to lose nothing. + +"If I were happy again I would not fret for all the impossible things +as I did to-day," she said aloud, with the idea--too common with +humanity--that one may strike a bargain with Fate. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Once a mere cottage, now a long ornate bungalow jutting into angles, +full of unexpected rooms, the Bellews' river-side house is more +luxurious than many big structures of brick and mortar. + +"We run down to picnic here," but Belle Bellew knew that picnicking +without everything out of season, and a _chef_ of quality, could not +appeal to the people she gathered about her. The picnic element was +kept up by breakfast-tables laid under trees, things deserted and +unused--man likes his breakfast free from fly and midge. The ideal, +talked of in the gleam of electric light, is fresh air, the plash of +old Father Thames, morning sunshine; the real is that we prefer +tempered light, copper heaters, and a roof. + +The long low house jutted out in two wings, all the windows opening +onto a covered veranda. + +Dull people turned their heads aside when they rowed past on Sunday +evenings, for the flash of lights, the sound of raised voices, could be +seen and heard from the river. + +The chairs were wicker, but the rugs on the stained floors Persian. It +was wealth, less ostentatious than the Holbrooks'; light, frothy, +merry, careless wealth, with pleasure for its high priest. + +Jimmie Gore Helmsley motored Denise and Sybil down; the place seemed +empty when they came, but looking closer one could see groups here and +there, see flutter of light dresses; hear tinkle of light laughter, +bass of man's deeper note. + +A thin, svelte woman, green-eyed, ferret-faced, came out of the open +door. Mousie Cavendish said she found her ugliness more powerful than +other women's beauty. A bitter-tongued little creature, stirring every +surface maliciously to point out something foul below it. But clever, +moderately rich, perfectly gowned; gaining what income she lacked +through her too keen power of observation. + +You sat with her, sweetly pulling some reputation to pieces; you left +full-fed with evil spice; and then you shivered. Were not the same thin +fingers pulling out your secrets now, those secrets you foolishly +hinted at? + +"Ah! pretty Esmé!" Mousie blew a kiss from her reddened lips. "You +here! Where's Mrs Bellew, Miss Chauntsey? We may see her at +dinner-time; we may not, if she has taken a tea-basket to the backwater +close by." Mousie laughed at Sybil. "Does your young mind run upon +hostesses who wait to receive their guests? You will not find them +here, my child. Tell the men to get tea, Jimmie; we'll have it here." + +The veranda was a series of outdoor rooms, wooden partitions, +rose-grown, dividing it. + +Sybil's grey eyes were sparkling; this was so different from tea in +decorous drawing-rooms, from a stately week-end spent at Ascot with her +mother. + +"Tea?" Mousie turned to the footman. "Cream sandwiches and fruit. This +riverside hotel," said Mrs Cavendish, "is an excellent one. Why, fair +Esmé, you look pallid. And what pretty emeralds, chérie. Oh! the +rewards of beauty!" + +The keen little eyes were frankly malicious, frankly open as to what +they meant. + +Esmé flushed a little; she saw the green eyes flash on at Gore +Helmsley. Esmé was almost crudely virtuous; the hint offended. + +Servants were preparing the lawn for the night's revel. Temporary +lights were being hung on strings, the turf swept and rolled; a great +mirror was set up. + +"For the cotillon?" Esmé asked. + +"For the cotillon. We begin at nine. So that at twelve the cock shall +crow and we shall all--not go to bed." + +"More people coming. Mrs Bellew," said Sybil, "was not out; she is +coming into the garden now." + +"Ah! tiens, my child! it was my kindness to say that she was out, +knowing it was the hour of electricity. Once the knell of forty sounds +we must have our faces recharged daily. The Prince is coming--look ye!" + +Prince Fritz--young, fat, extremely volatile, a thorn in the side of +his august mother and his wife--came tripping across the grass. He +talked English with a strong accent, and he bemoaned the future when he +must go home. + +Yet, though Belle Bellew might box his ears later in a romp, she must +bob to him now discreetly as she greeted him. + +Prince Fritz boomed out content and delight. "There is no place such as +this river house," he said, "none, fair lady." Then he looked round for +the dancer, who was his special attraction. + +"Don't be alarmed, sir--she arrives," mocked Mousie from her balcony, +"she arrives. The revenues can continue to be squandered, and a nice +little woman's heart torn by the snapshots she sees of you in the +picture papers." + +Prince Fritz grinned equably; he was not dignified. + +"Like to see the river?" Gore Helmsley asked Sybil. + +The girl was charming in her simple dress. Fresh and sweet and +unspoiled, eagerly delighted with everything. + +But down by gliding, stately Thames, Jimmie was fatherly. She must be +careful here, keep quiet; a good deal of romping went on--and girls +could not behave as married women could. + +"I'm your godfather here, you see." His dark face came close to hers, +showing the crinkles round his eyes, the hard lines near his mouth; but +he was at the age girls delight to worship. Someone who knows the +mysteries they only dream of; someone so different to honest, pleasant +boys, who thought more of sport than their companions. + +Friendship! It was Jimmie Gore Helmsley's deadly weapon; there was +nothing to frighten the maid--he was only a pal--a pal to win her +confidences, to tell her how sweet she looked, to point out the perfect +smoothness of her fresh young skin, to find beauty in the lights in her +hair, the curves of her dimpled neck; to take her about discreetly in +town, to walk and talk with her at country houses; to listen, with a +face set a little wistfully, about some boy who adored her. Frank or +Tom was a good sort, a brick; youth went to youth; heaven send she +would be happy, and--appreciated--that the blind boy would see plainly +the perfection of the treasure he was winning. Ah! if someone who could +see could win it! + +After this, next day, meeting her young lover, mademoiselle the +debutante would fret and sulk because Frank or Tom talked of his last +score at cricket, or his great day with the Team, instead of +worshipping her beauty. + +And, later, the confidences would grow fewer; would come a day when the +boy's image faded; when a fool's heart beat for the world-worn man who +set her up as goddess, and then.... There were broken hearts and lives +in high society which could tell the rest. There were women, married +now, who shivered angrily at one hidden corner in their lives. + +This nut-brown maid, with her grey eyes and cloud of dusky hair, +appealed to Jimmie. He came with a careless zest to each new conquest. +But first there was bright, flashing Esmé, paid court to now for half a +year. The girl attracted vaguely as yet. Esmé's careless coldness had +made him the more determined, but to-day he felt more confident. + +Dinner was in two rooms, divided by an arch; the clatter of voices, the +flash of lights at the little tables, made it like a restaurant. + +Belle Bellew, slim and tall, perfectly preserved, sorted her more +important guests, took scant trouble with the others. + +The drawing-room almost dazzled Sybil. Lights glowed through rose +petals; jewels flashed on women's dresses and necks and arms; silks +shimmered; chiffons floated round cleverly-outlined forms. + +The finger-bowls at dinner all held stephanotis flowers; the cloying, +heavy scent floated through the hot air. + +Navotsky, the dancer, was in black, dead and unrelieved, clinging to +her sensuous limbs, outlining her white skin, and when she moved the +sombre draperies parted, with flash of orange and silver underneath, +sheath fitting, brilliantly gorgeous. A great band of diamonds outlined +her small, sleek head. + +"More taxes on Grosse Holbein," murmured Mousie Cavendish. "Oh, what a +joy to dine where there is a cook and not a preparer of defunct meats." + +There was no ostentation here, but a cunning which reached perfection. + +"Laying up for ourselves water-drinking in Homburg," remarked Jimmie, +as he finished fish smothered in a sauce compound of many things, and +went on with a soufflet of asparagus. "Well, it's worth it. Look at our +Fritz, he's longing for stewed pork and plums; the butler tells me he +has cold galantine and bread and pickles left in his room at night to +assuage his hunger." + +As the blue smoke haze drifted, and black coffee and liqueurs came to +interfere with digestion, Jimmie had dropped his voice to the note +_intime_ which women recognize. He half whispered to Esmé; his +admiration for her was more open than usual. + +Sybil talked to a clean-shaven youth who found her very dull, and +almost showed it. Who stared when she chattered and admired, and seemed +to think it provincial not to take all the world for granted. + +"Think her lovely, that dancer woman. All right in her way, I imagine. +What a lovely ice, did you say? S'pose it's all right. Nevah eat 'em +myself." + +Lord Francis Lennon got up with a sigh of relief to confide to the fair +lady of forty who amused him that he hated "dinin' in the nursery." + +Outside a new moon lay silver on her azure, star-spangled bed. The +lights in the garden were making a glittering circle. + +Mr Bellew, a sleek, dark man, who was occasionally recognized by his +own guests as their host, rang a bell and read out some rules. + +Twenty minutes were given, and then every guest must have assumed a +character, and only used what materials they could find in the heap +prepared in the hall. Prizes to be given. + +"Think us fools," said Mousie, pulling a green overdress from under a +cushion and becoming Undine. + +But the picnic had begun. Men pinned on newspapers, rushed for +cardboard to cut out armour, rifled the linen cupboards for +tablecloths. Journals, sandwich men, knights, ghosts, came laughing to +the garden, odd ends fluttering, pins proving unstable friends. + +Women got at the heap of odds and ends--gauzes, tinsel crowns, veils +and lace, tying great sashes over their evening dresses, shrieking for +inspiration. + +With a ripple of laughter, Lady Deverelle, wife of the tenth earl, +flung off her long green skirt, and stood forth audaciously in a froth +of green silk reaching not far below her knees; put a paper crown on +her head, and called herself a fairy. + +Echo of their laughter drifted to the river. Boats massed outside as +people peered through the shrubs. + +"Those dreadful people at the Bungalow," said Lady Susan Ploddy to her +sister; they were on a houseboat a short way off. + +Into the circle of light ran a crowd of laughing people, snatching at +enjoyment. Out on the velvet turf, dancing to the music of hidden +musicians. + +"Idyllic but exhausting," said Undine to her partner. "There will be +more fun to-night in looking on." + +The dance would not last long; it was only an excuse for a romp. + +Prince Fritz, his stout person hung about with dusters, calling himself +a cheque, held the dancer in his arms, whirling her round. Navotsky +shrugged her shoulders. "She was Night," she said, and merely put on a +black veil, floating from her crown of diamond stars. + +The great mirror reflected them all; they danced the cotillon, taking +up handsome presents carelessly; scarfs, pins, studs, a hundred pounds' +worth of toys which no one wanted. + +Sybil Chauntsey had picked up roses, pinned them in her hair and in her +dress, wrote on her card "Summer." She was left alone as they danced, +until some man, seeing her, whirled her noisily round and laughed and +dropped her. The girl felt that she was not one of this romping crowd; +her pleasure began to taste bitterly to her. + +Esmé, forgetting her troubles, had tied a sash round her dress, twisted +some stuff into a head-dress, and called herself a Spaniard. The yellow +gown and scarlet sash suited her. + +She only did one figure in the cotillon; she liked looking on. Then +they formed up for the prize before the judges. + +Lady Deverelle, in her green underskirt, took first easily. They gave +the Prince the next. + +The musicians thrummed, but the dancers were weary of fooling; +shadow-like, they melted away into nooks and summer-houses, until from +every corner echoed the hushed treble of women's voices, the hushed +depth of men's. + +"See, I have marked down my corner." Captain Gore Helmsley tore off a +shield of paper off his arm and took Esmé's arm. She felt his fingers +press on her warm, soft flesh. "See here." He had the key of a small +outdoor room, a glorified summer-house hung about with fragrant roses, +furnished with lounge chairs and soft cushions. Darkness wrapped it, +but with a click Esmé turned on a shaded light, giving a faint glimmer +through the gloom. + +Gore Helmsley pulled the chairs to one side, so that to curious +passers-by they were in shade. The dim glow fell on Esmé, on her +shining hair, her brilliantly pretty face. + +"So, it was good of you to come down," Jimmie said. "I was afraid you +wouldn't. And once here--" he said. + +"And here," Esmé's voice, interrupting, was not lowered. "Here we can +be amused for two days--no more." + +"No more," he whispered. + +His hands pressing hers, his voice was more eloquent than words. + +"No more? After all these months, Esmé," he said. "Here, where no one +watches, where it is so easy to arrange--where--" + +Esmé Carteret sat up in her chair, impatient, annoyed; she interrupted +again sharply. + +"Where people make awful fools of themselves," she said. + +Gore Helmsley moved nearer to her. "Sweet fools," he muttered, and +stooping suddenly, he kissed her. + +Esmé got up; she neither started nor showed emotion. "My husband said +no woman could trust you," she said coldly. "Come--I am going in." + +Captain Gore Helmsley stammered as he realized that Esmé would never be +pieced into the puzzle of his loves. Then, being extremely offended, he +endeavoured to hide it, and Esmé's faint malicious smile made him her +enemy for life. + +Except for the kiss he had not committed himself in any way, and except +for her one sharp speech Esmé had said nothing to show resentment; they +talked carelessly going in. He knew that he had thrown and lost. + +Sybil Chauntsey, overlooked in the prize-giving, while she had been +involved in a romping dance, came towards the veranda. The partitions +each held its Jack and Jill; she could hear rustles, whispers, +low-toned laughter. + +From one Prince Fritz's guttural was unmistakable, as indiscreetly he +muttered his adoration. + +"Mein angel," said Prince Fritz, as Sybil passed. "You shall haf the +pearl--so that I clasp it on your neck." + +A big, squarely-built man stood at the lighted doorway; Sybil had met +him in London--Lord Innistenne. He whistled as he saw her. + +"What the--why are you here, Miss Chauntsey?" he said slowly. + +"I came to see it all." Sybil's voice brightened. "It was fun, wasn't +it? I made mother let me come." + +She was panting, her rose crown crooked, one of her chiffon sleeves +torn. + +"Fun, for grown-ups," he said shortly. "I thought your mother"--he +paused--"did not know the Bellews." + +"Captain Gore Helmsley got them to ask me. He wanted me to come down to +see it all." + +Innistenne frowned. "Look here," he said. "Let me motor you up to town +to-morrow. Leave this place." + +Sybil shook her head, doubtfully. She was not enjoying herself. + +There was no solemn meeting at breakfast at the Bellews. People who +liked to come down strolled in to a meal which was kept hot until +twelve. Others breakfasted outside their bedrooms; pretty women in +silken wrappers might send invitations to a friend to join them in the +rose-covered partitions outside their windows. + +The fresh air of a June day came whispering across the water and the +shaven lawns. Later it would be very hot, but as yet the coolness of +the dew was on the grass; the sun beamed softly gold through fresh +green leaves. + +Esmé smiled a little, for, coming into the breakfast-room, she saw that +Jimmie Gore Helmsley meant to have no more to do with her. He did not +come to her table, get her fruit, hang over her lovingly. Sybil, fresh +as the day itself, was listening to his caressing voice, tasting her +first plate of delicately-flavoured flattery. + +Feminine eighteen comes gaily to its breakfast. It has had no weary +thoughts to trouble it, no fading skin to cream and powder. + +What was she going to do to-day? Oh! anything and everything; boat, +play tennis, idle, watch the people. + +The silver sweetness of the morning called to Sybil. She would have +breakfast out, under the trees. She saw tables ready there. Cool damp +of dew, a gentle cloud of midges and flies did not deter Sybil. Cold +tea and a narrow choice of breakfast, brought by a languid footman, +were enough for her. Gore Helmsley, with the morning peevishness which +comes when we are forty, brushed mosquitoes from his hair, stabbed +irritably at congealing bacon and leathery egg, listened with tempered +enthusiasm to Sybil's picture of ideal life. + +Out in the woods somewhere, breakfast and lunch and dinner with the +lovely trees overhead, and the lovely grass at one's feet, and no +stuffy rooms and cold roast beef, but eggs and fish and tea, she +chattered. + +Captain Gore Helmsley said, "With pneumonia sauce," and said it +irritably. He sat watching the girl's fresh face, the sparkle of her +grey eyes, and presently deemed her worth even outdoor breakfast. + +As cigarettes banished midges his voice grew soft again; he knew how to +listen, how to make youth talk of itself. He planned the day out; he +bought a box of sweets for Sybil to crunch. + +The girl was excited, pleased by her conquest. She had seen Jimmie in +attendance on well-known beauties; had never dreamt the black eyes +would look at her with open admiration; or that the man would talk of +lunches together, of a drive somewhere in his car, of singling her out. + +She thanked him warmly, with flushed cheeks which made her lovely. +"Take her to Brighton some day, down to the sea, for a picnic! Oh, how +lovely, and how good of him; he had so much to do, so many friends." + +Lord Innistenne, strolling across the gardens, saw the two under the +big beech tree--saw Esmé reading alone on the veranda. + +He walked down to the river, where two long chairs were hidden in a +nook of shrubs, a slight, brown-eyed woman sitting in one, sitting +palpably waiting. + +"Joan, would you do good works?" he said. "Let this day slip for it." + +She looked up at him quickly. + +"Come with me, use persuasion, get the Chauntsey child back to London +to her mother. I'll drive her up." + +Joan Blacker looked at the river, seen dimly through the trees, at the +wall of shrubs about the hidden nook. They had not many days like this. +Then wistfully she looked at Innistenne's strong, rugged face--a look +with a shade of fear in it, the fear which must haunt each woman who +has sold her birthright, purity, that what is so much to her may be +mere pastime to the man she loves. Joan Blacker might have been +moderately unhappy, moderately lonely all her life, if Innistenne had +not come across her path. + +"The dark Adonis is fitting arrows to his bow," said Innistenne. "He +delights in the bringing to earth of foolish, half-fledged birdlings. +We shall be back early, Joan. Come--help me." + +She had counted on her morning; on a few hours of the talking women +delight in, of tender memories referred to, of future plans discussed. +But without a word she got up. + +"She is very pretty, Fred." Joan Blacker stopped once, looked up at +Innistenne. + +"She may be," he said carelessly. "There is a brick wall named Joan +built across my vision, you see." + +It was her reward--she was satisfied. + +Jimmie Gore Helmsley's black eyes did not smile at a pair of intruders. +He was taking Sybil out in a punt after lunch, with a tea-basket for a +picnic. He strolled off now with a last low word to Sybil. "Come to the +rose garden. I'll wait there. Bother these people!" + +Joan Blacker did not fail in her good deed. She said some simple things +to Sybil--told her quietly that the Bungalow was not fit for her; that +if her mother realized, or heard, it might stop liberty for evermore. + +"To go back to London," cried Sybil, "to the house in Lancaster Gate, +to the dreariness of a dull dinner there. Navotsky was to dance +to-night. Besides--Mrs Bellew--" + +"The servants may tell her that there is a vacant room," said Joan, +equably, "otherwise she will not know. And for to-night--we'll take you +out somewhere if you like, in London. I warn you your mother does not +understand." + +When Gore Helmsley, attractive to those who admired him in his +flannels, strolled back to look for a Sybil who came not, he only saw +the dust of a motor on the road at the back of the house. + +"Miss Chauntsey has gone back to London," said Esmé. "Her mother, I +think, telephoned." + +Gore Helmsley nodded carelessly. But Esmé, looking drearily out across +the gardens, trying hard not to think, had made a bitter enemy. + +She was rung up by Denise Blakeney later. + +"Yes. Cyril leaves next week. I tell you, Esmé, I am afraid--afraid of +when he comes back. Be careful of cross lines. No one will know. +Dismiss your maid at once. Come to me here and write to her if you +think it best." + +Esmé hung up the receiver with a sigh. The great scheme was becoming +greater, looming before her. But money and liberty and an allowance +made it all feasible. + +A week later Bertie Carteret sailed for South Africa, and on the same +day a broad, quiet man left London for a year's shooting. Both thought +of their wives as the big steamers began to churn up the water. But one +with wistful longing, looking back at a figure on the quay which waved +and waved until it was lost, a blur among other figures; and one whose +mouth set grimly as he recalled a good-bye in a luxurious dining-room, +arms which he had put away from his neck, and an unsteady voice which +had hinted of some confession which he would not hear. + +"Later," said Cyril Blakeney, "later." But his eyes were full of bitter +hatred for the thing which, for his name's sake, he meant to do. + +Some hours after the steamer had left port Marie Leroy was rung up on +the telephone. + +She stood listening, a curious expression on her dark face, her lips +murmuring, "Oui, madame. Oui, certainement, madame." + +Esmé was dismissing her, was going away with Lady Blakeney, wanted no +maid. Marie was to receive extra wages, a superfine character; to pack +Madame's things. + +Marie walked away, her slim brown fingers pressed together. + +"And--what means it?" said the Frenchwoman, softly. "That would I like +to know. What means it?" + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Winter came softly across Italy. There were hours of sunlight, breaths +of wind which carried no chill dampness. Here on a sheltered slope, its +back to the hills, its windows overlooking stretches of olive groves, a +villa had been built. Once a country home for a prince, now patched and +painted when a strange tenant took it. + +The _Morning Post_ had announced that "Lady Blakeney and Mrs Carteret +had left London together for the Continent. Lady Blakeney, having found +the strain of the season too much this year, was going to rest by the +sea in some quiet part of France." Later, a rumour crept out; there was +a reason for the delicacy. After all these years! Denise had just +whispered a hint before she left. She was coming home in the spring. + +The difficulty of losing oneself was soon forced upon the two +wanderers. They had gone without maids; they packed abominably; they +were helpless without the attendance they had been used to. + +Denise remarked tearfully that she had never put on her own stockings +except once, when she was paddling. Esmé, less helpless, helped her, +but was querulous, full of fancies, ill-pleased with life. + +After a time Denise changed her trim dresses for loose coats and +skirts. The two moved to Dinard, met a few friends there. Observant +people looked shrewdly significant. + +It was time then! When? they asked. Oh! some time in the spring. March, +Denise said. Yes, it was quite true. + +They wrote to friends at home. + +Then came a time when they tried to vanish, went to small towns and +fretted in dull hotels. + +Denise had made inquiries, found out where there was a good doctor. One +day the two came to Riccione, a little Italian town, built on a gentle +slope, spying at the distant mountains, able, with powerful glasses, to +catch a shimmer of the distant sea. + +Luigi Frascatelle, slight and dark, a man immersed in his art of +curing, was startled by the visit of two English ladies. + +They were taking the Villa Picciani, ten miles out; they were coming in +December. One asked for advice, for attendance if necessary. + +Frascatelle's dark eyes read the sign words of wealth; the woman who +did spokeswoman was brown, slender, distinguished, but wrapped in a +long cloak; the other dazzlingly fair, younger, black circles under her +brilliant blue eyes. + +"Would the signor tell them where to procure servants--men and women? +They would hire a motor. Was there a nurse, a trained one, available +for some time? Lady Blakeney was nervous." + +"Lady Blakeney!" Luigi looked at the fair girl curiously. "But, +Madame," he spoke French, "will not Madame return for the event to +England--to the great physicians there--to her own home?" + +"Sir Cyril is away; her ladyship is lonely in England; has a fancy for +sunshine and for solitude." + +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 amusement," 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 Esmé 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 ladyship 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 sturdy 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 ladyship to meet me." + +Sir Cyril was boyish as he sat dreaming. Big people have the power to +put the past behind them, to see sunshine 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. + +Esmé 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." + +Esmé 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. + +"Esmé! I mean Denise!" + +Lady Blakeney ran into the room, calling excitedly: "My dear, the post +is in." + +"Well! Carefully, Esmé." Esmé 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 Esmé, 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, Esmé. 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 Esmé'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." + +"He hates Italy. This was my fancy--this coming here." + +Her fancy! The big, bare rooms had made Esmé nervous and irritable; she +had chafed during the dullness of waiting; had grown fretful and +afraid. She hated the big room she had lain sick in, with its ornate +bed, its bare, polished boards; the fire of chestnut wood. How often +she had woken in terror, dreading what must come to her in it. Then +there was constant need of caution; the strain of remembering had told +on the woman who ought to have been with her own people, with her hours +full, her time taken up. + +She could have played bridge, grumbled to her friends, learnt comfort, +been with her husband. + +"No, Madame is nervous; not well," said the little Italian, "run down. +Better if Sir Blakeney came here to take Madame the journey. Madame +does not know that there were difficulties which have weakened her." + +Esmé went away irritably. Denise, laughing, excited, came in. + +"She will be all right," she said impatiently. "It is nothing, surely, +mere natural strain." + +"Che lo sa?" said Frascatelle, half to himself. "There is a +nervousness, Madame, as if from mental strain--and there were +complications at the birth." + +"It's this Italy," Denise said carelessly, "so depressing." + +"But I thought," Luigi looked up in astonishment, "that Italy was +Miladi's whim--" + +"But of course," Denise flushed, "but whims, signor, are not always +wise. The place was lonely." + +When Luigi Frascatelle came next day to the villa it was empty. The +Italian men and maids had been paid off liberally. Beatrice, weeping +for her charge, had come in the motor to the station and seen the +ladies off. They were both thickly veiled, both muffled up. + +The little doctor drove back to the town and on to the station, to meet +the old woman returning from the station. + +"From here to Paris, without maids, without a nurse," he cried, "and +with a baby of four weeks. They are strange, these English." + +"They who know not how to feed it," groaned Beatrice. "All is not +right, signor." + +He drove back to his house; he piled fragrant chestnut wood upon the +fire; he applied himself thoughtfully to a dish of golden risotto. + +"There is something strange about this miladi," he said to his +favourite almond pudding. "No, all is not right." + +It was a weary journey. Little Cyril learnt to weep upon it, torn from +kindly arms who knew how to hold him; he learnt the meaning of pain and +hunger. He voiced his protest as best he could. + +"Oh! stop him, Esmé. Stop the brat!" + +Denise woke at the fretful wailing. "Make a bed for him there, a bed on +the seat," she said. + +"He might fall off." Esmé held the whimpering bundle in her arms, sat +wearily, afraid she might drop off to sleep. + +"Feed him then; he wants milk. Oh, what a terrible journey!" + +Yet she did nothing on it; for Esmé, curiously silent, saw to the child. + +A tall woman, kindly-faced, hurried through the crowd at the Gare; +cried out as she saw the baby in Esmé's arms. + +"Lady Blakeney, is it not? I am the nurse, Mrs Stanson, engaged for +your ladyship. Oh, milady, have you come alone--without a nurse?" + +"The nurse was useless, insolent, neglecting baby," said Lady Blakeney, +carelessly. "Take him now. He is so naughty. The woman neglected him." + +"As those foreigners would do; yet he looks splendid. One moment, +milady, while I gather these things." + +She put the baby into Denise's arms, turning to pick up some of the +tiny traveller's luggage. "Oh, not like that, milady," she cried, for +the small head flopped on a stiffly-held arm and the boy wailed +fretfully. + +"H'm!" Esmé swept the mite out of Denise's hold. "Here! give him to me. +H'sh, baby, hush!" + +The nurse looked puzzled. She had seen Lady Blakeney once in London, +but she blinked now, afraid her memory had played her false. + +"Excuse me," she began, "I understood that this was her ladyship." She +looked at Denise. + +"_I_ am Lady Blakeney," said Denise, angrily. "Oh! two taxis, please. I +am tired of crying babies. Take him in one." + +Mrs Stanson looked grave. + +Esmé's eyes followed the tall woman who carried a little bundle down +the platform. A sudden fierce ache of regret came to her--regret and +anger. This little, white-limbed thing was hers. She would not have +sent it off alone. + +"Her ladyship," said Mrs Stanson, later, as she put her charge to +sleep, "does not seem to care for children, ma'am." + +"Some people do not." Esmé looked at the sleeping face. "He is happier +now that you have him, nurse." + +Downstairs the God of Chance was working wonders. + +Denise, coming into the hall of the Bristol, cried out in astonishment. + +A big man was registering at the bureau. Her name was written before +his. He swung round with a cry as he looked at it. + +"Denise!" his hands were on hers. He held them hard. "Denise, I got a +paper at Marseilles. My poor child, out away there in Italy. Were you +ill? It was two months too soon." + +With a little sob Denise held to the big strong hands, knew then what +she had so nearly lost; this man's protection, his name; his kind eyes +looked into hers. + +The past was past; she knew that. Some women make resolutions and keep +them. Denise did then. For the future, the future she had made by +fraud, Sir Cyril Blakeney's wife should be above suspicion. + +"Oh, Denny, why didn't you tell me--keep me here?" + +"I was afraid," she faltered. "You were cross then. And I was not sure." + +"I was cross then." He took her away to a quiet corner. "That's over, +my wife. And the boy? Come up to see him. Our boy! He's not delicate, I +hope?" + +"Oh, not yet--he'll be asleep now." Denise was gay, radiant, her colour +bright. "I'm hungry, Cyrrie. Let's have dinner now--and talk--talk!" + +"Talk," he laughed. "Why didn't you wire for Sir Herman to go out? Were +you bad? I never saw you looking stronger." + +"Oh, no, I was not bad. I'm very strong," she said, a little uneasily. + +"And you came on so soon. There's nothing wrong with him, is there? Oh, +Denise, tell me." + +"Wrong with him? No!" she said, laughing carelessly. "He's a great +baby." + +Denise was looking through a door of life which she had never tried to +open, that of love and trust. She was too shallow to regret the use of +the false key which she had forced it open with. She was safe; Cyril +would never bring up the past to the boy's mother. + +"Come then, and see a sleeping bundle of flannels," she said. + +The boy had just gone to sleep. Sir Cyril's first view of him was with +Esmé stooping over the cot, looking wistfully down at the tiny face. + +"Mrs Carteret has quite a way with a child," said the nurse, +graciously. "He's a splendid boy, Sir Cyril." + +Sir Cyril had had shy ideas of a something whispered across the new +hope in his life, of a promise for the future or regrets for the past. +As it was, he could only stand almost awkwardly, afraid that a clumsy +movement might wake the child. + +"Great fellow, isn't he?" he said sheepishly. + +"A splendid boy, Sir Cyril--really splendid; fair, sir, as you are; he +has a curious mark, a regular small plum, on his shoulder." + +Esmé started. Just on her shoulder she had a round, purple mark, shaped +as a plum; she had never dreamt of the baby inheriting it. + +A true Blakeney, big and strong, cleanly made, Sir Cyril stood by the +cot, with the pride of this heir to his big in him. + +"He's just wonderful, Den," he said simply. "I thought that, coming too +soon, he might be puny, delicate--but he's fine." + +Esmé turned away. It was her boy they praised, and she knew the +bitterness of jealousy. + +If gold could have been fried for dinner, and diamonds used for sauce, +Sir Cyril would have ordered them that night. He was too big and quiet +to be openly hilarious, but its very quiet made it more marked. He +ordered a special dinner, special wines, fruit, boxes of sweets. The +table was littered as if it were one at Maxim's. To-morrow they would +search Paris for a memento, for something to mark this meeting. + +Esmé, listening, felt as some mortal who, standing in the cold, looks +through clear glass at a blazing fire yet cannot warm himself. They +shut a door on her; she had no boy lying upstairs; no husband to +rejoice in his heir. + +The cold stung bitterly; it loosed dull pangs of envy, of futile wrath. +For what had brought these two together was hers, and she had sold it. +Sometimes they turned to her vaguely, bringing her into their plans. +Esmé would come shopping in the morning, of course, help to choose +jewels; Esmé had been such a friend--so devoted. + +"I'll never forget it, Mrs Carteret," Sir Cyril said once. "You lost +half a year to keep my wife company. Lord! you're a real friend!" + +"Yes." Esmé crunched a silvered bonbon, a cunning mixture of almonds +and fruit and sugar. She picked another up, looking at it. Had she not +looked on life as a bonbon, to crunch prettily and enjoy, a painted, +flavoured piece of sugar? + +She had money; she could go to the hidden shops on the second storeys, +and buy the dainty fripperies that Paris knows how to produce; she +wanted a fur coat, new frocks, hats, a dozen things. + +Sir Cyril was bending close to his wife, holding her out a glass of +Chartreuse, clinking it against hers. + +"Den," his voice was stirred by deep emotion, "some day we'll go, you +and I, and take that villa for a month, and I can see where my boy was +born." + +The glassful of amber syrup fell on the table, the glass splinters +dulled by the oily liquid. + +"Oh, some day," said Denise, trembling. "How stupid of me! But it was a +dull spot, Cyrrie. It was only fancy, nerves, which took me there. +Wasn't it dull, Den"--she stopped--"Esmé?" + +"I never hated any place so much in my life," said Esmé, dully. + +That night she crept along the corridor, stood listening at a door. + +Primitive instinct was stronger than the power of money. Her boy lay +sleeping in that quiet room. + +"Oh, Esmé!"--Denise called her into her room next day--"Esmé! Come +here! You can go, Summers." + +Her new maid, sent from England with the nurse, went quietly out. + +"Esmé!" Denise lowered her voice. "About that money. I owe you some +now. I can't write cheques, you see, every half-year; but this time I +can explain." She threw a slip of paper across to Esmé. + +"Thank you. And the boy?" said Esmé. + +"Oh! he's all right. I saw Mrs Stanson. He slept well. Don't mess about +him, Esmé! It would only look silly--better not. Will you meet us at +the Ritz for _déjeuner_?" + +Esmé excused herself. She might be late. She would come back to the +hotel. + +She went out into the crisp, stinging cold of early February. Touch of +frost on Paris, drift of hot air from shop doors, clear sunlight +overhead, people hurrying along the dry pavements. Furs everywhere, +outlining piquant French faces; from solid sombre imitation to the +sheen of Russian sable and the coarse richness of silver fox. + +A fur coat--Esmé wanted one--went restlessly into a shop, tried on, +priced, gloried in their soft richness, their linings of mauve and +white; saw her fair beauty framed by dark sable, by light-hued mink, by +rich fox skin, and knew again disappointment. + +The three coats she wanted were splendid things; each one would take +almost all her money, leave nothing for frocks and hats. + +Impatiently, almost angrily, she stood frowning at the glass. + +"Oh! yes, the coat was lovely; but the price! Four hundred pounds of +English money; and this other was five!" There was the little coat of +mink priced at a mere bagatelle. + +"Yes, but Madame must see that it was coarse beside the others." + +Cunningly the shopman put the two together; showed the rare sheen of +the sable, the cravat of real lace, the exquisite tinting of the blue +and silver brocade lining, and laid against it a coat which would have +looked rich alone, but here, against this, was a mere outcast. + +"Madame sees; the coat is cheap--a bargain. We sold one to-day, almost +like it. Ah! here it is!" + +"I must take the cheap one," Esmé muttered. "I--" + +"See, this one was sold to Milady Blakeney. And this which we wish +Madame to have is almost as good. Milady's has remained for slight +alteration." + +Truly a gorgeous garment this--sables black in their splendour; clasps +of jade and silver and paste; lining such as fairy princesses might +wear. A ruffle of old Mechlin. + +"This is of English money nine hundred pounds. Unique, exquisite. And +this other looks as well." + +Sudden bitter resentment choked Esmé. Denise could have this coat and +go on to other shops to buy jewels, laces, unneeded follies. What was +five hundred pounds? Denise might easily have taken her out to-day, +bought her furs or given her twice the stipulated money; this time +might have been generous. + +"Oh! I'll take this one." Esmé touched the sable coat. After all, she +had money in the bank; she had lived free for six months. "Yes, I'll +pay for it now." + +She had to wait while they went to the bank; then she went out in the +rich mantle. It was heavy, a little difficult to walk in, but she could +see her fair face against the dark furs as she peered into mirrors. + +At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why again should all she +wanted be so dear? That soft wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere +rag in the hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded limbs, +setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's feet; that tea-gown of +opal velvet; that severe coat and skirt of blue, were all beyond her +now that the coat was hers. Yet Esmé bought recklessly, a sullen anger +driving her. Madame Arielle would copy and create others, these three +she must have. And this--and this blouse; another dress and scarf. + +Esmé had ordered there before, but never in this style. Madame looked +dubious. + +"I'll pay you fifty now on account." And so only fifty left of a +half-yearly price. "That brown--you'll copy it at once?" + +"Ah, yes--shortly." But Madame was pressed. "Milady Blakeney had been +in ordering a dozen frocks, but of a beauty," gushed Madame, "one all +of real lace and silver crepe. Ah, yes." + +Denise again before her, dwarfing her, Esmé's, orders. The coat seemed +heavier now. She bought hats almost languidly; passed a jeweller's +window, saw a necklace, a thing of diamonds and emeralds exquisite in +its fine work, with one great diamond swinging from the fret of green +and white. + +"How much?" Esmé shrugged her shoulders. "It would have gone so well +with her new gown." She bought a tiny brooch of enamel and went out. + +It was dull at lunch at the Café de la Paix. She did not go back for +it. It was stupid to eat alone; the omelette tasted leathery; the +little fillets tough; the place was overheated; she would have taken +off her coat, but the dress underneath was last year's, therefore a +thing to be hidden. + +Men stared at the beautiful English woman in her daring green hat and +gorgeous furs. + +Sipping her liqueur, Esmé tried to lose her irritation in dreams of the +future. Bertie would be home; they would take up their old happy life; +but even more happily. She would be so well off now. Able to buy her +own frocks, to help in many ways. When she got back she would go off to +hunt somewhere. Esmé looked at her hands; they were so much thinner. +Would she be strong enough to hunt? She had lost her rounded contours; +she knew that there were new lines on her fair skin, that she had lost +some of her youth. + +These things age one. And yet--"L'addition," she said sharply. Yet she +thought of a little soft thing lying in the big upstairs room at the +Bristol, and something hurt her sharply again. + +She was tired of shopping, she would go back there now. It was lonely +in Paris. + +Mrs Stanson, writing letters to engage a variety of nursemaids--she +considered a person of her position must be thoroughly waited on--was +surprised by a visit from Esmé. + +The baby was splendid after all his trials and his journey. Mrs Stanson +did not hold with infants travelling; she dreaded the cold journey back +to England. + +"Nor do I hold with the heat of these here rooms," said the English +nurse, "and with the cold a-rushing in like a mad dog with its mouth +open if one stirs a window. Give me air for a child, Mrs Carteret, air +and warmth; but above all, air." + +An autocrat of the nursery, this Mrs Stanson, who had nursed heirs of +great houses and loved her charges. A death now, the passing of pretty +delicate Lady de Powers and her infant son, had set the woman free. + +"You'll love him, Mrs Stanson--be good to him?" Esmé flung out the +words in sudden impulse; she took the smiling baby up. + +"I declare, Mrs Carteret, he might be yours instead of her ladyship's," +laughed the nurse. "She came in for five minutes, and asked if I wanted +anything, and to order what I wanted. I made it two nursery-maids +to-day. Like many young mothers, she's careless. It's the ladies +without that would give their eyes for one," said Mrs Stanson, softly. + +"Without." A slur on her, Esmé, whose child was in her arms. Something +hurt in her throat; she turned red and then white. She sat for an hour +in the big bright room, listening to all the ills which lurk in wait +for infant life, related with gusto by the nurse. A little chill, a +spoon of soured food, and poof! out goes the life; then later, +chicken-pox, measles, whooping-cough; wet feet. It seemed wonderful to +think that there were any children left alive. Little Cyril, dribbling +thoughtfully, had no idea of what was before him. + +But at the end, comfort. "And yet they lives," said Mrs Stanson, "lives +on, on beer and dripping, which I am informed is used as baby food by +the very poor." + +Denise came in for tea, fresh, radiant, wrapped in a great stole of +fox. Big Sir Cyril pulling little boxes innumerable from his pockets. + +They had a sitting-room. Denise called Esmé in to her, spread purchases +on the table. + +"See, Esmé--this pendant, isn't it sweet? And this enamel clasp--and +this brooch--and that diamond heart." The table glittered with the +things. "Oh, Cyril could not buy enough for me. He is so good." + +Almost sullenly Esmé looked down at the stone of green, white and red; +the pendant and necklace was the one which she had coveted. Denise +might offer to give her some of these; she might ask her if there was +nothing she wanted. + +"And I got you something, Es--just as remembrance. Cyril wished me to. +Summers! bring in the parcels. Yes, there it is." + +Esmé knew the label--that of a huge shop close to the Place de l'Opera; +good, but bourgeois, cheap. + +"See! I hate that musquash thing you wear. It's too dark for you." +Denise pulled out a stole of brown fox--a huge thing, covered with +tails, but meretricious, showy; the satin of the lining crackled as she +touched it. This for all she had done for her friend. + +"Thank you, Denise." Esmé took up the fur. "How pretty. It was nice of +you to think of me, now that I am of no further use." + +Denise looked up, startled by momentary fear. Surely Esmé was more than +content with her share of the bargain. Was glad to be rid of her +unwanted brat; to have ample allowance and be free. For a minute she +saw what it might be if Esmé failed her. + +But Denise was shallowly optimistic; she laughed the fears away; she +kissed Esmé affectionately. + +"It was a great thought, and it's splendidly over," she +whispered--"over for us both." + +"And you? You really begin to feel that he is yours?" whispered Esmé +back, almost fiercely. + +"I believe I do. I shall have forgotten it completely in ten years' +time," laughed Lady Blakeney. + +"And--shall I?" said Esmé to herself. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +"Some people," said Mousie Cavendish, "appear to have come into a +fortune." + +She touched Esmé Carteret's sable coat, stroking the soft fur, her +small greenish eyes looking up wickedly. + +"Friends ... are nice things," said Mousie, softly. "Hey, my pretty +Esmé." + +Esmé flushed. Five minutes before she had grumbled at her poverty, now +she came down in her splendid wrap waiting for the motor. + +Money had never seemed to go so fast. The half-year's allowance from +Denise had been spent in a day. More new frocks, new habits had seemed +necessary. A restlessness haunted Esmé; she was not satisfied with +anything, she was nervous, lacked appetite, had grown thin. + +She was doing the last of the hunting season at Coombe Regis now, an +old Elizabethan house taken by the Holbrooks. + +Their only difficulty, as Mousie said sweetly, is "that they cannot +remake the bricks with gold dust, it's so ordinary to have one's house +made of clay and straw and water, otherwise bricks." + +There were horses in the stables, sleek, shining hunters, belonging to +friends who came to stay. Esmé hired from a local stable. She rode hard +and straight, but came in tired after her day; her old perfect health +had deserted her. + +"There," said Mousie, looking out onto the chill March day, "is Luke, +our host, seeking for something he may spend money on. He wants to be a +peer next birthday, and his hopes are high." + +The flowers in the old-fashioned flower-garden were a blaze of +magnificence. Mr Holbrook was looking at them, greatly interested in +one patch of pure white daffodils because he had paid ten pounds a +piece for the bulbs. The Cabinet minister who was coming to stay was a +florist. A gift of some of these might please him greatly. + +The Holbrooks had made Coombe Regis into a passable imitation of a +Hotel de Luxe. The old hall was now a palm court, heated by hot air, +its great open fireplace offended by a new grate which held coals; the +drawing-room was magnificent in dull blue and gold; stiffly hideous, +with great mirrors shining everywhere. + +The dining-room was a mass of mechanical devices, of lifts and electric +heaters and telephones to everywhere, the small tables were all +polished wood spread with slips of real lace. One dined scratchily off +luke-warm silver, one's breakfast cup was Crown Derby set in filigree. + +"So annoying of the hens not to learn to lay golden eggs," remarked Mrs +Cavendish one morning when she had examined half a dozen things smoking +over the electric heaters. "What's the use of this pure gold Orpington +here sitting on a silver nest when she only hatches things which can be +purchased at a penny and twopence each. No, I refuse to eat truffles +and cream and salmon for breakfast, nor do I require ham and champagne +sauce." + +A big party had assembled for the ball of Regis Hunt races. Dull people +and smart people, who ate their meals together with regret, and drifted +apart directly afterwards. The dull people ate the ornamented dishes +and sighed inwardly for roast mutton, the smart people picked at them +and wanted the French cookery their greedy souls adored. + +But Mr Holbrook was content. He was getting on. He did kind things +which he concealed rigorously, and he did generous things for his own +benefit, and his peerage loomed ahead. + +"My dear love," said Holbrook, coming into the library. He had +furnished the shelves with first editions of various authors whom no +one ever read. Statues stood, coldly graceful in corners, gleaming +white against the brown background. The library table carried a writing +set of leather worked in gold. Grace Holbrook was dictating letters to +her secretary, a slim girl with a pink nose and an irritated expression. + +"My dear," said Holbrook. "Do you think--?" He paused. + +"You can go, Miss Harris," said Mrs Holbrook. + +"Do you think," he said--"hum, Critennery has a little weakness ... she +dances at the Magnificent, in some gauze ... that we could have her +down. Lady Ermyntrude is not coming." + +"We couldn't," said Mrs Holbrook, hastily. "The Duchess is coming." + +"Well, it's quite his little weakness and he can do as he likes," said +Holbrook, mournfully. "I do want Henry to be Lord Regis, my love. It's +just to dance on Saturday. I would arrange with Hewson of the +Magnificent. And dancers are so fashionable." + +"My dear Luke, the Duchess of Dullshire will be here," said his wife, +firmly, "and the Trents, and Lord Frensham. We couldn't. The Duchess +was at the Magnificent, I remember seeing it mentioned--she must have +seen the woman without any ... that is dancing." + +"She is so very graceful," said Luke. "Well, my love, of course if we +cannot. But artistes do go everywhere now. She lunches with Lady +Ermyntrude, and I thought that her presence, combined with a present of +those Angel bulb roots; but if you object ... well, it's quite a little +weakness, my love. Critennery would have liked to talk to Mavis Moover." + +Mrs Holbrook wavered visibly. "If the Duchess had not been in front," +she said; "still, she's very blind and won't wear glasses; she may not +have noticed the gauze. I don't want our party to be spoilt, Luke, +but--" + +"Think it over, my love," said Holbrook, going out. "Think it over. And +there's Jimmie Gore Helmsley coming. I see his name down. I don't like +him, Gracie. He's a bad 'un, my love." + +"He goes everywhere. He's running a horse," said Mrs Holbrook. "That +long-legged bay thing we saw galloping to-day. People say it will win. +He goes everywhere, Luke." + +"So much the worse," said Mr Holbrook, "for everywhere." + +Something had happened to the motor Esmé was going out in--a tyre had +punctured as it was starting and the chauffeur gave warning of an +hour's delay. Esmé yawned, waiting in the over-heated hall. + +Bertie would be home in a week; she would want more wine at cost price +from her host. Seeing him come out she flashed a friendly smile at him. +She asked him to send her some. + +But Luke Holbrook, who had been glad to help a pretty girl in a tiny +flat, saw no reason for losing a profit to a woman in magnificent +sables. + +"Want more hock?" he said. "The same as last, eh? Yes, I told you to +ask me--but it's gone up--gone up, and whisky too, and port.... I'll +send it on to you. Kind of me. It's my business, pretty lady, my +business. No bother at all." + +Esmé did not realize that he meant to charge her full price. + +"We've had such a hunt, we came back early." Sybil Chauntsey ran into +the hall in her habit, young Knox close behind her. Mrs Holbrook +approved of love. She had asked them together. "Oh, such a run," +babbled Sybil. "And my chestnut was glorious, the dear." + +"Jimmie always said that the chestnut was his best horse." Mousie +Cavendish's thin lips curved in a spiteful smile. + +Young Knox started, looked at Sybil. + +"I thought it was your own horse," he said gravely. + +"Captain Gore Helmsley lent him to me for the season. I call him mine. +I thought that you knew." + +"No, I did not." The young soldier seemed to have forgotten his gallop; +he looked tired and put out. + +"The car, madam, is ready." A butler who bore the mark of experience +stamped upon his impassive face came forward. Esmé fastened her coat, +asked for a companion--Mrs Cavendish would come. Her spiteful tongue +made light strokes at reputations as the car hummed along. No one +escaped. No one was immune. She had come to drive to find out who had +given Esmé the coat, for the fair girl had never made herself +auspicious. + +"Met heaps of nice things abroad, I s'pose.... Why didn't you order a +limousine, Esmé? I hate the wind in these open things ... heaps of +princes, I suppose, and rich potentates, didn't you, in your travels?" + +"Heaps," said Esmé. "At least we must have seen them sometimes." + +"Funniest thing rushing off like that for all these months, so unlike +Denise Blakeney. It didn't agree with you, Esmé; it made you thin, and +different somehow." + +"The climate," Esmé said, flushing a little. + +"And fancy Denise not coming home for the event, trusting herself to +foreign doctors and nurses." + +"She did not intend to stay," Esmé answered. "She meant to be back." + +"I saw the son and heir. A great fat thing, fair like Cyril. Well, it +settles all the difficulties then. Denise doesn't play the _rôle_ of +devoted mother; she says the baby bores her." + +A sudden wave of anger shook Esmé--fear for her child--it might be +neglected, grow up unloved. Then they stopped at the toy shop at Regis. + +"A parcel for Mrs Holbrook," she said to the man. Obsequious assistants +ran out to the Coombe Regis motors. + +A hunting man, still in his splashed pink, stopped them. He, too, was +full of the great run. + +"Coming out to-morrow to Welcombe," he said. "We're all training down." + +Esmé's face clouded. + +"I can't afford it. I owe the man twenty pounds. I've done two days +this week." + +A year ago Esmé would have almost expected a horse offered to her. +Major Jackson had fifteen of them; she had only to look appealing then, +talked of poverty, and horses came as from the clouds. + +Now he too looked at her coat. Its owner could not want help. + +"Other engagements," he chaffed lightly. "You're losing your keenness, +Mrs Carteret. Fact." + +Esmé turned away ill-humouredly. They drove back to Coombe Regis, the +open car humming through the cool spring afternoon. Mousie Cavendish +questioning, surmising, as they went. + +The palm court was crowded now, partitions had been knocked away, a +room thrown in to make it large enough; there was no gathering round +for tea. Trays were placed on the little glass-topped satinwood tables. +Hot biscuits and scones were kept hot on electric heaters. The butler +laid a species of buffet covered with huge iced cakes, and relays of +sandwiches if the supplies on each tray were not sufficient. + +"Only one thing required--cold roast beef and plum pudding," Mousie +said ill-naturedly, as she looked at it. The tea-pots were all silver +gilt, the little piles of cakes and sandwiches rested on real lace. In +the drawing-room Mrs Holbrook gathered her dullest guests at a table, +where she poured out tea herself, away from the more clouded atmosphere +of the hall. + +Several expensive toy dogs sat about on the blue and gold brocade and +ate scraps of cake merely to oblige the guests. + +They dined off minced chicken and fillet of beef, and breakfasted off +cream and grape nuts. Mr Holbrook liked them because he had paid three +hundred for Li Chi the pug, and two for Holboin Santoi the pomeranian. + +"Luke," said Mrs Holbrook, taking her second cup of chilly tea. "Luke, +I think we could do it; the Duchess may never know who she is." + +"Do you really, my love?" said Holbrook, briskly. "Then I'll write to +her manager and to her, enclosing a note from you. She will go so well +with the bulbs--Critennery must be pleased." + +Esmé had found a pile of letters waiting for her, long envelopes +containing accounts rendered. She did not know where her money had gone +to. Nothing seemed paid for. + +She was going to her room, walking on carpets so thick that her feet +sank into them, with all the silence of riches round her, doors which +opened and shut noiselessly, deadened footsteps, when she stopped +startled. + +"Ah, Madame!" Marie, her late maid, smiled at her. "Ah, Madame." Marie +was enchanted. She had regretted so that Madame had been obliged to +part with her. + +"I am with Milady Goold, Madame, and I see Madame has not been well; +she is looking delicate, then." + +"It was Italy." Esmé was nervous before the Frenchwoman, whose brown +eyes looked at her with a curious shrewdness. + +"Madame had much travelling with Milady Blakeney? I have been to +Reggio, Madame; I have a cousin there." + +Esmé turned swiftly to her door to hide her white cheeks. She recovered +in a moment. Even if Marie did write or go there, there was nothing to +find out. "Yes--it's a dull place, Marie," she said. "And when you're +out of a place come back to me. Watson cannot do hair, Marie." + +Marie went away smiling--a curious little smile. "There was something +curious in all that," she said softly. "Something, but yes, +strange--and one day I, Marie, will find it out." + +The races were to be on Tuesday. Saturday saw Coombe Regis with every +room full. The Cabinet minister felt himself over-honoured in one of +the huge state rooms, where the old carved bedstead had been left, and +all the electric lights did not seem to dispel the shadows. + +"Kind of thing queens died in," said the minister as he took a long +walk from his bed to the dressing-table. + +The Duchess occupied another vast chamber, made incongruously modern by +a low bedstead representing a lily, and bought for a fabulous sum from +France. "Absurd," said Her Grace, as she poked into the down pillows +and lace-edged sheets arrayed among the inlaid petals. "Also it can't +have proper springs." + +Her Grace of Dullshire was a large lady of philanthropic tendencies. +She kept a herd of prize cows which she sold to her friends for large +sums, and prize hens, and she knew a horse when she saw one, so had +come for the races. She also liked bridge, when she won. The Duchess +was a leader of society, one fully aware of the fact. Her deep voice +had power to slide an ambitious clamberer back over the edge of the +cliff which she had scaled with difficulty. To be asked to Dullengla +Court, where one dined off beef soup, boiled cod, roast mutton, cabbage +or turnips, and rice moulds, was to be marked as with an order. The +Duke never visited, and the Marquis of Boredom, their son, had so far +not been allowed to marry. He had, greatly against his will, been +included in this house-party, it being an unfortunate fact that his +taste was for attractive ladies on the stage. "I would allow you to +marry Lady Sukey Ploddy," said his mother when they got to the door of +Coombe Regis; "she will be here." The palm court was brilliant +to-night. Shaded lights glowed through the artificial leaves, showing +chiffons and satins, laces and silks, and the black-and-white dinner +armour of mankind. Rare jewels flashed, faint scents made the air +fragrant. + +The Cabinet minister, coming down just before dinner, stood on the +Duchess's toe in his surprise at catching sight of a dark moving face +and a supple, slight form. + +"Mavis," said the minister, blankly.... "Oh, so sorry, Duchess. I hope +it didn't hurt. Did Homburg last year, y'know. Now if it had been +before that...." + +The Duchess's hop to a chair shook the palm court. Her only son, coming +down in almost painfully well-made clothes, was confiding his woes to a +friend. "Absolutely rotten bein' caught for it. Scarcely a girl to +speak to, and if there is she'll be off with some Johnny she knew +before. Nothin' but Ploddys and that spiteful Cavendish, and oh, hang, +rot all round, y'know. Yes, mamma." + +"Who?" said the Duchess, "who, Francis, is that nice-looking girl in +black?" + +"Gracious!" said Lord Boredom. "Lord! it isn't," he paused ... "her +name is Moover, mother," he said blandly--"Moover." + +"American," summed up the Duchess, accepting her host's arm. Mrs +Holbrook sorted the vast party every evening and paired them off for +dinner. + +Lord Boredom received Lady Sukey Ploddy's substantial hand upon his +coat sleeve, and intelligently remarked, "Eh oh, Imagin," when she told +him she was looking forward to the races. + +The minister took in his hostess, and found the dancer at their table +for four. "I like this," said Miss Moover contentedly, taking caviare. +"Nice of 'em to ask me, wasn't it? Old Luke--" + +"That's your hostess," said the minister, hurriedly. The magnificence +of dinner descended upon them and the food. One reached for fish +beneath a truffle-spangled vest of sauce; one poked at a snowy tower +and found that upon the menu it was harmless chicken in disguise. If +the cook did not earn her salary by spending money on elaboration she +would be speedily replaced. + +Gay voices, light laughter, rang up to the vaulted roof. Armies of +powdered footmen moved deftly among the tables. The celebrated Holbrook +wines were poured out lavishly. + +One finished with bad coffee and took choice of a dozen liqueurs, the +blue haze of smoke floating around the heated air. Huge golden boxes, +initialled and becrested, stood on the tables, filled with cigars and +cigarettes; the butler, faintly proud of so much wasted money, stood +for a moment before he left. Red bars gleamed along the shining +mahogany from the rich ruby of the port. + +The dull people drifted away with their hostess to the drawing-room to +read and work and gossip, but the Duchess lingered in the palm court +waiting for her son. + +"A very nice-looking girl," said Her Grace. "Miss Moover, I think I +have seen you somewhere." + +"Perhaps," said Mavis, civilly. "Perhaps, Duchess." + +Lord Boredom, who had quite woke up, sniggered softly; for the rest of +the evening the Cabinet minister, who was a philosopher, realized the +power of youth over mere prestige as he watched the Marquis of Boredom +devote himself to a demure-looking girl in black, with the manifest +approval of his mother. + +A gentle feeler to Miss Moover, whose real name was Harris, had +resulted in a frank avowal from that young lady that at present her +income was several hundreds a week. "And all my own," said Mavis, a +little sadly, for she had come to London to work for a mother who had +died before her daughter grew famous. + +There were a dozen little dramas played out under the high +roof--comedy, tragedy, drama, to each its caste, its players and its +audience. + +Young Oliver Knox's bright face had lost its gaiety. He was a mere +everyday soldier, awkward of speech because he loved deeply and pitted +against Gore Helmsley, who woke to the game because there was a new +chance of losing it. With his black eyes full of the admiration he knew +how to throw into them, his words laden with subtle compliment, he +followed pretty Sybil, slipped her away from her fretting lover, took +her to play bridge, and praised her mistakes as flashes of genius. + +The girl was flustered as she found herself playing against Mrs +Cavendish and Dolly Frensham, two gamblers of repute. She saw the +scores added and settled, heard Jimmie say carelessly that she could +settle with him next day, and scarcely knew what she had lost. Esmé +flashed careless answer to Gore Helmsley's cool greeting; he had done +with her, and yet his coolness hurt. Comedy was played in the palm +court, played next day after breakfast, with Miss Mavis Moover as its +heroine. The Duchess was quite charmed with her, accepting certain +little frivolities as merely transatlantic. Mavis displayed a worthy +interest in cows, and was not averse to philanthropy. "You'd be happy +in a simple country place," said the Duchess, referring to the vast +house with at least ten sitting-rooms, in three of which they camped +out. + +"I think so," said Mavis, quietly. "I guess so, if I liked the people." + +"My love," said Luke Holbrook on Monday morning. "It hasn't quite +worked, my love. I fear our hope in the Cabinet has not had the time we +intended him to. I fear that nosey boy of the Duchess's has put his +foot in the pie," said Luke, sadly. + +"Luke!" said his wife. + +"Fallen into the dish. All the same, my love. Critennery is leaving +to-day." + +"He can travel by the same train as his fancy," said Mrs Holbrook, +placidly. + +The great man, urbanely gracious, came to make his adieux. Holbrook +looked at him apologetically. "You will travel up then with Miss +Moover," said Mrs Holbrook, brightly; "she leaves this morning." + +The Cabinet minister drew on his grey gloves carefully, then adjusted +the fingers slowly. + +"Lord Boredom," he said, "is motoring Miss Moover to Town just in time +for her performance. Good-bye again. So many thanks for a charming +visit." He turned to his host with a smile. "Come to me directly you +come up," he said. "If you want that baronetcy." + +"In the outside lot again," said Holbrook, lugubriously. "But he's a +good sort, he may understand, my love." + +The races played their part. Gore Helmsley, a splendid rider, won +easily, cantering in five lengths in front, his long figure looking its +best on horseback, his dark face glowed when he rode. Young Knox's +horse fell; the boy came in muddy, shaken, sad in mind, because it was +a jostle with his rival which had knocked him down. + +Sybil gathered some gold gaily. Jimmy had put a tenner on for her. With +a girl's folly she feasted her eyes on tinsel, turning away from the +duller mint of hall-marked gold. Here the curtains might fall on a +tragedy, fall hurriedly, for the chief actress would have to smile and +call it comedy to her audience if she was ever to appear again on +Society's stage. + +Sybil came laughing to one of the smaller sitting-rooms that evening, a +room warm, softly lighted, one ordered as one chose at Coombe Regis. +She was having tea then with Gore Helmsley. + +"No one will look for us here," he had said as he rang the bell. "Let's +have a quiet half-hour. Talk to me, little pal, I'm tired." + +Over the indifferent tea, poured out of a gilt teapot, Sybil smiled +gaily, held out her day's winnings--twenty pounds. + +"See, I owe you money for bridge, for two nights. Take it. I hope +there's enough to pay. I did play stupidly." + +Jimmie pushed back the pile of gold. "My dear, you lost eighty pounds. +What does it matter--that can stand over. I paid the Cavendish for you; +she's a cat and would talk." + +Sybil cried out, frightened and astonished. Eighty pounds! and besides +that she had played in a lady's four and lost another ten. Her mother +was not rich; she could not pay easily. + +"Keep your pennies," he mocked in lordly tones. "Some day you'll pay +me. I am glad to help a little pal." Jimmie meant the payment to be a +high one, with interest. He was a merciless human hawk, poising long, +swift to strike at the last. "We played sixpennies, you see." + +"I never dreamt," Sybil faltered; "I thought it was pennies here." + +When you owe a man eighty pounds, when he has paid rather than have you +cornered, it would be churlish to spring aside, a prude, if he kisses +you softly before you part. If he pulls you to the arm of his chair and +keeps you there, holding two small chill hands, it is surely all in +good friendship. + +Sybil went away with some of the careless youth wiped from her fresh +face, with trouble and perplexity in her frank eyes; the big dark man +fascinated her, knew how to make her feel a little queen, how to bring +the hot blood to her cheeks, but to-night she was half afraid. His +little pal! She'd cured his headache--been a brick to stay with him. +Instead of playing bridge to-night they'd play piquet in a quiet +corner, he whispered. + +"You didn't come to tea." Oliver Knox came straight to Sybil in the +hall, his face ill-humoured. "I was watching for you." + +"No, I was tired," she said, blushing a little. + +"And Gore Helmsley did not come--our black Adonis, Miss +Chauntsey--can't you see through the man?" + +A foolish speech uttered by foolishly, honestly loving youth. Sybil +tossed her head angrily and walked away offended. + +"Coming to play to-night?" Mousie Cavendish asked her. + +Sybil's lips drooped. + +"I don't think so. I've lost such a lot. You play too high for me." + +"Pooh! What matter. Jimmie doesn't mind. He's full of money now after +the race." + +"I've lost such a lot," Sybil repeated, forgetting that she was angry +with Oliver Knox, turning to him in her trouble, missing the meaning in +the woman's words. + +"You ought not to play with that crowd. Mrs Cavendish is the best +player in London--the quickest to read a face, I'll bet. It's madness, +folly." + +Another foolish speech. Sybil went off to change. This drama was being +played quickly. The girl was stirred, flattered; awakened nature made +her a lute too easily played on by a practised hand. She shrank from +decision, from promising to marry a soldier of slender fortune, and she +knew that decision was near. That night, after dinner, her young lover +followed her, took her, almost against her will, away from the others +to the library, with its rows of richly-bound volumes, its sombre +magnificence. + +"Sybil"--the boy's face was white. He was too moved for eloquence. +"Sybil, you know I love you. I can't stand by and see that other fellow +follow you, as he has followed others. Making you--you remarkable. +Sybil, I'm not rich, but I love you, marry me--I'll make you happy." + +And--she was not sure--for a moment she felt his arms close round her +and dreamt of peace and sheltered love, then again she was not sure, +she said so faltering. Give her time ... she muttered. + +"Sybil, I can't wait. It's life or death to me. Give the fellow up. +Give him back his horse. I'll hire you one. Go, tell him now. It +maddens me to see you ride the brute." + +Give back the horse, and to-morrow she was to ride the perfect chestnut +at the meet. Next day they were going back to London, they were dining +with Jimmie, motoring with him. "I'll tell you"--Sybil +faltered--"later--I don't know." + +An anxious lover is always a fool. He would have no delay, he must +know. It was a choice--a challenge to fate. If she took him it must be +altogether. She was too young to understand. Sybil was tortured by +indecision. How, owing eighty pounds, could she go to her friend and +say, I will not ride your horse--I will not dine with you. How could +she hurt him? + +"Sybil, I thought you cared," a hoarse voice roused her. + +"I believe I do. Oh, Oliver, give me time." + +"No!" he was going away, leaving next morning. "I cannot share you, +Sybil. Oh, friendship. Don't prate of that to me, but, if you want me, +send for me. If I can ever help, write or wire. I'll go on loving you +as long as I'm alive. As you don't care enough I can go." + +He flung out bruised and hurt. + +Was it chance or design which had made Jimmie Gore Helmsley talk that +day of the worries of a soldier's life? + +"Kicked about, never enough money, poky houses, a rattling two-seater, +or a dogcart, a dog's life for a pretty woman," Jimmie had said +lightly. "Stuck in some wretched country town or in some big station +where the dust reeks of the army. I've pitied so many girls who have +married soldiers. Think of your beauty now thrown away." And all the +time as young Knox pleaded Sybil had recalled these words. + +Esmé went back to London next day, back to her little flat. + +A bleak wind swept along the streets, dark clouds raced across the sky. +It was dreary, intensely cold, the flat was poky, its cosiness seemed +to have deserted it, it had become a tawdry box. The furniture looked +shabby, worn, the tenants had been careless. Esmé stood discontentedly +pulling at her cushions, petulantly moving back china to old places. +Her servants were new, inclined to be lazy. The cook looked blankly +unenthusiastic as to lunch. + +"Couldn't possibly have all that in time to-day, mem. They'd send round +something from Harrod's, no doubt." + +Esmé lunched ill-humouredly off galantine and tinned peas. She thought +of the big houses she had been in; they must move, take a little house. +This place was out of the way, inconvenient. She ordered flowers +recklessly, telephoned to Denise inviting herself to dinner. + +The butler answered. "Yes, her ladyship would be dining in, he would +ask." There was a long pause, then an answer. "Her ladyship would be +pleased to see Mrs Carteret at eight." + +"She might have spoken herself," said Esmé, angrily. + +The afternoon dragged wearily. Esmé drove to one of the big shops, +ordering new cushions, new coverings, but languidly; she meant to leave +the flat and took no real interest in it. + +She went early to the Blakeneys. Denise was not dressed. No message +came asking her to go to her friend's room. Esmé had to learn that an +obligation creates constraint, as the person we owe money to, however +generously given, is never a welcome guest. + +But Esmé left the pretty drawing-room. Its spaciousness made her +envious, she stepped past Denise's room to the upper landings. Here Mrs +Stanson was just coming to her supper. A little lightly-breathing thing +lay asleep in his cot. + +"But, nurse, he's pale, isn't he, thin?" Esmé whispered. + +"He caught a cold, Mrs Carteret. Oh, nothing. I feared croup, but it +passed. It's a trying month, you see, for tiny children." + +Lightly, so softly that the baby never stirred, Esmé stooped to kiss +him, stood looking down at the child which ought to have been sleeping +in the spare room at the flat. + +But he would have been a nuisance there, an inconvenience, she told +herself insistently. + +Then fear tore at her heart. What if the child should die. "Be good to +him," she whispered, slipping a sovereign into Mrs Stanson's hand. "Be +good to him, Mrs Stanson." + +She got down before Denise did. Felt the want of warmth in her +hostess's greeting. Denise was splendidly gowned, gay, merry, looking +younger, happier. Sir Cyril's eyes followed his wife, contentment +visible in their look. + +"My dear Esmé, delighted, of _course_. When you are alone always come +here. We've only a four for bridge--Susie and her husband. You can cut +in." + +"I'll look on." Esmé felt that she was not wanted, she was odd man out. +She flushed unhappily. + +Denise was full of plans, each one including Cyril now. She talked +lightly of that boy Jerry. She was completely the happy wife, confident +in her position. + +"And the boy. He's had a cold," Esmé said. + +"A cold has he? I think I heard him sniff?" + +"Yes, he's had a cold," Sir Cyril said. "He was quite feverish. Denise +is not a nursery bird, I fear." + +"And you've been dining off gold plate at the Holbrooks, Esmé. I +wouldn't go. Cyril and I went for a few last days with the Quorn. Cyril +bought me such a lovely mare, all quality. Ah, here is Sue." Lady Susan +Almorni was not a friend of Esmé's. Denise seemed to be leaving her +smart friends, to be settling among the duller, greater people. + +"Bertie will be home to-morrow. I want to leave the flat, to come more +west. It's poky, horribly stuffy. If--we could afford to." Esmé +crumbled her toast, looked almost sullenly at Denise. + +"But could you? And it's such a dear little flat. Could you afford it, +Esmé dear? You are so comfy there." + +The butler brought in the evening papers. Before they settled to play +bridge Sir Cyril opened them. + +"Why, Mrs Carteret," he said, "this is awful about your cousins surely. +The two Carteret boys have both been killed in a motor accident. It +makes Bertie heir, I suppose, but what a tragedy." + +Esmé caught at the paper and read it feverishly. "To the title," she +said. "It's entailed. Hugh Carteret can leave his money as he +chooses--unless we have children." But she knew what a difference it +must make. + +"You'll have to follow my example and have an heir now," laughed +Denise. "To make it all certain. Eh, Esmé?" + +Esmé sat with the paper in her hands and did not answer. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +Spring rioting, chill and bleak, crushing the coming summer in its +impish hands. A day when cold came creeping under doors, sat even by +the fire and would not be denied. + +Looking into her draped glass Esmé was struck by new lines in her face, +by a loss of her dazzling youth, by a tired look in her eyes. +Discontent, weariness, were writing their names on her skin. + +Bertie would be home early. She had been lazy and not gone to the ship +to meet him. He was coming to breakfast, the fires were smouldering in +the sitting-room, the new housemaid reasonably desirous of "gaus." +Esmé, in her prettiest wrapper, shivered and grew irritable. She had +ordered an elaborate breakfast, but the new cook was a failure; the +fish was sodden, the bacon half raw, the hot bread mere heated bakers' +scones. + +Esmé recalled the breakfasts at Coombe Regis, at Harlands. She flung +out at the maids. Ordered new dishes angrily. Oh, it was hateful not to +have things right. Her old gaiety had left her. She would have laughed +a year ago and boiled eggs on a spirit lamp. Bertie at last, running +up, catching her in his arms, holding her close. + +"Esmé, my dear old butterfly. My sweetheart. Oh, it's good to be back +again here with you. Breakfast, Es, I'm starving." + +So big and boyish and loving. She clung to him and found discontent +even there. She had cheated her man. There was a secret to be hidden +from him for ever. And where were all the comforts she had dreamt of +with her income? Where were they? + +"Breakfast." Esmé rang the bell. + +"Cook is grilling the bacon, mem. It will take ten minutes." So Bertie +had to wait, and then eat cold eggs and burnt bacon, and drink stewed +tea. But he was happy. + +"Extravagance," he said. "My silken-winged butterfly, that's a new gown +of fluff and laces." + +"You don't expect me to have all last year's, do you?" Esmé almost +snapped, then leant against him. He held her closely, loving the warm +suppleness of her body, the scent of her burnished hair, his lips were +hot on the satin smoothness of her skin. + +"But, Es sweetheart, you're thinner," he whispered, "and looking sadly. +We'll have a week away, just you and I, in Paris. You must be rich now +with no house all this winter." + +Esmé slipped away from him and fidgeted as she lighted a cigarette. + +"Oh, Bertie, you've seen about the accident. You're heir now." + +"The place is entailed," he said. "It's worth nothing. But the old +man's money is his own. He may leave it to me. If we had a boy he +might, no doubt he would." + +Esmé flushed scarlet, turning away. The cold day grew colder. Try as +she would, the old happy intimacy, their careless happy youth, would +not come back. Before, she had told Bertie everything. Now if he knew, +if he knew. + +Her husband seemed to have grown older, graver, to be less boyish. He +talked of one or two things as extravagant. They discussed Aldershot +and he spoke of lodgings. Houses were impossible there. + +Esmé grew petulant. Lodgings, she had seen them. Chops for dinner and +cold meat and salad for lunch. They must find a house. They'd heaps of +money. + +They went out to luncheon, telephoned a table at the Berkeley, ordered +their favourite dishes recklessly. Esmé came down in the Paris coat, +open to show the blue and silver lining. + +"Butterfly! What a coat," her husband exclaimed at its beauty. "Where +did you get it?" + +Esmé hesitated, told half the truth. + +"Denise gave it to me," she said slowly. "You see I did a lot for her." + +Bertie was his old self then, foolishly merry. They must go up Bond +Street and order a limousine to go with the coat. It couldn't sit in +taxis. When it was off in the restaurant he saw the cunning beauty of a +Paris frock, a black one, the old pendant of emeralds gleaming against +real lace. + +It was too cold, too bitter to walk about. They rang up friends, played +bridge. Esmé ordered dinner at the flat, asked Dolly to come down and +bring a man, then telephoned imperiously to the new cook. + +"Dinner for four, order what you want. It must be nice, remember. It +must be. Get some forced things, sweets, have salmon. Use your wits." + +"It is a dear little hole. I'll be sorry to leave it," Bertie said, as +they came back to the brightly-lighted little drawing-room. "Why do you +want to, girlie?" + +"It's so out of the way," Esmé grumbled. + +The new maid put her into a dress of clinging black. One must mourn for +first cousins. + +Dolly was full of curiosity. Bertie was heir now. It was quite a +change. "So nice, dear Esmé, to come to one of your wonderful little +dinners again." + +The only wonder of this dinner was its expense. The new cook had gone +to Harrod's stores, chosen everything which cost money. Tinned turtle +soup, plain boiled salmon, tinned and truffled entrée, tinned chicken, +and a bought sweet. + +Esmé grew angrier as it went on. Hated the guests' lack of appetite, +their polite declaimers as she abused her food. + +"I begin to hate this place," Esmé stormed to Dolly. "It's too small, +good servants won't come here. Hardness was a good chance. She's gone +to Denise Blakeney now, she can afford to pay her what she wanted, I +couldn't." + +Cards too went against Esmé. She lost and lost again, made declarations +which depended on luck, and found it desert her. They did not play for +high points, but she made side bets, and it mounted up. She cut with +Bertie, saw his eyebrows raise as she went a reckless no trumper. + +"My dear, what had you got?" he asked. + +"Oh, a king and ace. I expected something above a ten from you, Bertie." + +The Midshires were coming to Aldershot at once. Esmé had never been +with the regiment. She did not want to leave London. She coaxed Bertie +next day. Why not wait for another adjutancy, leave her in the flat, he +could come up so often. + +But the very weapons she used turned against her, the caress of her +lips, her clinging arms were not things to leave. No, she must come to +Aldershot. They would find a house and be happy there. + +"And the bills, sweetheart?" Bertie Carteret had always seen to them. +"I suppose you paid up all the old ones so we'll start fresh." + +Esmé had forgotten her bills. She was irritable over money, cried out +that her husband had learnt miser's thoughts in South Africa. "You fell +in love with a good housewife there, Bert," she mocked, "who fried the +cold potatoes of overnight for breakfast. Come, confess.... We've heaps +of money to be foolish on, don't bother." + +"There was never a penny left over," he said. "If we were sick, or if, +well, anything happened we had no margin." Esmé frowned sullenly. + +Two hours later she was rung up at her club. + +"Esmé, I've seen Uncle Hugh, he wired for me. He is going to live in +London, and he wants to make arrangements. Meet me at once. Where? Oh, +the Carlton will do." + +Erratically dreaming of riches Esmé left a game of bridge and flew off +to the big restaurant. It was crowded for tea-time, people gathering at +the little tables. The cold air called for furs. Their rich softness +was everywhere, and among them all Esmé felt her coat attracted +admiring eyes. Over her black dress, the blue lining brilliant over the +dark, with her hair massed against a dead black hat, Esmé was +remarkable. + +"An actress?" she heard a woman ask. What Esmé would call a stodgy +woman, expensively dressed, a country cousin with a London friend. + +"No, a Mrs Carteret, remarkable-looking, isn't she?" + +"Well, Bertie. _What_ is it?" Esmé could scarcely wait as her husband +ordered tea. "What has Uncle Hugh done?" + +"Well, nothing. It is all for your approval, but Uncle Hugh is lonely. +He wants his nephew to live near him. There is a great deal of business +to see to. The Seaford estate and the Devonshire place, he farmed both. +Uncle Hugh found the journeying trying." Briefly, he offered to pay +Bertie the same pay as he had drawn from the Army, together with +travelling expenses, if he would stay in London and go down to these +places when necessary. No more. + +"He hasn't promised to leave you the money then?" Esmé asked. "Oh, it +suits me splendidly, I hated leaving town." + +"No." Bertie Carteret shook his head. "He has promised me nothing, +merely that I shall not lose through leaving the Army, nothing more." + +Esmé grew angry then, abused the rich old man, forgot his trouble in +her annoyance. + +"He has so much. Why should we starve now when we are young?" she +flashed. + +"We have never quite starved, Es." Bertie Carteret laughed, then looked +grave. "I thought we were so comfortable, so happy." + +"One seems to want more and more as one lives in town." Esmé looked +sullen. She too had thought the same, less than a year ago. Been so +sure of it that she hated the thought of the third being who would have +disturbed their peace. And now with so much more money she seemed +poorer. + +"That is a wonderful coat." Bertie looked admiringly at his wife. +"You're wonderful altogether, Esmé, this time. With the stamp of Paris +on your frocks. But of course Denise gave you heaps of things. You did +a lot for her." + +Esmé began to plan, to grow brighter. "We must take a little house, +Bertie, get away from that box, nearer our friends." + +"But we shall be no better off," he said. + +"Oh, you must get money out of the old man. We'll save the rent on +taxis. Who is it, Bertie?" + +For Bertie had jumped up and was shaking hands with a slim girl of +about twenty. Brown-haired, grey-eyed, pretty in a quiet way. + +"It's Miss Reynolds," he said. "Miss Reynolds, Esmé. Mrs Reynolds was +so kind to me at Pretoria when I was ill." + +"Ill!" Esmé held out a jewelled hand. "I thought it was only repentance +and indigestion." + +"It was fever." Estelle Reynolds's voice was slow and musical, restful +as her gentle face. "Captain Carteret was very ill, and my uncle tried +to cure him." + +"No idea," said Esmé. "I'd no idea. But so good of you.... Bertie, you +should have told me." She was honestly fond of her husband. + +"He did not want to worry you," said Estelle Reynolds. + +Carteret was impressively glad to see Estelle. He talked eagerly of a +dinner, a theatre. + +His eagerness vexed his wife. She got up, dazzlingly handsome in her +furs, the emeralds gleaming on her black gown. + +"So sorry, Bertie, but this week is quite full, every day. Come to +luncheon on Sunday, Miss Reynolds. I'll have some people to meet you." + +Estelle laughed pleasantly. "My Sunday will be a country cousin's," she +said. "Church, a very short luncheon, and the Albert Hall. You see, +I've never been to London before." The girl looked a little hurt, a +little snubbed. + +"And I said I'd show it to you." Carteret let his wife walk on. "I'm +not engaged. Let me take you and your aunt to Daly's to-night and on to +the Savoy." + +"Comic opera." Estelle shook her brown head. "If it might be the +Shakespearian piece at His Majesty's. I should love to come." + +It did not seem to suggest itself to Estelle to ask if Bertie +Carteret's wife might wish to include him in her engagements. Esmé was +one of those women who seem to stand alone. + +"Very well then. I'll get seats at once," he said. + +Making his way past little tables to the passage down the centre of the +restaurant, Bertie stood for a moment looking from one woman to another. + +Estelle Reynolds had gone back to her tea. She was not remarkable in +any way, merely a rather dowdy girl sitting alone at a little table. +Esmé had stopped to speak to friends near the door. She was brilliantly +handsome, flashing out gay smiles, the mirthless smile of society, and +splendidly dressed. As it grew thinner her face gave promise of +hardness; she had replaced her lost colour very cunningly with some +rose bloom. Carteret followed her slowly. He loved his wife, her touch, +a look from her blue eyes always had power to move him, but he realized +suddenly that she was too brilliant, too well-dressed for a +foot-soldier's wife. + +She was talking to Luke Holbrook, smiling at him, but the smile had +lost its girlish charm; the kindly man who had been willing to help a +young couple not well off had no idea of losing money to this brilliant +woman. + +Holbrook was always simply open as to his trade. + +"I didn't forget your bundle of wines, fairest lady, they went on +to-day." Mr Holbrook started and put up his glasses. "My love," he +said, turning to his wife, "I see Lord Boredom taking tea with Miss +Moover, and Mr Critennery is over there alone. My love, I fear I did +not advance our interests by that most unfortunate invitation." + +"The Duchess," said Mrs Holbrook, "will have a stroke. No one ever +broke Miss Mavis Moover's occupation to her Grace." + +"Ready, Esmé? You want a taxi back. Very well." Carteret went to the +door. Before he had gone away Esmé had been quite content to take the +motor 'bus which set them nearly at their door, or to go by tube. He +sighed a little as he feed the gigantic person who hailed the cab for +him. + +"They've either come into some money, my love, or it is the Italian +Prince whom Dollie Cavendish hints at," said Luke Holbrook, +thoughtfully. + +"What a dowdy little friend," yawned Esmé as they sped down Piccadilly. +"What clothes, Bertie. I could only ask her to a frumpy luncheon." + +"They were very good to me out there," he said quickly. "And ... I did +not notice Miss Reynolds's dowdiness." + +"No, one wouldn't. She is the kind of thing who goes with dowdiness. +All flat hair and plaintive eyes." Esmé laughed. "Is she the good +housekeeper who made you careful, Bertie? Eh?" + +He looked out without answering. Something was coming between him and +his wife. A rift, opening slowly in the groundwork of their love and +happiness. She had changed. + +Carteret's papers went in. They settled in London. Esmé looked for a +house, fretting because she could not find one they could afford. Esmé +often fretted as cold March was pushed away by April. She was restless, +never quiet, unable to spend an hour at home by herself. Everything +seemed to cost more than it had. People gave up the little kindnesses +which she had counted. She was not paid for at theatres, nor sent +flowers and fruit. + +"The Carterets must have come into money," people said carelessly. +"Esmé's simply gorgeously clothed, and they're looking for a house. Of +course he's heir to old Hugh's place now." + +More than once Bertie included Estelle Reynolds in their parties. She +came, enjoying everything almost childishly; never tired of looking at +the London streets with their roaring traffic. Hanging on every word at +theatres, openly delighted with the dishes at smart restaurants. + +"Everyone is so rich here," said Estelle in wonder. "They pay and pay +and pay all round us." + +They were lunching at Jules, and Esmé had carelessly ordered one or two +things out of season. Estelle had watched the gold coins put on the +folded bill. + +"You would not be so extravagant, I imagine," Esmé laughed. She neither +liked nor disliked the quiet girl, even found her useful now to do +forgotten errands at the shops, to write her letters for her while Esmé +lounged back smoking, to go off in the rain for a book which must be +read immediately. For, wanting anything, Esmé could never wait. She +snapped at her share of life, to fling it away barely tasted. Estelle +came oftener and oftener to the flat. Settled flowers, put out sweets +for dinner, had the bridge tables ready, and then went away. She was +always useful, always willing to help. + +"Extravagant!" Estelle answered. "No, I'd lunch at home." + +"Off chops and fried potatoes," said Esmé, taking asparagus. + +"If you go to the Club mankind invariably lunches off chops and steak," +broke in Bertie. "Women are the lovers of fluffy dishes; they please +'em, I suppose, as new dresses do, because poor people can't have them." + +"Estelle would lunch at home," laughed Esmé, "and go in a 'bus to see +the shops in Regent Street, or perhaps to the National Gallery or the +White City, and come home to make a new savoury which she had seen in +_Home Instructions_, and do her accounts after dinner. Eh, little home +bird?" + +"Yes," said Estelle, simply. "Only I wouldn't live in London at all. I +would make the country my stable meal, my chops and fried potatoes, and +London my occasional savoury _bonne bouche_. I should choke in a town." + +Esmé laughed. "How absurd," she flashed out. "Now, be good children. I +go to sell pieces of cloth at completely ruinous prices to aid +something in distress. I know not what." + +"Shall I take you home, Estelle?" Carteret stood looking out into the +sunshine. "Lord, what I'd give to live in the country. To see green +fields all round and have a horse or two in the winter, and laze over a +big log fire when the day was done. But somehow, here, there is never +an hour to laze in." + +Hugh Carteret, grief stricken, had so far not seen his nephew's wife. +Bertie was doing his work, going down occasionally to see the big +places and look over the accounts with the stewards. + +About a month after he had come back from South Africa, Esmé's first +reckoning for extravagance was upon her. Unpaid accounts littered the +table. Harrod's deposit was overdrawn. She sat frowning and petulant, +as Bertie jotted down totals. + +"We can't do it, Esmé; there are all the old bills left unpaid. We +managed so well before." + +Esmé smoked furiously, flung the thin papers about. People were +robbers, her cook a fool. + +"But we are not often in. You weren't even at home. It's beyond one, +Butterfly; debt won't do. And then your frocks and frills." + +"I can pay for those," Esmé was going to say, then stopped. How much of +her five hundred, her scant allowance, had she anticipated. Then there +would be a visit to Scotland, and she wanted to hunt. She could not +spare much of it; fifty of it must go to the French dressmaker, another +fifty to a jeweller. "Oh, it's sickening," she flung out in sudden +petulant anger. "Sickening. Poverty is too hateful." + +Bertie had to listen to an outburst of grumbling, of fretful wrath, +because their income was not double its size. To be pinched, cramped +when one was young, to be worried by bills, bothered by meannesses. + +Bertie Carteret's face grew pale. He stood up, gathering the bills. "I +had no idea that you were unhappy, Es," he said slowly. "We used to +manage so well before I left. It was all sunshine then. I have some +money I can dig out; we'll pay the bills and start again. Give me all +yours to see." + +Indulgence made Esmé penitent, almost grateful. That was right. Now +Bertie was a dear, a sweet old boy. And they'd have a lovely summer, +just as last year's had been. + +She came over and sat on Bertie's knee, her face pressed against his, +the perfume of her golden hair in his nostrils. + +But with her soft arm about his neck, her supple body in his arms, +Bertie Carteret did not hold her closer; she missed his quick sigh at +her contact, the hotness of his kisses on her neck. + +"Bertie, dear old Bert." + +But as she moved her face a little he could see between him and the +light the skilfully-applied red on her cheeks, the coating of powder +round it. It was not love for him which brought her to him, but selfish +relief at being released from worry. "Poor Butterfly," he said, kissing +her gently. "It shall flutter through its summer. But spent capital +means less income, Esmé, remember that." + +"Oh, here's the wine account." He sighed again, looking at it. Esmé ran +her finger down the items, there were no wholesale prices now. The hock +was at its full value, the bill a heavy one. Jumping up, she railed at +Luke Holbrook, called him traitor and mean and treacherous. Swore that +if she could help it he would not get his peerage. + +"The lilies and carnations, madam," said the tall maid, coming in with +a bundle of flowers. + +"Leave them there, Miss Reynolds will settle them for me, she is coming +to lunch. And your Uncle Hugh, Bertie, I had forgotten." + +"You'll have to take to cheaper flowers," said Carteret; "after all, +they wither just as soon." + +"I _cannot_ skimp over flowers, Bert, I cannot." Esmé went off to dress. + +"What could she skimp over?" Bertie wondered. + +Estelle Reynolds came in quietly, smiled good morning, began quite +naturally to get the vases ready. "How glorious they are," she said, as +she put the long-stemmed forced carnations into slender silver vases. +"They must cost a fortune now." + +"They do." Bertie was writing to his broker. "They do, Estelle. +Everything costs a fortune here just now. But we must come to the +humble sweet peas next week, or something of its class. What a +housekeeper you would make, Estelle." + +"Would I?" She hid the pain in her soft grey eyes, turned suddenly +away. One of the foolish women whose joy lies in sacrifice, who find +stupid satisfaction in balanced accounts, in saving for the man who +works for them, who in some mysterious way stretches the weekly +allowance when the children come, and finds only happiness in the +giving up to do it. A homely little brown thrush, looking, wondering at +a world of gay-plumaged songless birds. + +"I." Estelle's eyes were under her control again. She smiled bravely. +"I am one of the dowdy people who like to mess in the kitchen and dust, +value a pleasure for what it costs ... it's childish." + +"The fault of the world's inhabitants is that they are stamping out +childishness," he said slowly. "They have forgotten to take joy in blue +skies and green fields because it costs them nothing to look at them; +they are forgetting how to enjoy themselves except in herds. If we have +Irish stew at a shooting lunch it must be spoilt by half a dozen +expensive flavourings lest my Lady Sue or Madame Sally should say we +are so poor that we can only afford mutton and potatoes and onions. +Even the children must have tea at Charbonel's and sweets from Buzzard +or Fuller, though possibly a packet of butterscotch or home-made toffee +would be much more to their taste...." + +Estelle laughed. + +"I took the Handelle children out last week," she said. "Their mother +asked me to--you remember you took me once there to sing and she's been +kind to me--and we went on the top of a 'bus, and had tea at Lyon's, +bought flowers at Piccadilly Circus, and oh, they did enjoy themselves, +but Lady Eva was quite shocked." + +"Oh, Estelle, thank you." Esmé came back, radiant in clinging black, +the emeralds shining at her bare throat, a big hat framing her face. + +Hugh Carteret came just then. An old man, deep lines of sorrow drawn on +his face, shrinking visibly from any allusion to his loss, suffering +from the grief which finds no relief in words. He was cold before +Esmé's gush of greeting, looked at her critically and made scant +response to her smiles. + +"It was so good of him to come, they were hidden away down here. And +oh, they did want to change and get a house farther west." + +"Why not then?" Hugh Carteret asked. + +"The dreadful rents," Esmé answered. "We can't afford it. And we _do_ +want to move. The flat is so stuffy, so small." + +"It seems big enough for two," Colonel Carteret answered, looking hard +at Esmé. "Of course, if you had children I could understand." + +"Oh, we couldn't afford children," she said, flinging a wistful note in +her voice. And one not altogether feigned, for as she spoke she +remembered the boy who was growing strong in the nursery at Grosvenor +Square. + +"Mrs Gresham," announced the maid. + +"I'd no idea it was a party." Colonel Carteret looked at his black +clothes and spoke reproachfully. + +"It wasn't. Dollie Gresham was not asked, uncle." + +Dollie made it plain in a minute. She knew Esmé was at home; she'd +asked the maid and she came along. + +"It's about a bazaar, Esmé. I want someone to help me to get one up for +that new little hospital. Denise Blakeney would help Susie Handelle. +We'd run it, you and I." + +Through an elaborate, expensive lunch old Colonel Carteret was almost +silent. The _vol au vent_ of truffled chicken had given way for forced +fruit before Estelle got him to talk to her. He thawed before her +gentle voice, a shy, troubled old man, numbed still by his loss. His +boys had been his all. He could not realize that they had left him. He +had saved, planned, improved for Cyril and George; now mechanically, +because the places were there, he carried it on. He had seen very +little of Esmé; until his boys' deaths he had been wrapped up in them, +never mixing in Society. Now he looked at the expensive flowers in +Venetian glasses; he tasted elaborate made dishes, forced fruits, ices, +and once or twice he shook his head as if at some inward thoughts. + +Dollie Gresham chattered of her bazaar. It was just the time for one, +they would start it at once. Restlessly energetic, she went to the +telephone after luncheon, rang up Denise Blakeney. + +"Yes, Denise will help sell. Only think, Esmé"--this after a long +pause--"Sir Cyril's given her another car, and that diamond pendant of +old Lady Gilby's, you know, the one he was selling. Since that boy +came"--Dollie hung up the receiver--"Denise gets all she wants, and a +great deal more. She is simply, tiresomely happy, adores dear Cyril, +and has a convenient memory for the past. _Tiens_, such is life." + +Esmé's face was set, sullen, as she listened. Denise had everything. +Denise was not generous; there were so many things which she could have +given, yet the very tie between the two women seemed to destroy their +old friendship. + +In the flower-decked, richly-furnished little drawing-room old Hugh +Carteret talked to Estelle. He looked bewildered, puzzled. + +"Bertie told me they were not rich," he said. "Yet the place seems to +me to be almost too luxurious, that they lack nothing." + +"I think"--Estelle fidgeted a little, her grey eyes distressed--"that +Esmé is very young, that she perhaps grasps at things, so to speak, +perhaps spends a little more than she ought to." + +"I am a judge of wines." Hugh Carteret nodded. "The hock was one of the +best, the old brandy cost fourteen or fifteen shillings a bottle, the +port was vintage. I tasted them all." He shook his head again. + +Esmé, coming in, sat by him, tried every trick she knew of winning +glance and smile. But her childish charm had left her; she could only +hark back to her poverty, to her want of money, and each half-veiled +appeal left the old man silent. + +"You present-day women want too much," he said quietly. "You won't be +content. You live too much for yourselves; if you had children now"--he +stopped, his voice breaking. "I tell you what," he said, "if you are +really hard up you can have Cliff End rent free. It's lovely there, +close to the sea, and the staghounds to hunt with." + +Esmé knew where it was, an old house croaking on the cliffs of Devon, +near a country town, a place without society, without amusements. She +shivered. + +"It would be too big for us," she said, trying to speak gratefully. +"Far too large to keep up; but thank you greatly, dear uncle." + +"And too far from shopland," he said in his shy, shrewd way. "Yes, +well, my dear, it was a mere idea." + +"He'll do nothing for us, old miser," Esmé flung out in anger almost +before the old man had left. "He is hateful, Bertie, your old uncle." + +"Perhaps, looking round him, he does not think there is much to be +done," said Bertie, drily. "I am very fond of old Uncle Hugh." + +They drove up to Grosvenor Gate, strolled into the Park--the April day +had tempted people out there; the beds were a glory of wall-flowers and +spring bulbs. A green limousine, purring silently, pulled up close to +them. Esmé turned swiftly; it held Lady Blakeney and the nurse, who +carried an elaborately-dressed bundle of babyhood. + +"Wait here." Denise, jumping out lightly, ran across to speak to +friends. She was radiant, brilliant in her happiness, a woman without +sufficient brain to feel remorse. + +"Oh, Mrs Stanson, let me see him." + +Esmé went to the side of the car; she had not dared lately to go up to +the nursery at Grosvenor Square. Denise had forbidden it. + +Mrs Stanson got down, holding the rosy, healthy boy; he chuckled, his +blue eyes blinking, a picture of contented, soft-fleshed, mindless +life. His mittened fingers closed round Esmé's as she looked into his +face. Hers this healthy atom--hers, and Denise was rich, happy, +contented because of him, while she, his mother, wanted everything. + +"What a lovely mite." Bertie Carteret bent over the smiling baby. "He's +got eyes of your colour, Esmé, true forget-me-nots." + +"Yes. You do mind him well, nurse. Her ladyship--" + +"It was great coaxing to get her ladyship to bring him out to-day," the +woman said carelessly. "She's not like you, Mrs Carteret; she doesn't +like these small things." + +"Oh, yes, Esmé"--Denise came back--"looking at the Baa. He's a fine +specimen, isn't he? Cyril gives him this car for himself, and a new one +to me. Come and see me soon, won't you? Lancaster Gate, Hillyard--Lady +Mary Graves's house. Bundle in that infant, Mrs Stanson, and if he +cries I get out." + +The car glided on. Esmé watched it going, with a sullen anger at her +heart; she had to clench her hands to keep quiet. Did Denise never +think? Had she no gratitude--no conscience--no regret for her +successful fraud? None, it would seem. + +"Esmé, you look quite white." Dollie Gresham's spiteful little giggle +rang out close by. "Are you coming on to play bridge with me?" + +"Not to-day, Dollie. I've a shocking headache. I'll go home and rest." + +"It must be bad," said Dollie, "to take you to your fireside. Was the +sight of that wonderful son and heir too much for you?--that Bayard +among babies? _Sans peur et sans reproche._" + +"You do look seedy, child." Bertie took Esmé to the gate and drove her +back. + +She lighted the gas stove--the flat teemed in labour-saving +annoyances--and sat by it, the heat making the perfume of the flowers +almost overpowering. + +Bertie got her hot tea, sat with her, some of the old loving +comradeship springing up between them. + +"That little chap made me envious, Es," he said, after a long silence. + +"Bertie--surely you wouldn't like a child?" Esmé's voice rang shrilly. +"Surely you wouldn't. Coming to disturb us, crippling us!" + +"People manage," he said slowly. "They manage. We could have gone out +of London, lived more quietly. Every man wants his son, Butterfly; they +are selfish people, you know." + +"You'd like one?" The shrillness died out of Esmé's voice, it grew +strained. + +"And after all better spend money on a little chap than waste it on +Holbrook's wines and old brandies," he said. "Yes, it's the one thing +I've wanted, Es--just to make our lives perfect. Monsieur, Madame, et +Bebe; marriage is never quite right until the third comes to show a +selfish pair what their fathers and mothers gave up for them." + +"I thought two people were so much happier alone." Esmé stared into the +glowing, companionless fire, with no crackle of coal or hiss of wood, +but the modern maid objects to blacking grates. + +"Well, sweetheart, some day you'll know better," he said, "perhaps." +The maid brought in the evening paper, laying it on the table. + +"Esmé!" Bertie Carteret jumped up. "Young De Vinci is dead--dead of +pneumonia." + +Death of the Earl of De Vinci on the eve of his marriage. Then Esmé +caught the paper. "Is Uncle Hugh next heir--didn't you tell me so?" + +"Uncle Hugh is Lord De Vinci, and if he does not marry again, a remote +contingency, I'm the next heir. A son, Esmé, is a necessity now." + +Esmé put the paper down. Her son, heir to a title, was at Sir Cyril +Blakeney's house and she could not claim him. + +"Bertie"--she walked restlessly about the room--"I heard such a strange +story the other day, a woman who did something hideously dreadful +and--was afraid to tell." + +"Deceit is the one thing I could never forgive," said Carteret, firmly. +"I'd put a woman away, even if it broke my heart, if I found out that +she had done anything mean or had deceived me." + +Esmé grew white, for hers was a plot which no man could forgive. She +had sold her son for a paltry allowance, for the right to amuse herself +in peace. + +"I wonder if old Uncle Hugh will do anything for us now," she said in a +strained, bitter voice. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +"This bazaar," said Dollie Gresham, cheerily, "is humming. I have not +been asked about as much as I should like to be lately; people forget +poor little nobodies. The Duchess is giving her patronage, _entre +nous_. Mavis Moover will dance for me--joy for her Grace of Boredom! +Oh, I've got heaps and heaps of people! We are secretaries, and +cashiers, and so forth, and we shall all wear flower dresses. Our stall +shall be forget-me-nots. The Duchess chose tulips; she said she had a +black silk gown and she knew there was a tulip of that colour. We shall +be audaciously beautiful in sky blue, rather short." + +Esmé had rushed into this new scheme. + +"It won't cost much, will it?" she asked. + +"Secretaries, workers, _chérie_," prattled Dollie, "have all expenses +paid. All frocks, frills, etc.; they give their valuable time. Come +with me to Claire's. She is at least original." + +Dollie's maid brought in two cards. Mrs Gresham frowned over them. + +"The tiresome secretary of the hospital," she said, "and Canon Bright, +one of the founders. Look charitable, Esmé." + +Next moment, all smiles, she greeted a kindly-looking, middle-aged man +and a grey-haired clergyman; a stern-faced, clear-eyed man, who made +this hospital for little suffering children his hobby. + +They overwhelmed Dollie with thanks. + +"This debt"--Canon Bright took out some notes of figures--"was weighing +us down. Now, with your help, it will be paid off, and we shall have +something besides to go on with, to buy sorely-needed appliances." + +"Oh, of course," said Dollie, vaguely. + +"We were looking for some kind lady or society to take it up; +fortunately you met Mr Lucy at luncheon." + +"Yes; that put it into my head," said Dollie, brightly. "Bazaars are so +paying; this is my friend and sister secretary, Mrs Carteret. I've got +every big name in London, Canon, or half of them. Oh, it will be a +great success. We've taken the hall. We're all going to be summer +flowers. 'The Summer Flower Bazaar,' such a good name, isn't it?" + +Mr Lucy nursed his hat. "You won't let the expenses mount, Mrs +Gresham," he said, "will you? Once they begin to swell our cripples +would lose. You'll let me help you with the accounts. It's my _métier_, +you see, and I could help you." + +Dollie chilled visibly. She preferred to do it all herself, she said. +"We really want to _work_," she went on, smiling again. "After all, +it's quite simple. We have all our cheques paid in and we pay the exes +and hand you the balance. We'll work it up like anything. You get all +your people to come, Canon--all your charitable friends. The dear +little cripples," cooed Dolly--"so nice to help them." + +"Tiresome, muddling pair," she snapped when the two men had left. "Come +to Claire's, Esmé. I owe her two hundred, but these flower dresses will +cool her rage, and she'll know we'll pay for this lot all right." + +Claire received them dubiously, then thawed to the order for the +bazaar. If Mrs Gresham could get her the carnation order also, Lady +Louisa's stall, and the roses. Forget-me-nots, by the way, were spring +flowers. + +Oh, it didn't matter. Clouds of gauze, blue satin, wreaths of flowers +stiffened with turquoises, shoes, stockings. Dollie ordered lavishly. + +"That Estelle girl shall help," Esmé said. "She is the kind of person +who'll open boxes and get dusty and save us trouble. By the way, what +shall we sell? Not tea. One has to run about. Sweets, I should think, +and buttonholes." + +"We are not distinguished enough for buttonholes," said Dollie, +decidedly. "When Adolfus or Gargie buys a white pink for five shillings +he likes to tell mamma and his lady friend that the Countess of +'Ighlife pinned it in with her own fingers, Vilet, her very own. Dolfus +does not seem to realize that the use of other people's would be +confusing. No, let it be sweets. Chocolates will show off our blue +frocks." + +Bertie Carteret found himself left more and more alone. Esmé was always +feverishly busy, always just going on somewhere, chasing pleasure, +growing thinner in the pursuit, using just a little more rose bloom, a +little extra powder to hide jaded lines and fading colour. + +At the end of May Bertie paid his household bills again and knew that +they were far too large. No extravagance seemed to have been curtailed; +if they had not lunched or dined so often at home, he had paid for a +score of meals at fashionable restaurants. Esmé's careless demands for +a few pounds for cabs were endless. + +"I can't do it," he muttered, writing his cheques. "I can't get on." + +A plea to Esmé would only make her sullen, irritable, railing at her +poverty, muttering against poor marriages. + +"I--oh, you are alone. I've brought the book which Esmé asked me for." +Estelle Reynolds came on Bertie as he sighed over his bills. "And the +pearls she left to be mended." + +She put down a new novel on the table, one barred by libraries. Esmé +would look at it, probably forget to finish it, unless she thought she +found any of her friends were pilloried between the flaring green +covers. + +Estelle put down a receipt with the pearls, one for two pounds. Bertie +looked at the amount. + +"Has Esmé paid you?" he asked. + +"Oh, no, it does not matter--any time." Estelle blushed. "I can ask +her." + +"I wonder"--he turned--"how much she has let you pay, this careless +wife of mine. For the future, Estelle, bring anything to me." + +"You seem to have enough to pay for." Estelle pointed to a pile of +books and cheques. + +"Too much! More than I can manage. Estelle, is nothing of value unless +it costs money? Must one always lunch and dine and sup with people +whose daily income equals our half-yearly one? Can a woman ever look +well in a frock which costs less than twenty pounds? Oh, one must go to +so-and-so--everyone does. Is there nothing simple left in life?" said +Bertie, drearily. "No pleasure in a corner of the country where a man +could pay his way honestly, and eat strawberries in June and peaches in +August?" + +"Is it as bad as that?" Estelle came to the table, glanced at some of +the books. + +She was a slight girl, with nothing but her grey eyes redeeming her +from mediocrity. + +Bertie Carteret sat opposite a full-length portrait of his wife. It was +tinted, showing her dazzling colouring, her rounded figure. It stared +at him with Esmé's careless, joyous smile. Never yet, when he had +touched her, had the softness of her ivory neck, the warmth of her +white skin, failed to wake passion in him, make him wax to the heat of +love, melting and desiring. So she had won his heart when he met her in +the country, the beauty of a small military station, a doctor's +daughter, well born, but dowerless, bringing beauty alone as her +marriage portion. Her beauty, her joyous love of life, had won her a +niche in London Society. Friends had given her introductions, and Esmé +had grown into the life as a graft grows to the parent stem. + +What poet has written that each woman is a flower with its +characteristics, its scent, or beauty? + +Was not this wife of his a gorgeous sunflower, turning her head to the +light and warmth of amusement, standing out among her fellows, dazzling +as she caught the light, a thing to look at and admire, but not to bend +one's face over drinking in a rare sweet perfume. + +Now that he sat thinking he knew there had been none of the intimacy of +married lovers; no scheming for their dual interests, no planning of +some little trip to be taken together, none of the talks which wed man +and woman more surely than the service ordained by law. Nothing but +love and laughter. Together, with the world shut out, Bertie must not +talk of ordinary things, but of Esmé. She would lean against him, +exquisite, perfect, silken draperies merely veiling her long, rounded +limbs, and he must talk of her alone. Tell her again and again how +beautiful she was; find new perfection in her golden hair, her bright +cheeks, the curves of her beauty. + +Then in the mornings, when there was an hour before they need get up, +when Esmé had put on a lace cap and got into some soft-hued wrapper, +she would chatter gaily, but never of their future, of the home which +Bertie, man-like, dreamt of; but of the day's doings, of luncheon and +tea and dinner and theatre, of flying from place to place, from friend +to friend. + +"The Holbrooks are sending their small car for me to do my shopping in; +aren't they kind, Bert? Lady Sue sent us a big basket of fruit +yesterday for my little dinner. We've such heaps to do, Bertie, +to-day--such heaps!" + +She would stretch her warm limbs in the luxurious joy of being alive, +the joy of youth and strength and happiness. + +There were no kisses in the morning. Marie had already laved Madame's +face in scented water, and rubbed in Madame's face cream to prepare her +skin for its light dust of powder. + +Sometimes, half shyly, Bertie would try to talk of the future, say they +could not always live in the army. + +"There are such dear little places to be found, Es"--he used to study +advertisements--"just big enough. We could keep a horse or two, a +garden--be so happy!" + +"And become cabbages ourselves. Play bridge with the parson and his +wife, and go to summer tennis-parties with two men and forty maids. +London, my Bertie, it's the only place for poor people. The country is +all very well if you need never stay there, but to grow rooted to +garden soil! Boo! I'll get you on! You shall be a General and inspect +armies." + +Bertie gave up his dream of a little house in the country; he got used +to the careless, ever-moving life. And now he sickened of it. + +If women were flowers, this woman standing near him was a violet, a +simple thing, only beautiful to those who love sweetness better than +flaring beauty. + +"You're worried," she said. "Where is Esmé?" + +"Esmé is out for the day," he said. + +"Then you've often promised me an outing. Come and be a cheap tripper +with me; let it be my treat. I got a cheque from mother yesterday. I'm +rich. Let's pretend we're very poor, and enjoy ourselves. You mustn't +sit there brooding." + +Bertie put away the books, laughed up at the gentle face. He would, but +he must pay half. + +The May day was theirs; they would enjoy it as two children. + +They would take a 'bus, lunch, go to the White City, see how economy +can be practised. + +They lunched at a little restaurant in Germain Street, studying the +menu with puckered brows, taking omelette and a grill which they could +share, and biscuits and cheese, and light white wine. + +The amount of a bill which would not have covered tips at the Berkeley +or the Ritz was gaily paid. + +Bertie saw a new side to Estelle's character; the childish power of +enjoyment. Take a taxi? No! Taxis were for the rich. They sat on the +top of a motor 'bus, going down roaring Piccadilly. + +Esmé, coming to the door of the Berkeley, happened to look up at the +packed mass of humanity seated on the monster's head. + +"Bertie!" she flashed out, mockingly, "and the South African girl. +Bertie happily saving his pennies and seeing London. Oh! how funny." + +She forgot that a year ago she had often gone in a 'bus with him. + +There were only taxis in the world for her now, or motors. The little +electric carriages were so cheap to hire. Esmé's bill at the nearest +garage was running up rapidly. "It was such a 'bore' to look for a taxi +in the evenings; this was ready and took one on to supper or ball, and +back again, and cost very little more," she would say. + +Bertie had not seen his wife. He sat enjoying the sunshine, looking +down at the packed streets, as the 'bus slipped through the +traffic--past Grosvenor Gate, on to the London which is not London to +Society, but merely "down in Kensington," into the vast grounds of the +Exhibition, to play as children might have played. To rock on +switchbacks, taking the front seat for the heart-sinking glides and +dips; to come foolishly down watershutes; to slide on mats round +perilous curves; to go and laugh at themselves in ridiculous mirrors. +And then with an aftermath of seriousness to look at the quaint +buildings of Shakespeare's time, and talk of the dead master of the +drama. + +Estelle had read every play; she could quote aptly, talk of those which +she had seen. + +"He had one fault," she said. "His good women were mawkish fools; his +villainesses splendidly lovable. It was the spirit of the age, no +doubt, that to be good one must be a mere loving nonentity, that brains +led the feminine world to destruction." + +If the world would but hang out warnings to the blind mortals who +scurry through its maze, seeking for openings, or shouting, laughing, +as they go; if we knew that an hour hence our life's history would +change, and that a refusal to go to lunch, a turning up one corner +instead of another, would leave it as it was, would it be better for us? + +If Bertie Carteret, talking eagerly, almost boyishly, with a new +interest in words, had realized that the turnstile of the Exhibition +was taking him into a land of pain and regret, would he have seen the +warning, laughed, or turned back? He had passed through it now; his +feet were set on the path. + +They drank tea out of blue-and-white Japanese cups, with sight-seers +all round them. Esmé would have shuddered at the place, absolutely +refused to take tea with milk in it, and with such impossible people +about her. + +Estelle enjoyed it; the day was still theirs as they dined at the same +little restaurant with the same waiter, his memory sharpened by +Bertie's surreptitiously large tip, rushing to find a table for them. + +Weariness made economy less rigid; the little dinner they picked out +was simple, but not for poor people. Since men in morning coats may not +appear in respectably expensive seats, they climbed high at a theatre, +looking down at the stage far below them; the brilliant mass of colour +in the stalls; the rows of perfectly-dressed women's heads; of +men's--sleek and generally thin of hair. Parties strolled into boxes, +late for half an act, carelessly looking at the play on the stage. + +"There's Esmé! See!" + +Esmé came into one of the larger boxes with Dollie Gresham, Jimmie Gore +Helmsley; a couple of soldiers; and then at the last, pretty Sybil +Chauntsey, gesticulating as she ran in, everyone laughing at something +she said. + +"I wish"--Bertie looked gravely at the group--"that Sybil Chauntsey +would keep away from that Helmsley man. He's no child's guide." + +It was Jimmie's party. He had telephoned to Esmé to chaperone it. They +were supping at the Ritz afterwards. Little Sybil had been engaged; she +had run in telling them of her many difficulties before she could get +away. At a small dance to-night one man would look for a partner who +would never come. + +Estelle was tired when the theatre was over; it was hot up there above +the dress circle. She pointed to her morning dress and refused supper. + +"We'll have some at home then. Esmé may be back. The economy must end +at twelve. I'll drive you home in a taxi." + +They came to the flat to find it silent, shut up. Esmé was not coming +home until three or four. A few sandwiches stood ready for her, but +Bertie would have none of them. He could cook; there were chafing +dishes downstairs. Together they raided the trim larder, to find +nothing but cold beef and eggs and butter. But how they laughed as +Bertie scrambled the eggs, and did it skilfully, if he had not put in +pepper twice, and Estelle grilled slices of beef in boiling butter, and +dusted them with curry powder; then they heated cold potatoes and +carried up their hot dishes, with bread and butter and plates. + +Estelle said she adored pepper, as she burnt her throat with scrambled +eggs. Bertie concealed the fact that the beef was corned; the potatoes, +hot by the time the eggs and beef were finished, were excellent. +Estelle made coffee. + +They cleared up at last, washing dishes, putting things away, going +home together on a cool summer's night in a crawling growler. + +Esmé's new maid, looking in once, had slipped away unseen. + +A foolish, childish day; a glimpse of how two people may enjoy +themselves in the vast mother city of the world, away from where the +golden shower of wealth rains so heedlessly, where cost is the hallmark +of excellence, and a restaurant which is not the fashion of the moment +is impossible. + +As they said good-bye on the doorstep--Estelle had her key--Bertie held +her cool, slender hands in his; asked her if she would spend a day out +of London with him. "Down in Devonshire," he said, "at Cliff End. I +have to go there soon. We can go early. Your aunt will not mind." + +"Oh, not with you," said Estelle, simply. "She knows it is all right." + +He felt a little pang at the words--a pang he could not understand. It +was right that she should trust herself with him; he was married and a +mere friend; yet the little vexed feeling in his heart was the warning +held up by the gods. + +Bertie walked back--a long walk along quiet streets with great London +brooding in her silent might. Sometimes he passed a house lighted up, +red carpeting on its steps, rows of carriages and motors waiting; women +in rich cloaks coming out, their faces weary behind their smiles. +Sometimes strange birds of the night flitted past. Other women, +painted, weary as their rich sisters behind their set smile of +invitation, going home alone, abandoning search for foolish prey. Men, +evil-faced, furtive, glanced at him, standing to watch if the "toff" +would turn into some unfrequented narrow street. Gleams of white shirt +front as men of his class strolled to their rooms or lodging, their +black cloaks flapping back to show the evening dress underneath. A few +tipsy, foolish boys, lurching along looking for trouble. The big clubs +were still lighted, their warm wealth behind their great windows. On to +"down at Kensington," to the great pile of the flats towering to the +soft blue sky. + +A little electric carriage rolled noiselessly past him. Esmé got out. A +man's voice said "Good-bye." It was one of the soldiers whom he had +seen in the box. He heard some words of parting, then Esmé's careless, +heart-whole laugh. They were on the second floor; he heard her exclaim +as she saw the lights all up: + +"How careless of someone." + +She was brilliantly dressed; something of black and silver, clinging, +graceful, billowing out round her feet; there were diamonds in her fair +hair, a new necklace on her soft white throat. She shivered a little, +turning on the fire, filling herself a glass of brandy from the +decanter, pouring in a little Perrier. + +"I was the careless one, Esmé. I forgot them." + +"But you have only just come in," she said. + +"I was in and went out again. You look tired, Esmé." + +The morning light, stealing in through the drawn curtains, was blue and +searching. It showed the powder on her cheeks, the line of the +deftly-applied carnation bloom; it made her a little haggard, older +than her twenty-five years. + +"Yes, I'm tired," she yawned. "I thought you would be asleep." She +lighted a strong cigarette. "I'm tired. We had supper at the Ritz and +went on to Sue's ball. She had a new necklace, a beauty! She's just got +an electric landaulette. Heigho! I'm tired of being poor--of pinching." + +"You came home in an electric landaulette, Butterfly," Bertie smiled at +her, but it was a mirthless smile. + +"Oh! I'll pay for them myself," she flashed out ill-humouredly. "I +can't hunt for taxis. I--" she stopped. Bertie allowed her a hundred a +year for small things, pocket-money; she must make him think she saved +out of that. + +"And new diamonds." He touched the necklace glittering on the soft +white flesh. + +"Paste," she said, "paste. The thing only cost ten pounds. I had +nothing decent to wear." + +Until one took up the necklace one could not guess--see the solid +backing. It was a brilliant thing; the workmanship perfect; but it had +cost five times ten pounds. + +Bertie bent to kiss the soft, warm flesh; slipped his arm round the +supple shoulders. + +"Come! I'll put you to bed," he whispered; "be your obedient maid, +Butterfly." + +"Susan will come, I told her to. Go to the little room, Bertie. I sleep +so badly and anything disturbs me. I've heaps to do to-morrow." + +He took his arm away, his ardour chilling, and went out without a word. +Susan, sleepy but attentive, came in; put Madame to bed; washed the +soft skin free of powder and paint; brought a little glass to the +bedside. + +"Madame's drops. Madame might not sleep." + +Crystal clear, tasteless, soothing, bringing dreamless, heavy sleep; a +slide of treachery down which women slip to ill-health and worse. +Already, at five-and-twenty, Esmé was taking chloral. + +The Society Bazaar began to take shape, to approach the days of its +holding. Gorgeous gowns of satin and gauze and lace were fashioned for +fair débutantes and pretty matrons. + +Sweets, china, baskets; the hundred and one things which no one wants +and which they must buy at three times the value when ordered. + +The Duchess of Boredom would sell baskets. Dollie suggested an idea of +diamond-like brilliancy: "Tie a card to every one: + + 'The Duchess of Boredom, + Boredom Court,' + +with just a letter 's' and 'stall' in the corner. Everyone suburban in +the room will rush for those baskets, and shop with them for months to +come, forgetting, of course, to take off the card. It's perfect," said +Dollie, "if she'll do it." + +"Or you might have some made in the shape of strawberry leaves," said +Bertie, gravely. + +The Duchess did not object to her card being used. She was willing to +order some hundreds of cards for the sake of charity. + +"The Bazaar, of course, paying my stationers," said the Duchess, +severely. + +There were sweet stalls, where pretty notabilities, for five shillings +extra, would sign their names on the boxes. + +There was a stall kept by great actresses, who sold their autographs +and their photographs, and buttonholes of rosebuds and carnations. + +There were side shows, café chantants, everything to take money from +the public. + +"For the tiny crippled children. Help them." Children selling flowers +and sweets, dressed all in pale pink, crowned with rosebuds, carried +little cards on their heads, with these words printed. + +"Let us be nothing if not sentimental," said Dollie, looking round the +hall. Dull green gave background to the flower dresses; dull green on +stalls and against the walls. Royalty had promised to be present. It +was a great affair. + +"It will buy tweeds," said Dollie. "It always does. And baskets, and +sweets for the hospitals. And it--the male part of it--won't be allowed +any of the photographs it wants from the stage stall." + +A great bazaar, which a minor Royalty graciously declared open, and +then remembered an engagement; its royal purse was sparsely supplied. + +All Society seemed to be assisting, but Suburbia flocked to it, and in +the evening Shopland would render gallant support. + +"For the tiny crippled children; see the lovely dears," said Mrs Harris +to Mrs Smith of Clapham. "What's your name, little love, now?" + +"Pollie Laverdean," a small mite of eight raised dark liquid eyes. "Buy +somefin', p'ease." + +"Lady Marrianne," whispered a better-informed friend. "The Countess of +Gardenia's eldest--ain't she sweet?" + +"An' to call her plain Pollie. My! my!" murmured the friend. + +Mrs Smith and Mrs Harris bought two small china dogs at five shillings +each, and a box of shilling chocolates at the same price. + +The Duchess's baskets went as snow before the sun. + +Lady Lila Blyth and her lovely daughters sold flowers freely. The names +of the assistants were written plainly over each stall--another idea of +Dollie's. + +Lady Lila Blyth, Miss Eva Blyth, Miss Lulu Blyth; Lady Eliza O'Neill; +Mrs Holmes; the Marquess of Tweesdale; Lord Rupert Scot; the Earl of +Domomere. + +Brilliantly handsome in her blue gown, Esmé sold chocolate and dragées +and crystallized fruits. + +Canon Bright had worked hard to help; got flowers and fruit sent in +great quantities. He and the little secretary came now through the +stalls. + +"It's splendid," he said to Dollie; "the stores near us sent a box of +stuff to your stall." + +"Oh, yes, thanks awfully! Is it there, Esmé? We haven't opened it yet. +When these shop things are sold we will." + +"But," the Canon picked up a huge guinea box of fruits, stickily +alluring, "you've had to buy all these, haven't you?" + +"Yes, and you see it wouldn't be fair if we didn't sell quite a lot of +these things as we get them at a reduction. But we'll open the box; the +children can sell the things." + +Going on to Lady Lila's stall, a mass of carnations and roses and sweet +peas, the secretary asked for the gifts of flowers. The Canon had +begged from half his county. + +The same vague look. "Oh, all these hampers and boxes. You see, these +were in and the florist's people arrange and settle them for us. We'd +have to bunch all these others, wouldn't we? Oh, of course, they'd be +clear profit, but one cannot wait for chance gifts, can one? One must +be ready." + +Baskets of dewy rosebuds, of white pinks, sweet peas, of carnations lay +withering behind the stalls. The florists had decked the tables, would +do the same to-morrow. One could not bother with piles of things loose +in baskets. + +Canon Bright, used to humble county bazaars, where every gift was +welcomed, could not understand it. + +He bought lavishly. He looked with a smile which was almost wistful at +the mites who fluttered about the thronged hall, their notices held up +by wires above the crowns of roses. + +"For the tiny crippled children." They rattled their little bags of +money as they sold their goods. + +"Fink there are any crippled children?" said Lady Pollie to her friend +the Honourable Anne Buller. + +"No fear! They's all kept in big places in beds. It's just fun for us +an' Mumsie. She loves her yellow dress; she's a rose too, Mumsie is. +Who gave you the gold piece, Pollie?" + +"The fat man there; he said I was a sufferin' angel, or perhaps it was +'nother long word. Let's go an' eat ices or strawberries." + +Money pouring into cash boxes; sovereigns for buttonholes; notes for +foolish trumpery. + +Royalty, gracious, really charitable, came in the afternoon, made its +way through the crush which thronged to watch it, bought lavishly but +sensibly, spoke kindly to stall-holders, honoured Dollie and Esmé with +special notice. + +"I hear you got it all up. So good of you. It is one of the hospitals +most needed. We went there last week." + +Small Royalty carries off a box of sweets with the glee of extremely +natural childhood; a merry mite; far more simply brought up than shrewd +little Lady Pollie. _She_ knew that there were real crippled children, +wan, stunted products of the slums, tended and made happy, perhaps +cured, in that struggling hospital. She had seen them in their little +blue jackets, looking eagerly at her kindly mother and at her as they +went from bed to bed. They passed through a curtseying crowd, bought, +went on to tea, gracious, kindly people. + +"They've simply made it," Esmé said. "What a crowd we have. A charming +box of sweets. Yes. Souvenir of the Bazaar--boxes specially made--one +guinea. Too much? There's a small one for ten shillings; but the +Princess took one of the others. Thank you! The big one? Oh, Captain +Gore Helmsley--buy sweets?" + +Jimmie, darkly handsome, his years disguised by careful grooming, +strolled by. He stopped to say, laughing, that his digestion could not +assimilate chocolates and dragées. Sybil Chauntsey, a glowing little +nasturtium, her brown beauty set off by brilliant yellow, came hurrying +up, young Knox with her; he had come up to try again. She was selling +buttonholes, helping at one of the flower stalls. + +"I'll buy a flower though," Jimmie turned quickly. + +"I've only one left," Sybil said, "this yellow carnation. Captain Knox +wants it. I was just coming for a pin. Mine have all dropped. It's five +shillings." + +"I'll give you ten," Helmsley said. "Touch it with your lips it shall +be a pound." + +"Two," said Knox, sharply. + +"An auctioneer!" Esmé clapped her hands. "Well done, Sybil. Come, +Captain Helmsley." + +"Four!" said Helmsley, carelessly. + +"Five!" + +A little crowd gathered. Sybil, glowing, laughing, her childish vanity +touched by this piece of vulgar advertisement. In her gay yellow and +red-striped gown she stood holding up the flower; the nasturtium's +head-dress was a hood of vivid green, opening over mock flower petals. + +"Six!" + +"Seven!" + +"Ten!" said Jimmie, carelessly. "Come, that's a fair price for a +flower--but I'll go on." + +Young Knox stopped bidding suddenly, his face growing white. He watched +Sybil, laughing brightly, kiss the flower, saw Jimmie Helmsley touch it +covertly with his lips where her soft red ones had lain, and hold out +the yellow bud to be fastened on. + +"I win the flower," he said mockingly. + +"One moment." Young Knox bent close to Sybil. "I'll say good-bye. It's +not quite my game--this. But if you ever want me, remember I'm there, +as I told you before. Good-bye." + +The glow died out of Sybil Chauntsey's face; her fingers trembled as +she fastened in the flower and took her five pound notes. + +Helmsley walked on with her. Would she come to tea? He had a big box of +sweets for her. Wouldn't she have them? + +Sybil woke up after a minute or two, grew feverishly gay with the +gaiety which cloaks sorrow; was almost noisy, her cheeks glowing, her +eyes glittering; took a dozen presents from Gore Helmsley: Venetian +beads, sweets, charms, bought at fabulous prices. + +"Poor chap, not to think your flower worth more than a tenner," +Helmsley had said in his mocking voice. + +The Great Charity Bazaar ran on wheels oiled by golden oil; the +cash-boxes filled. Kindly Canon Bright walked round it dreaming of the +debt which would be paid off his beloved hospital. Of instruments, of +comforts for the tiny sufferers, of the increased room which they could +make. + +Lord Boredom, very immaculately dressed, was helping his mother, but he +preferred taking a basket at a time round the hall than attending the +stall. Once he came back with a demure-looking young lady whom the +Duchess welcomed cordially as "My dear Miss Moover," making Sukey +Ploddy sniff loudly. + +But the sensation of the evening was when the Duchess was taken to the +Café Chantant to see on the white curtain the words: "Miss Moover, by +kind permission of the Magnificent Theatre." + +The Duchess went in. Miss Moover's dance was audacious, her draperies +shadow-like; she squirmed and twisted and bounded across the stage, +displaying the exquisitely-formed limbs which made London flock to see +her. She was agile, graceful, never exaggerated, full of the joy of +youth. + +From the Magnificent Theatre! The Duchess, breathing heavily, staggered +out, her black dress rustling. "A dancer! A _creature_!" + +"I shall never," she said, "countenance those Holbrooks again," and +with stony eyes she cut Luke deliberately and sent for her son. + +"It was unfortunate, my love," said Mr Holbrook, mildly, "the whole +idea." + +The big bazaar day died to change to a blaze of electric lights, to a +kaleidoscope of colour, of flower dresses, blue and yellow and pink and +white, blending and moving; of diners in the miniature Ritz Hotel and +other restaurants, eating luxurious meals. + +It began again next day, a cheaper, less select affair, with half the +assistants far too tired to come, and it ran through another day; a +huge spider sucking golden blood from innumerable flies. + +It was over at last; the stall-holders ate a merry supper; assistants +from the shops cleared away their goods; no one bothered much about it +all now. + +The Society papers would publish accounts and photographs, with Dollie +and Esmé, charitable ladies, always in the most prominent place. + +Canon Bright and the secretary were jubilant at supper, thanking +everyone; they would call in a day or two. If Mrs Gresham would let +them, they would help her with the accounts. + +But Dollie told them pleasantly that she wanted no help as yet. + +A few days later she sat with Esmé over piles of papers, totting +carelessly. + +"They've charged horribly for those sweets. Oh! and Claire's bill is +exorbitant!" She held it up. + +"It's double what it ought to be," said Esmé. + +"H'm!" Dollie totted. "I want to pay her off. Just a little on to the +hall account, and to odd nothings, and there are a few extra gowns in +the price of the blue; that will make it right. One can't slave for +nothing," said Dollie. "You can get a couple of gowns, too. I arranged +that with her. It was worth it," said Dollie, "to stop the woman's +mouth." + +When cheques came in other people seemed to have found their expenses +equally high. London tradesmen charge highly for decorating, for +assistance. The golden coins paid out for charity went for glitter and +show, for gowns and waste. The Ritz had not paid its way. All +stall-holders lunched and dined free there. Hunt & Mason sent in a bill +of some size. + +In a month's time Dollie wanted it all to be forgotten; she sent a +cheque to the hospital with all her accounts carefully copied out. + +The secretary turned pale as he read the amount. "That!" he said, +"that--after it all! And now, for a year's time, if we appeal for +funds, people will say, 'But you've just had that bazaar; we went +there, bought lavishly, we cannot help again so soon.' + +"Miss Harnett," he said heavily to the matron, "we must give up all +idea of that west ward; we cannot afford it; or those new reclining +chairs and instruments." + +He wrote drearily, for his heart was in his work, to Canon Bright. + +"All such a splendid success," Dollie's friends had said to her, and +kindly Royalty, with its love of true charity, asked her to a select +garden-party. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +"I am going to Cliff End on Friday, Estelle. Will you come? We'll start +at eight, and get back about ten." + +"I'd love to. London is baking me." + +June heat glowed through the huge city; the pavements were hot under +the fierce sun; the air felt used up, heavy; the packed streets +vibrated under their load of wheeled monsters, of swooping, gliding +taxis. Everyone was going somewhere; busy, smiling, full of the +business of pleasure. Old faces were lined under powder and face cream; +young ones had lost their colour a little. + +Perfectly gowned, with hair in the order of the moment, faintly +scented, smiling, woman, hawk-like, swooped on her natural prey, man. +Soft debutantes, white-robed, hopeful, fluttered as they dreamt of the +matches which they might make. Anxious, youthful mothers spent their +all, and more, to give their girls a chance. Older girls smiled more +confidently, yet were less hopeful of drawing some great prize. + +There, walking along quietly in morning coat, a slouching, keen-eyed +young fellow; a flutter as he passes. + +"See, Audrey! Lord Golderly. Evie, bow; did you not see Lord Golderly?" + +Or from more intimate friends: "Sukey! There's Joss. Call him over! +He's thinner than ever! Mum! there's Jossy! Ask him to our little +dinner--he might come." + +The Marquis of Golderly, with eighty thousand a year, with a panelled +house in Yorkshire, a castle in Scotland, with Golderly House in +Piccadilly--let now to rich Americans--had strolled by. A +pleasant-looking, well-made boy, with his mind full of his new polo +pony, and not in the least interested in the Ladies Evie and Audrey, or +in his cousin Sukey. Some day he must marry, but not yet. + +Another flutter: a girl runs laughing to catch her toy pom, showing her +lithe, active limbs as she slips along. + +"There comes Sir Edward Castleknock," a little elderly man, his income +lately depleted by a white marble tombstone to his second wife, but he +has no heir; he must marry again, and he is a rich man. The youthful +mothers signal to him, stopping him carelessly, calling to their girls +as he stops. + +"Here's my little Evie, grown up, Sir Edward; you used to give her +sugared almonds. Makes one so ancient, doesn't it?" + +Evie musters a smile for the memory of sugared almonds. She says +something conventional with a show of excellent teeth. Sir Edward is +musical. Milady invites him to hear the dear child sing; to lunch on +Sunday--one-thirty--the old address. + +One mamma has got a start of her competitors; captured the widower as +he emerges from the sombre draped doors of his mourning. + +"To sing?" Lady Evie wrinkles a pretty nose. "Well, Mumsie, don't let +it get past 'Violets' and that French song; they are the only two dear +old Monsieur could ever get me to sing in tune." + +They work hard, these mothers, for their daughters, for what is life +without riches and places, and a niche in Society's walls? What waste +of bringing up, of French and German governesses, of dancing lessons +and swimming lessons, and dull classes, if Evie or Audrey merely +married some ordinary youngster, to disappear with him upon a couple of +thousand a year! + +So many competitors, so few prizes. The race is to the swift, and the +strong, and the astute; to the matron who knows not only how to seize +opportunity, but not to release it again until it puts a ring upon her +daughter's massaged hand. + +So Evie and Sue and Audrey must stifle the natural folly which nature +has placed in their fresh young hearts, and help "Mum" to the proud +hour when her daughter will count her wedding presents by the hundred, +and smile sweetly on the bevy of maidens who are still running in the +race. + +Some, without kindly, clever mothers, must fight for themselves, and in +the fight use strange methods to attain their prize. Crooked ways, +cut-off corners, wrong side of posts; yet they too smile quite as +contentedly if they win at the last. + +Young Golderly has been stopped a dozen times; he has seen sweet +smiles, caught flashing glances. Evie has called attention to her +lovely feet by knocking one against a chair. Audrey has whispered to +him that she _adores_ polo; will be at Hurlingham to-day. + +"To see you hit a goal," she coos; "oh! how I shall clap!" + +"She may be a little wild--my new pony," he says, his mind still full +of that piece of bay symmetry, a race-horse in miniature, and slips +away. Golderly had come to meet a friend who would have talked of +nothing but polo ponies; he has missed him, and the pretty runners of +the race strive and jostle until they bore him sadly. + +He turns to slip away, to get back to his club by a round across the +Park, and then gasps, smitten roughly, his hat bumping on to the path. + +"Oh, I'm so sorry. Blow these hobble skirts. Blow the things!" says a +girl's voice. + +Kitty Harrington, a big, clumsy maiden, freckles powdering her clear +skin. "A badly-dressed touzled young woman," is the verdict passed on +her. + +Kitty is having her season without any clever, youthful mother; she is +under the charge of her aunt, Lady Harrington, who does not take much +notice of her, and thinks the girl a foolish tomboy. + +"Snap was running out to where the motors are," says Kitty, +guilelessly, "and he might get hurt. We were doing a scamper on the +grass." + +Snap is a rough terrier of uncertain pedigree, unwillingly confined in +London. + +"He ties his lead round people's legs if I drag him through the crowd," +Kitty goes on. "So we keep away and make believe it's country. Oh! if +it was! And then this skirt tripped me." + +Young Golderly looks at her. A big, rather clumsy girl, but open-eyed, +fresh from eighteen years of country life; a girl who has learnt to +swim in the open sea; whose gymnastics have been practised up trees. + +"They are rotten things to try to run in," he says, smiling boyishly, +"those skirts. Haven't I met you somewhere? I'm Lord Golderly." Here he +pursues his hat, which Snap is treating as if it were a rat. + +"Oh! goodness! Oh! I have been clumsy." Kitty is all pink cheeks and +tearful eyes; she dabs them surreptitiously. "Oh! your poor best +hat--all torn! Oh! I am a clumsy girl--never meant for London. No, I +haven't met you. I'm Miss Harrington--Lady Harrington's niece." + +"I know her!" Jossy, master of eighty thousand a year, grins as he +examines his hat brim. "Are you going to the match to-day--to +Hurlingham?" + +"N--no," Kitty's lips droop. "Auntie's made up her party! And oh! I do +love polo. We play at home, the boys and I. I've such a pony! Have you +got a nice one?" + +"A nice one!" Young Golderly grins again; this girl is like a breath of +fresh country air blowing across the moorlands. Evidently his name +conveys nothing to her. + +"I've twenty," he says, laughing. + +"Oh, then you're rich! How jolly! If I were rich--" + +"Well?" he asks. + +Kitty puts her head on one side. + +"I'd have hunters; three of them, all my own. Not the boys', which I +borrow. And I'd have a motor and drive it; and give Mumsie a new fur +coat--hers is old. And I'd have otter hounds." + +"Oh, you like that too? Otter hunting," he says eagerly. + +"Oh, yes!" Kitty shows a set of strong even teeth. "It's so jolly up in +the early mornings when all the grass is washing in dew; and hunting up +the rivers; and the dogs working. And then isn't breakfast good?" says +Kitty, prosaically. "I'd cook mine on the river bank. I make fine +scrambled eggs, and I can toast bacon till it's just sumptuous." + +Of course Kitty can have no idea that Golderly has hunted a pack of +otter hounds for some years. + +The boy looks at her again. She is so fresh and natural and friendly. +The skin under her freckles is singularly fine; her eyes are bright, +her active figure at its worst in a ridiculous hobble skirt. + +"Say! I can't go back there," he nods towards the strolling crowd, "in +Snap's handiwork. Let's walk across the grass." + +"I want to get to Lancaster Gate. Right!" says Kitty, "we live there, +you know." + +As they go they talk of ponies and horses and terriers and otters and +tennis, and when they part young Golderly takes a brown, shapely, +gloveless hand in his and shakes it warmly. + +"Come to the match; come to see me play," he says. "I'll take you over +to the ponies and show you my beauties. You ought to come." + +Kitty rushes in to her aunt. "Auntie! get Hurlingham tickets somewhere. +You must!" And Kitty tells of her adventure. + +When a year later big Kitty marches sedately down the aisle of a +country church on the arm of her husband, a Marquis, she manages her +trailing skirts cleverly enough. + +A rank outsider, a creature not even mentioned in the betting; but a +letter from Kitty's dearest friend might prove that she need not have +tripped so grievously over her hobble skirt; while further experience +proved that she was lazy about otter hunting, and that behind the +ingenuous face lay a shrewd and far-seeing brain. The letter was to +"Dearest Kit." + +"Shame of Auntie May not to bother about you," it ran. "I met young +Lord Golderly at Marches Hall last week-end. He's just your sort--all +sport. Get to meet him somehow and talk horses--_polo ponies_ and +_otter hunting_; he's sick of Society." + +The future Lady Golderly carefully tore up that letter. + +Estelle Reynolds turned from watching the flow of life stream past her +to speak to Bertie Carteret. + +Estelle was a mere outsider there, knowing very few people--just a few +of Esmé's friends. She liked to see them flutter up and down, meeting, +parting, always going on somewhere, always chattering of the hundred +things which they had got to do. + +"I should like to go to Cliff End," repeated Estelle. "The love of +London is not with me, though for two years, perhaps three, I must stay +here, until my mother comes from her travels, in fact." + +"Unless--you marry," Bertie said slowly. + +In some vague way the thought vexed him. + +Estelle laughed. "There is the curate," she said, "but I am not High +Church enough to please him. Yes, there is the curate. I am far too +ordinary and stupid for Esmé's friends to look at me, and I meet no +others. My marriage must be deferred until we take up the house in +Northamptonshire, and then some country squire will suit me and not +notice my last year's frocks." + +"Not notice you," Bertie snorted. "Stupid young tailor's blocks, always +going on. You don't notice them." + +"Oh, they're not all stupid," Estelle said. "Mr Turner told me three +hands which he had played at bridge the night before, and had crushin' +luck in them all. He couldn't be stupid with that memory. How is Esmé?" + +"Frightfully busy," Bertie laughed. "Her latest evening gown was not a +success. She is weighed down between the choice of pure white or pure +black for a new opera cloak. Someone is coming to lunch, and the new +cook's soufflets are weary things, given to sitting down. Also her ices +melt; and she cannot _sauté_ potatoes; it is French for frying, isn't +it? Look here! come in old clothes, and we'll be babies and help to +make hay. This day is taken up by a luncheon, by tea at the Carlton, +dinner at the Holbrooks', an evening party. I have struck at two +dances, as I have to get up early." + +Esmé had gone to Madame Claire's to storm over this new gown of golden +soft chiffon and silk. It dragged; it did not fit. She found Madame +Claire inaccessible. Mrs Carteret bought a few gowns, but my Lady +Blakeney was choosing six--two models, two copies, two emanating from +Madame Jane Claire's slightly torpid English brains. She had her +country's desire for buttons and for trimmings. + +But Denise's order was lavish; it meant petticoats, wraps to match; it +meant items of real lace. How then to spare sorrow because one golden +yellow evening gown ordered by a Mrs Carteret had been too hurriedly +finished. + +"Tell Madame that I am really pressed for time. Can she not spare me +five minutes?" + +Madame was with Lady Blakeney, very busy with an order, the forewoman +was also engaged. A slender young woman in black satin glided back with +the message. Would Madame call again later, make an appointment? Had +Madame seen one of the latest scarves? Quite charming, only five +guineas. Black satin dexterously whisked out a wisp of chiffon. "No! +Madame did not want a scarf." + +Denise was behind the strawberry silk curtains hiding in Madame's +sanctum. Esmé felt hurt, sore. It was always Denise--always Denise. +She, Esmé, was no one. + +She got up, looking at her tall, slight figure in one of the long +glasses; she grew flushed, angry. + +"I have not time to call again. Please tell Madame that the evening +gown is impossible, a strait-waistcoat. I was to have worn it to-night +at a dance. Now I must wear an old gown of Lucille's--which at least +fits." Esmé flounced out, wiping the dust of the strawberry-hued +_salon_ from her tightly-shod feet. + +Half an hour later Madame Claire heard the message. + +"Alter it," she said carelessly. "Let it out. I expect she'll give me +up now. Send her her bill at once." + +The heat beat down in quivering waves. All London shopped, buying, +buying, since freshness lasted but for a few days, and one must not be +seen in a gown more than three or four times. + +Tinsels and chiffons and laces; feather ruffles; silks and crepes and +muslins; gloves and silken stockings piled up on the mahogany counters +for Society to buy. Subtle-tongued assistants lauded their wares; there +was always something which Madame had not dreamt of buying, but which +she suddenly discovered to be an absolute necessity. + +The flower-shops showed their sheaves of cut blossoms, long-stemmed +roses, carnations, lilies, pinks, monster sweet peas. Things out of +season nestled in baskets in the fruiterers. Wealth everywhere, gold or +promise of gold; electric motors gliding noiselessly. Slim youngsters +taking their morning stroll; brown-skinned soldiers up for a few days, +spending in shops behind windows which Madame and Mademoiselle passed +without a glance. The richest city in the world gathered its summer +harvest; and white-faced poverty, sometimes straying from their poor +country, looking on, dully, resentfully envious. Sewing-machines flew +in the sweltering heat, needles darted, rows of girls sat working +breathlessly, that great ladies might not be disappointed. + +"I must have that embroidered gown for the Duchess's party, Madame." + +"Certainly, milady, without fail." + +Then a visit to the workroom--a whisper to two pale girls. + +"You two must stay overtime to-night, get that dress finished. It +mustn't get out, either--be careful!" + +So, when their breath of air might be snatched, the two would stitch on +under the dazzle of electric light, drink strong tea and eat bread and +butter, and never dare to grumble, for there were fifty other girls who +could be taken instead of them. + +Esmé strolled up Bond Street. She bought a ruffle which caught her +fancy; she stopped to talk to half a dozen people; but she strolled on, +her goal a soot-smirched square where a baby would be taking its airing. + +He was there, under his white awning, looking a little pale, a little +peaked, wilting in the heat. + +Mrs Stanson knew her visitor, smiled at her, never quite understood why +Esmé came to the square so often. Esmé asked for Denise first; she was +always careful to know that she was out before she came, then went into +the gardens. + +There was no air in it; the trees had no freshness; the grass looked +dull and unwholesome. + +"Isn't he very white, Mrs Stanson--peaky?" + +"He should be in the country," Mrs Stanson said. "Down where his +windows'd let in air at night and not the smuts from the chimneys. But +her ladyship--she thinks different; she hates the country. I saw little +Lord Helmington go in a hot summer because they wouldn't open +Helmington Hall to send him down there with me." + +"But he--Cyrrie--he won't go?" Esmé caught at the small soft fingers, +moist with heat. A sudden fear gripped her heart. + +"Was Denise going to kill the boy? Of course she did not care." + +"Take care of him, Mrs Stanson. Oh! take care of him. I was there when +he was born, you know. I used to act nurse for him. Aren't there those +ozone things you hang up in bedrooms? Or, can't you get him away?" + +Esmé hung over the baby, jealous of his little life, panting, afraid. + +Mrs Stanson had taken several gold pieces from the child's visitor. She +shrugged her plump shoulders. + +"Her ladyship doesn't care for children, Mrs Carteret, and that's the +truth. She says I fuss, talk nonsense. He don't even get a drive every +day, and Sir Cyril, he comes in, but he's her ladyship's husband. Hssh! +baby, hssh!" + +For little Cyril began to cry querulously, wrinkling his peaky face. + +Esmé bent over him, crooning to him, her motherhood awake. Now she knew +her madness. For this was hers, and she would have sent him away to +breathe fresh air and grow into a big, strong man like Bertie. + +"It's a pity, mem, you haven't got one." The nurse lifted up the +fretful child. + +"It is--a pity." Esmé's face was white and strained, the two patches of +rouge standing out; she looked grey, old. "Oh, it is a pity, nurse," +she swayed. + +"Laws! Mrs Carteret, you're ill. It's this cruel heat. Sit you there, +and I'll run in for salts or a little sal volatile." + +"No." Esmé recovered herself. "No, nurse, thank you. It's only the +heat. Well, take care of him; and better not tell her ladyship that I +came over. She never likes my looking at the boy." + +Esmé knew now--she knew what a fool she had been. How, snatching at her +ease, her comfort, her enjoyment, she had lost the boy who brought love +with him. There was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; she dared +not tell at this stage. Bertie would never forgive her. She might even +be denied, disproved, by some jugglery. + +She went heavily homewards, walking on the hot pavement. + +An electric limousine flashed by her; a smiling face bowed, a +white-gloved hand was waved. Denise was going home to luncheon. Bond +Street again, less crowded now. Esmé saw a girl jump lightly from a +taxi, turn to smile at someone inside. It was Sybil Chauntsey; the taxi +passed Esmé and pulled up; she saw Jimmie Gore Helmsley get out. + +Where had these two been so early? They had got out separately, as if +concealment were necessary. What a fool the girl was! What a fool! + +Esmé hailed a taxi; she was lunching at the Ritz, had asked three +friends there. Bah! it would cost so much, and be over and forgotten in +an hour. + +With a smile set on a weary face, Esmé drove on. She would snatch at +amusement more greedily than ever! + +At eight in the morning a great London station is fully awake, but not +yet stifling and noisy; the cool air of the night still lurks about the +platforms; the glass has not got hot; the early people are cool +themselves. + +Bertie was up early so as to call for Estelle; his taxi sped to the +quiet square where her aunt lived. A gloomy place, with tall houses +standing in formidable respectability, where grave old butlers opened +doors, and broughams and victorias still came round to take their +owners for an airing. + +Estelle was on the doorstep, cool and fresh, one of the few people who +can get up early without looking sleepy. + +They flew to Devonshire. + +"First class!" Estelle frowned as she saw her ticket. "Oh, Captain +Carteret!" + +"This is my day," he pleaded. "To be economical travelling one must be +economical in company. Come along." + +They had an empty carriage; going down to the restaurant for +breakfast--a little gritty as train breakfasts are, but excellent. + +London slipped away; they ran past lush meadows, past placid streams, +old farmhouses sheltered by trees. The countryside was alive with busy +workers. Steel knives cut the grass and laid it in fragrant swathes. +Steel teeth tossed it up through the hot, dry air. It was perfect +weather for saving hay, for gathering the early harvest. The earth +gives to us living, takes our clay to its heart when our spirits have +left it. + +The heat mists swept up slowly from the world; fairy vapours floating +heavenwards until the summer's day was clear in its sunlit beauty; and +they tore into far Devon with the salt breath of the sea in the faint +wind. + +A dogcart met them at the station; a short drive, with the sea pulsing +far below them, brought them to Cliff End. An old house standing amid a +blaze of flowers, it was its owner's whim to have it kept up as if he +were living there. There were quaintly-shaped rooms, with windows flung +wide. Estelle ran through them, getting her first glimpse of a true +English home, while Bertie went over accounts and did his business. + +The housekeeper, a smiling dame, appeared breathlessly just as he came +in. + +She was ashamed not to be there to meet them, but old bones moved +slowly; she had been down to the Home Farm to see a sick child there. + +"We'm right glad to see your good lady at last," she smiled at Estelle, +holding out a wrinkled hand. Mrs Corydon was a privileged friend of the +family. + +"Not my good lady," Bertie said hurriedly, "a friend, Mrs Corydon." But +his face changed suddenly; he grew red. + +Man is a being dependent on his dinner; their late luncheon was perfect +of its kind. Grilled trout, chicken, Devonshire cream, and strawberries. + +"It's such a glorious old place." Estelle looked round the panelled +room. "If one could live here one could be happy simply being alive." + +"Some people could," he said quietly. "Esmé would die of boredom in a +week." + +"Of boredom, with those flowers outside, with the sea crooning so +close," she said. + +"But in winter," he answered, "there are no flowers, and the sea would +roar." + +"Then there would be fires," said Estelle, "and hunting, and books; and +always fresh air. I stifle in London." + +The day was a long joy to her, so deep it might have made her pause to +think. + +They went to the hayfields, breathing in the scent of the fragrant +grass; tossing it themselves, foolish, as children might have done; +wandering off to the river where it whispered between rocky banks. A +stretch of golden brown and silver clear, of dark shadow and plashing +ripple, green-hued where the long weeds stretched their plumes beneath +the water, eddying, swirling, gliding, until it spread out upon +Trelawney Bay, and wandered lost amongst the sands, looking for the +sea. Great ferns grew among the rocks; dog roses tangled in the hedges; +sometimes a feeding trout would break a flat with his soft ploop-ploop +as he sucked down the fly; or smaller fish would fling and plash in +shallow places, making believe that they were great creatures as they +fed. + +Bertie had asked for the tea to be sent out to them. It came in a +basket, and they lighted a spirit lamp, laying it out close to the +shimmering sea. + +Mrs Corydon had sent down wonderful cakes, splits and nun's puffs, and +a jar of the inevitable cream. It was a feast eaten by two fools who +forgot human nature. + +They gave the basket to the boy, wandered on to the cliffs. Here, with +a meadow rippling in waves of green behind them, they sat down. It was +cooler now. They sat in the shade of a high bank with the blue, +diamond-spangled water far below, emerald-hued and indigo, where it +lapped in shadow by the cliff. With the salt scent of it mingling with +the scent of grass and flowers and hot sun-baked turf. Gulls wheeled +screaming softly. They were quite alone in the glory of the country. + +Estelle, a little tired, lay back against the bank, dropped suddenly +asleep; her slender browned hands lay close to Bertie; as she moved her +head came almost against his shoulder, so that to make her more +comfortable he moved a little to support it. + +A sudden thrill ran through him; her nearness, the touch of her cheek +against his arm; her childish trust and abandon. The thrill was one of +content followed by fear. What was he learning to feel for this girl +from South Africa, this mere friend and companion? + +"Companion? Had Esmé ever been one?" Looking back he realized that +there are two sorts of love; one when man is ruled by man alone, and +one when passion and friendship can walk hand in hand; a pair, once +mated, whom death alone can part. + +He recalled his first meeting with his wife, and how her brilliant +beauty had allured him. + +How she had taken his worship carelessly, as a thing of every day; and +how always she had relied on her beauty as the natural power of woman +without dreaming of any other. A touch of her round arms about his +neck, a hot kiss--these were her arguments--arguments which, until +lately, had never failed. If he talked of outside things she would pout +and yawn, and bring him back to the centre of the world--her beauty. + +"There were other girls; tell me about them; were they as pretty as I +am, Bert?" + +"Never--never!" he had to assure her. If he talked of the sunshine she +would laugh and ask if it did not make her hair look red. Her hands, +her feet, her fingers--she was never weary of having them praised. And +yet she lacked the joy of losing herself in love; she had a merciless +power of analysing emotion, because she did not feel it deeply herself. +In all his transports, Bertie knew there had been something missing; he +had been the lover, she content to be loved. + +The true companionship which can keep silence was never theirs. + +Now, with the sea of grass waving behind them, and the sea crooning, +crooning, so far below, the man was afraid. Was there a second sort of +love, and had he missed the best thing in life? + +He loved the clean airs of the country, sport of all kinds, a home to +go to. Yet he must spend his days in close streets, in an eternal rush +of entertainment and entertaining; to go home to a little portion of a +great building, where he was merely one of the tenants of a flat. + +If no one was coming, the little drawing-room was left bare of flowers, +neglected. Esmé said she could not afford them every day. If he came +home to tea, an injured maid brought him a cup of cold stuff, probably +warmed from the morning's teapot, with two slices of bread and butter +on a plate. + +This woman, sleeping so quietly, her long dark lashes lying on a +sun-kissed cheek, would create a home, live in the quiet country, find +companionship without eternal rushing about to her fellow-mortals; +enjoy her month or two away, and then enjoy doubly the coming to her +own home. + +Man, with his pipe in his mouth and sitting in silence, dreams +foolishly as some growing girl. + +In Bertie's dream he saw Cliff End inhabited; he went round his farms, +came back to the gardens to walk in them with a slender figure by his +side, with a hundred things to think of, a hundred things to do. The +simpler things which weld home life together. He saw toddling mites +running to meet him, crying to their dada; a boy who must learn to swim +and shoot and ride; a bonnie girl who would learn too, but less +strenuously. He saw cold winter shut out, and two people who sat before +a great fire, contented to sit still and talk or read. So thinking, the +dream passed from waking; his eyes closed, and he, too, fell asleep. + +A man strolling along the cliffs paused suddenly, whistled and paused, +looking down at the two. + +A sly-eyed, freckled youth, who whistled again, drew back, clicked the +shutter of the camera he carried, and went on, laughing. + +"A pretty picture," he said contemptuously. + +Bertie awoke with the faint whistle in his ears--woke to find Estelle's +ruffled head close against his own. He sat up, wondering how long he +had been asleep. + +The freckled stranger was visible just dipping down to the steep path +which led to the sea. + +"I hope he did not see us. Good Lord! I hope he did not see us!" + +Estelle woke too, coming from sleep as a child does, rose-flushed, +blinking, rubbing her eyes. + +"Oh! I have been asleep," she cried, "wasting our day." + +"Our day," he said, as if the words hurt him. + +He pulled her to her feet. Estelle was not beautiful, but in her sweet, +clear eyes, in the curve of her mouth, the soft brownness of her skin +was something more dangerous than mere beauty. It was soul shining +through her grey eyes, the power of love, the possibility of passion. +It was intelligence, sympathy. Who wisely said some women make nets +and others cages? + +Esmé, Denise, Dollie, women of their type, could hold their cages out, +catch a bird and watch it flutter, but, wearying of him, forget his +sugar and his bird-seed, and leave the door open with the careless +certainty of finding another capture. + +But with a net woven about him, a strong net made of such soft stuff +that it did not hurt, the captive bird was caught for life, meshed, +ensnared for ever. + +"Come--it is late," Bertie said. + +As his hands closed on hers, Estelle felt the flush on her cheeks +deepen, her hands grow cold. There is a wonder to all in the dawn of +love; with some it leaps from the cold night into a sudden glow, not so +much dawn as a glorious revealing of the sun. It was so with Estelle; +there was no trembling opal in her mental sky, no gradual melting of +the mists of twilight. She knew. She loved this man. He was another +woman's husband, but she loved him--would love him to her life's end. +He must never know, and yet, being intensely human as he helped her up +the bank, there was a sick longing that he might care too, even if it +meant their instant parting. + +She fought it back; she was loyal and simple; her love must be her own; +her joy and her despair. + +"Hurry, Estelle; we shall miss the train," he said. "It's very late." + +They were further away than they thought. The path by the river was +rough; they ran panting up to the old house to see the man driving the +dog-cart away from the door. + +"It bain't no use, sir," he said; "she'm near station now, and it's two +mile an' more." + +"There's another?" Bertie said. + +There was one more, getting them into London at four next morning. +Estelle was put out, half frightened. Her aunt would be annoyed. + +"But she will know it is an accident," she said. "And we can see the +sea by moonshine now." + +They saw it as they drove to the slow train, a wide shimmer of mystery, +silver and grey and opal, frostily chill, wondrously limitless; the +hoarse whisper of its waves booming through the still night. + +"Esmé! Will Esmé mind?" Estelle asked as they steamed into London. + +"She has gone to several balls; she will never know," he said a little +bitterly. + +He did not see Esmé again until next evening. The knowledge of this new +thing in his life made him penitent, anxious to find again the charm of +the golden hair, of the brilliantly-tinted skin. He came from a long +interview with his uncle, whipping himself with a mental switch; +determined to be so strong that his friendship with Estelle might +continue as it was--reasoning out that he had been mad upon the cliffs, +half asleep and dreaming. + +He came in to find Esmé in one of her restless moods, reading over +letters, peevishly crumpling bills, grumbling at poverty. He did not +know that the memory of a pinched baby face was always before her +eyes--that she feared for the life of the son she had sold. + +"Why, Es," he said, and kissed her. + +"Don't rumple my hair," she answered; "it's done for dinner." + +"Worrying over bills?" he asked gently. + +Esmé pulled away one letter which he had taken up. "I can pay them," +she flashed peevishly. "Don't worry." Denise's allowance was due +again--overdue--and Esmé did not like to write or telephone, and had +not seen Lady Blakeney for a week. + +It was due to her, and overdue to others. Claire's bill ran in for four +pungent pages, and ran to three figures, which did not commence with a +unit. There were jewels, the motor hire. Oh! of what use was five +hundred pounds? + +If she had had the boy here she would have gone to the country, been +content for his sake. + +"Don't worry." Bertie put his hand on hers. "Es--I've been talking to +Uncle Hugh." + +"Well?" She woke up, suddenly hopeful. + +"Well, I'm his nephew. He will make me a big allowance, leave me all he +has--if--" + +"If what?" cried Esmé. + +"If we have a son before he dies," said Bertie. "That is the only +stipulation. If not, I remain as I am. He has some craze about another +Hugh Carteret. Of course there will be the title later on." + +"If we have a son." Esmé stood up and laughed. "A son!" she said, "a +son! I--" + +"Why, Esmé!" Bertie ran to her. "Oh, don't cry like that. My dear, +don't cry like that." + +The wild outburst of a woman in hysterics filled the little room. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +"OH, of course, I'd forgotten." Denise had been reminded of her +promise--looked vaguely annoyed. "H'm! I'm short now. Can't ask Cyrrie, +can I? I'll bring you two hundred, Esmé! Give you some more in August, +my quarter day." + +"But I want it. I've run into debt counting on it," said Esmé, sullenly. + +"Oh, you've got old Hugh to fall back on now Bertie's the heir. If I +could ask Cyrrie--but I can't! Two hundred's a lot, Esmé. You must make +it do." + +"You'll be away in August," Esmé said. "You can't send me so much in a +cheque." + +"No. I'll get notes. I'll be sure to. I shall be at home. Wonders will +never cease. I've got to keep very quiet just now," said Denise. "It's +wonderful--and I'm not afraid." + +"Oh!" Esmé sat up. "And--if it's a son, Denise, your own son--you--what +will you do?" + +"Yet must the alien remain the heir." Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I +should never dare to tell. You don't know Cyrrie. He'd send me away +somewhere with three hundred a year, and never see or speak to me +again. For Heaven's sake, Es, remember that. Besides, it would all take +some proving now." + +"Be good to my boy or I'll claim him," said Esmé, stormily. + +"Hush! Es. Don't!" Denise looked terrified. "And you dare not, either. +Your Bertie would not forgive. Look here! I've got a pendant I don't +want; take it and sell it. It's worth two hundred. And I'll scrape out +three for you somehow. Oh, here's Cyrrie." + +The big man came in. There was a sense of power about him and of +relentless purpose. His under jaw, his deeply-set eyes, were those of a +man who, once roused, could be cruel, and even merciless. + +"Hello! Mrs Carteret." He was always cordial to Esmé. "We've missed you +lately. Den, the boy's peaky--wants fresh air, his nurse says." + +Esmé turned white, clenched her hands until her gloves split and burst. + +"Send him to the sea," said Denise, carelessly. "Broadstairs, Cromer, +anywhere, Cyrrie." + +"No, I think we'll go home. It's better for you too." Sir Cyril's big +jaw shot out. "We'll go home, Den. I've wired, and the boy can go on +to-morrow. Drive down, it will do him good, in the big car." + +"Oh!" Esmé saw that Denise objected, hated going, yet was afraid to +object once her husband had decided. + +"Oh, I'm glad you're sending him out of London," Esmé burst out. "He +looks wretched. I am glad." + +"He's your godson, isn't he?" laughed Blakeney. "You were good then, +Mrs Carteret. Seen to-day's paper? That little fool of a Cantilupe +woman has made a mess of it, and Cantilupe was right to take it to +court. Seen the evidence? She forged his name to a cheque for five +hundred to give to this wretched man. Trusted to Canty's absolute +carelessness. He never looked at accounts. But the bank grew uneasy, +'phoned to Canty, and he said it was his signature all right and paid. +Then he found out where the money had gone to, and all the rest, and +she defended like a fool. The kindest fellow in the world, but he's +merciless now. Told about the cheque so as to shame her." + +"She was his wife. He should have remembered that," faltered Denise. + +"She had deceived him," Sir Cyril answered. "No man worth the name +forgets that. She deceived him. I couldn't forgive five minutes of it, +especially as there are no children; not that sort of deceit. I was +even too hard on folly once, but that's different." He went out of the +room, big and strong and determined. + +"Bother that boy!" stormed Denise. "There are three or four things I +hate missing. Oh, bother! bother!" She stamped her foot in her +impatience, frowning and biting at her fingers. "Oh, here, Esmé. Come +to my room." + +The maid was there, laying out a new gown. + +"You can go, Sutton. Here! slip it away." Denise opened a case, pulled +out a heavy pendant, a tasteless, valuable thing. + +"Old Susan, Cyrrie's aunt, sent it to me when she heard I was a +mother." Denise laughed. "Green said it was worth three hundred. I've +loads of others, and no one will miss this. I'll get you the notes." + +Denise was friendly again, more like her old self, but moved, as Esmé +knew, by fear, and not by gratitude or love. + +Denise was called to the telephone. Esmé was left alone for a time in +the luxurious bedroom, standing by the open safe, enviously fingering +the jewels. How lovely they were. A necklace of diamonds and emeralds; +Cartier work; a jewelled snake with ruby eyes. A rope of pearls. +Sapphires, opals, emeralds, all glowing as Esmé opened the cases. + +"Oh, I thought her ladyship was here, mem," the maid had come in +quietly. Esmé turned with a start. + +"Her ladyship went to the telephone." Esmé closed her hand about the +pendant, which she had been holding carelessly. She could see the maid +watching her covertly. + +"Oh, there you are, Denise." Esmé still held the heavy pendant, afraid +to put it in her bag before the maid, afraid to show it. + +"Yes. I'm late too. Cyril's waiting. We're lunching out. My hat, +Sutton, my veil, quickly!" + +Esmé slipped the pendant into her bag as the maid turned away. The +Blakeneys drove her to Jules, where she said she would be lunching. + +But, not hungry, she went on to Benhusan, a well-known jeweller, +offering her pendant. + +The head man took it, looking at the heavy stones. + +"Yes, we could give two hundred for this, to break up. It's tasteless." +He examined it carefully. "Came from us, originally," he said. "We all +have our private mark, madam. Made to order, no doubt. I'll speak to Mr +Benhusan, madam. One moment." + +Esmé flushed with annoyance. They might look up the pendant, perhaps +speak of it to someone. + +She got two hundred and thirty for it and went out. + +Mr Benhusan nodded at the heavy bauble. "It was made for the Dowager +Lady Blakeney," he said. "I remember it. The centre stone is worth all +the money we have given for it." + +Absently, with a lack of her usual shrewdness, Esmé went to the door, +opened it, and remembered her notes; they had paid her. + +She had put three into her bag, when a thin hand shot out, grabbed the +rest, and before she could even cry out, the thief was lost in the +crowd. + +Esmé stood stricken, shaking more with futile anger than anything else. +Her brains were quick. If she went back, raised the hue and cry, what +then? Bertie would ask her what pendant she was selling. The whole +thing would come out. + +Esmé walked away, her face white, her hands shaking. She counted what +was left at her club in Dover Street; three notes for fifty each. So +she was robbed of over a hundred, and someone must go unpaid. Unless +Denise would make it up. There was too much loyalty in Esmé to think of +working on her friend's fears. She sat brooding, smoking, too much +upset to eat. A boy she knew came in, noticed her white cheeks--a thin +and somewhat stupid youth, who posed as a Don Juan, considered himself +irresistible. + +"Not lookin' a bit well," he said. "No luncheon? Come along down to the +Berkeley and have a little champagne. Let me look after you, dear lady." + +Esmé was a beauty; he walked proudly with her, looking at her dazzling +colouring, her well-formed, supple limbs. + +She let herself be distracted by flattery, listened to foolish +compliment, to praise of her glorious hair, her beautiful eyes. + +Wouldn't she come for a drive some Sunday? The new Daimler was a dear. +Down to Brighton or away into the country for a picnic. She must let +him see more of her. + +Angy Beerhaven leant across the table, _empresse_, showing how ready he +was to love, to be a devoted friend. + +Over champagne and sandwiches Esmé babbled a little, told of her loss, +of how hard up she was. + +With sympathy discreetly veiled behind his cigarette smoke, Angy +hinted. Pretty women need never be hard up. Fellows would only find it +a pleasure to make life easy for them if--there was friendship, real +friendship, between good pals. + +The restaurant was almost empty; they sat in a quiet corner. With wits +suddenly sharpened, Esmé looked at the thin, weakly vicious face, at +the boy's eyes glittering over her beauty, already seeing himself +chosen. His carefully-tended hands were opening his gold +cigarette-case. She shuddered. If she allowed those hands the right to +caress her she could be free of debt and care--for a time. + +Love affairs were butterflies of a season. Next year it would have to +be someone else; there would be the distraction of it, the adoration +which always pleases a woman; and then the fading, the breaking free. +The meeting again with a careless good-morning, with the shame searing +her soul as she remembered. + +Distraction, a little less time to think, was what Esmé wanted. She saw +too clearly for this. She had sold one birthright without thought; but +not this second one of her self-respect. + +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! Esmé 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. + +Esmé 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, Esmé 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 +muffins; the second and third where one could smoke; these rooms were +separated by portičres of Indian beads, rattling as one passed through. + +Tired, her head aching from the champagne, Esmé 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 +gushing notes, open to several constructions. In one she had spoken of +that ripping tea at his rooms. She shivered again. + +"I'll let you know," she faltered. "Oh! I'll try to come." + +Esmé 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-snatched-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 Esmé 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 +buttons 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." + +"Esmé Carteret"--Denise could see the big, heavy face thrust forward, +as Sir Cyril lighted a cigarette--"Esmé 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 Esmé 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. + +Sybil would not go to a dance that evening; she pleaded headache, sat +in her stuffy room, looking out across the hot slates, thinking. + +She was afraid. Who would help her now to pay this man and so get out +of his power? She had learned to dread him. + +She jumped up suddenly, ran to her writing-table. Old memories crowded +back to her, her first years of coming out, when she had been so happy. +She saw the library at the Holbrooks', felt warm young hands on hers, +heard a voice saying: + +"But if you are ever in any trouble, if you want help, send for me. I +shall always be ready." + +Her young soldier lover would help her now; and with wet eyes above the +paper she wrote on, Sybil knew how she would turn to him again. How +gifts of flowers and sweets, expensive dinners and suppers, stolen +interviews for tea and subtle flattery, had lost their charm. + +She only wrote a few lines, posted it to York, where his regiment was +stationed; she wanted his help, urgently; would he come to her _at +once_? + +So the hot curtain of night fell on another act for Sybil. + +Esmé had gone home after tea, found Bertie there, resting in the +flowerless drawing-room. + +With nerves strung up, with her hidden excitement wearing her out, she +came to him, threw herself suddenly on her knees beside him, laid her +face against his, tried to wake the thrill which the touch of his lips +had given her once. + +Bertie, surprised, drew her to him, kissing the red mouth. + +It had been innocent of lip salve when he had kissed them first; her +soft cheeks had not been plastered with expensive creams and powder. As +hungry people imagine feasts, so Esmé sought for forgetfulness in +passionate kisses, in new transports of love. Sought--and found no +place. It seemed to her that Bertie had grown cold, that he no longer +cared for her. He had never been a sensualist, only an honest lover. + +Whispered hints of Gore Helmsley's, little stories he had told her, +came to her as she rested her cheek against her husband's. + +"Dear old Es," he said affectionately, but not passionately. "Dear old +butterfly, it's nice to have my girlie loving again; but we'll be late +for dinner if we don't dress quickly. Es, call your maid." + +Esmé rang listlessly; she hardly knew what she wanted, save that it was +something which would wipe away her bitter thoughts. + +Through dinner she was recklessly merry, witty in her flashing way; +brilliantly, a little haggardly, pretty. The patches of pink were more +pronounced on her cheeks, her powder thicker. + +Then, driving home in the cool, she remembered Sybil Chauntsey. Here +was another woman about to make a mistake, to realize too late, as she +had done, that money cannot repay peace of mind. Deep, too, in Esmé's +mind, was a horror of sinning. She was instinctively pure herself; her +ideas set deeply in a bed of conventionality. A girl of Sybil's type +would suffer all her life if she once slipped, perhaps afterwards grow +completely reckless, look on her one sin as so deadly that a host of +others could matter little, and might drown thought. + +Esmé forgot Sybil until Sunday morning. Angy Beerhaven had proved +himself in earnest, had almost insisted on a trip in his new car. +"Bring anyone--your husband and a friend," he said. + +Esmé had agreed heartily. There was Estelle; she would like the drive. +As the huge cream-coloured Daimler hummed softly at her door, Angy +asked where they would go to. + +"The sea would be lovely to-day," he said. "Or there are the Downs or +the Forest." + +"The sea!" Esmé shot out swiftly. "The sea!" she said. + +"Then Brighton. It's a nice run; there are decent hotels. One only gets +cold beef and cutlets in heaps of places." + +"Brighton let it be," she said carelessly. + +The Daimler seemed a live monster purring as she flew along the smooth +roads, laughing at her hills, answering sweetly to her brakes, swinging +her great length contemptuously past weaker sisters. + +The salt kiss of the sea was on their faces as they dipped into +Brighton. + +"We'll run out again afterwards," Angy said; "get a good blow." + +Esmé had been a merry companion on the way down. + +Strolling on the front, Esmé started suddenly. Sybil might be here; she +remembered the conversation now. In the huge place it would be almost +impossible to find her. Jimmie would not come to the best-known hotels. + +But if she could--it would be worth some trouble. + +Esmé's fit of boredom vanished. She was full of plans. They would run +off for a long run, come back to tea, dine again in Brighton and go +home in the cool. + +"They'll be quite happy anywhere," she said, nodding towards Estelle +and Bertie. "We can go off by ourselves." + +Angy's hopes grew deeper. His fatuously ardent glances were more +frequent. He whispered eager nonsense to Esmé, hinted at happy future +drives and meetings, of lending her the car altogether if she liked. + +To have a sixty Daimler at one's disposal would be convenient, but as +it would generally include Angy Beerhaven as chauffeur, Esmé shrugged +her shoulders. A taxi suited her better, though she did not say so. + +After tea she grew restless; wanted to see other hotels, to inspect +Brighton. The Metropole was too crowded. + +"Come with me," she said to Angy; "we'll prospect, and telephone here +if we find some nest which suits me." + +A cabman gave her information. + +"Quiet hotels, but smart, nice? He'd tell of one, yes, miss, he would." + +It was only as they went on that Esmé realized the smirk of innuendo on +the man's red face. + +"Often driven parties there as wanted to be quiet an' comfabul," said +Jehu, taking a shilling graciously. "Thank you, lady, and good luck." + +Esmé went to two or three places, read the dinner menu carefully, made +Angy wonder what restless spirit possessed her, then came to the +jarvey's recommendation, a small hotel facing the sea, standing +modestly behind a long strip of garden. The garden was full of roses +and shrubs, so that the porch was almost concealed. + +The lady peering out of the little office was unmistakably French. + +"Madame wished to see the dinner menu--but certainly! Madame would want +a private room, no doubt; the coffee-room was small and the tables +already crowded." + +"It is a hotel of private rooms," said Esmé to herself. She went on to +a small, dimly-lighted veranda, set with huge palms and +cunningly-placed nooks. She paused abruptly. + +"I must go back! Oh, I must!" said Sybil's voice. "We shall miss the +train--please let me." + +"My cousin cannot be any time. Most annoying her being out all day. +Don't spoil a perfect day, little Sybil. There's a late train we can +catch. Or, better still, hire a car and drive up." + +Esmé turned swiftly to her somewhat bewildered cavalier. + +"Oh, Mr Beerhaven," she said. "Will you go to the telephone--order +dinner at the Metropole, and see if they have quails--and peaches. It's +the best place, after all. I'll wait here for you. Hurry, or they won't +have shot the quails." + +Angy left, ruminating on the logic of women. + +"But give me my letters," she heard Sybil plead. "Please do! You +promised them if I came here to-day." + +"I promised--I will fulfil. After dinner you shall have your letters, +little girl. Now, don't get silly and nervous." + +"Of course I'll send you that money when I can," Sybil faltered, "but--" + +"I won't ask you for the money. You were a good child to come here, +little Sybil." + +Esmé looked in. + +Sybil was lying back in a long chair, her face white, her eyes half +resentful, half fascinated. Jimmie Helmsley, bending over her, began to +stroke her hands softly. His dark eyes bore no half thoughts in them. + +"After dinner," he whispered. "I won't tease you any more about that +silly debt." + +Esmé pushed aside a spiky frond; she was righteously angry. + +"Oh, Sybil," she said. "Your mother asked me if I came across you to +take you home in our car. I was sampling hotels and luckily ran you to +earth." + +Sybil sprang up. Resentment, fascination, merged to sudden wild relief. +She had told her mother that she was spending the day with a school +friend. + +"But--How very lucky your running across us." Gore Helmsley's teeth +showed too much as he smiled; it made his greeting exceedingly like a +snarl. + +"Oh, yes, so lucky." Esmé listened to Helmsley's pattered explanation. +"His cousin, Mrs Gore, etc. Very awkward. Out of Brighton. They had +come here to wait for her." + +"Very awkward," said Esmé, drily. "Well, you must join us at dinner. +You can't wait here--alone." + +A waiter padded noiselessly in. Dinner would be ready in ten minutes in +Number Twenty-seven. They had procured the roses which Monsieur had +ordered. + +It amused Esmé a little to watch Gore Helmsley fight back his anger, +mask himself in a moment in a thin cloak of carelessness. He followed +the waiter into the hall. + +"Sybil," said Esmé, sharply, "this is not wise, not right." + +"We came to meet a cousin," Sybil whimpered. "She never came. I had to +come--I had to. And now he's angry." She shivered a little, half +tearful, half frightened. + +"No, she would not come," said Esmé, drily; "but lie as I lie, my +child, or there may be some pretty stories floating about London." + +"Oh! you've ordered dinner," she said to Angy, "and I've just found +Miss Chauntsey. She was dining with Captain Helmsley's cousin, Mrs +Gore. But she is putting her off and joining our party at the +Metropole." + +Mr Beerhaven opened his mouth twice without emitting any particular +sound. + +"She's just gone home, hasn't she, Sybil?" said Esmé. "Quite a pretty +woman. Come along." + +Again Angy opened his mouth and shut it. It was not his part to say +that he knew Mrs Gore to be in London. Angy was not altogether +bad-hearted and he disliked Jimmie Gore Helmsley. + +"Rotten!" said Mr Beerhaven, speaking at last. + +"Eh?" said Esmé, sharply. + +"Rotten luck, y'know, on Mrs Gore, but so glad. We'd better drive back. +And a rotten chap," said Angy, forcibly. "You're a brick, Mrs +Carteret." This speech made Esmé understand that Angy Beerhaven was not +as big a fool as he looked. + +In the cab Sybil leant back, frightened. She was afraid of Gore +Helmsley's too-pleasant smile--afraid of the look in his eyes. + +Esmé had whispered a few swiftly-spoken words to him, directing that +their lies should be alike. + +"It was exceedingly awkward," she said drily. + +Angy had ordered everything he could think of. They began on iced +caviare and finished up with forced peaches. He was exceedingly rich, +and a snare wrought of gold was the only one he knew of. + +Sybil was quiet through dinner, eating nothing, visibly unhappy. + +Afterwards, as they sat in the cool, smoking, Gore Helmsley slipped to +her side. + +"Was there ever anything so unlucky?" he said. + +"It was--very unlucky," said Sybil, dully. + +"That woman hunting round for dinner, so she says. She's fairly decent, +I fancy, won't blab. She lied brilliantly. It was so very awkward, and +now Cissy will be quite disappointed. She 'phoned to say she was just +starting to meet us. It was a lovely day together," he whispered. "Come +to tea with me to-morrow, Sybil." + +"You promised me my letters," she shot out, her heart thumping, "and my +I.O.U. Give them to me." + +"To-morrow," he said lightly. "I would have given them to you to-night, +Sybil. Silly child ever to sign things." + +Sybil's lip trembled; the snare was about her feet. + +A tall man pushed his way through the crowd, looking anxiously at the +tables. He was covered with the dust of a long journey; he came +quickly, staring at each group. + +"Oliver!" Sybil sprang to her feet, rushed across to him. "Oh, Captain +Knox, why did you not come yesterday?" + +"I only got back to York this morning. I motored to London, and it took +me hours to find your mother. Who is that--in the shadow?" + +"Captain Gore Helmsley." Sybil's voice grew shrill. + +"And Sybil is here with me," said Esmé, coming out of another shadow. +"Take her for a walk before we start. I want to talk to my friend here." + +"Sybil--why did you write for me like that?" + +"I wanted you to save me, and you never came," she faltered. + +"But I am not too late. My God, not that!" + +Then, stumblingly, she told him her story of sorrow. + +"I was going to ask you to pay the debt for me," she said, "to get me +clear. I dare not tell my mother or father." + +"I brought money, as you said you wanted it; and there is nothing more, +Sybil?" he said, taking her hands. + +"Nothing. We spent the day here--waiting for Mrs Gore. And oh, I was +afraid." + +"Mrs Gore is in London. I saw her as I was looking for your mother." + +"In London!" Sybil's cheeks grew very white. It had all been a lie. She +would have dined at the small hotel, waiting for the woman who could +never have joined them. And afterwards, alone with the man she feared +and yet who influenced her. + +Sybil was no innocent fool; the blackness of the chasm she had just +missed sliding into was plainly before her eyes. + +She flung herself suddenly into Knox's arms. + +"Oh, Oliver, if you want me still, take me," she sobbed, "for I am a +fool, and not fit to look after myself. I don't mind being poor; I only +want you." + +Captain Gore Helmsley, meanwhile, was listening to a few softly-uttered +home-truths from Esmé Carteret. + +"You might have ruined the child's reputation," she said angrily. "She +was a fool to come here with you. Married women are fair game, Jimmie, +but a girl has not learnt how to guard. It's not fair." + +Sybil, with the frightened look gone from her eyes, came back to the +table on the veranda. + +"I owe you some money, Captain Gore Helmsley," she said clearly, "for +bridge debts. It was good of you to let it stand over." She laid a +cheque on the table. "Will you give me back my acknowledgments? Oliver +is paying for me--we are going to be married." + +Jimmie, smiling sweetly, pulled out his pocketbook, took from it a +neatly-folded paper. + +"And--two letters--referring to the debt," said Sybil, steadily. + +"Not altogether to the debt." Jimmie laughed. "You are as unkind now, +Miss Chauntsey, as you are dramatic." + +"I want them," she said coldly. "You gave me your promise that I should +have them back." + +Jimmie took out the letters. + +"I am giving them to Oliver to read, and then we'll burn them," she +said simply. + +"Oh, hang it!" said Gore Helmsley, blankly; "this _has_ been a nice +evening!" + +"In which you got your dinner and desserts," flashed Esmé, laughing +openly. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +A solemn child, healthy in body, but with wistful eyes, paddled his +spade into wet shingly sand at Bournemouth. He was precociously wise, +already given to thought, to wondering as children wonder. + +What Cyril wondered was why there were so many scold words in the +world? Why it was always, "Don't, Cyril!" and "Cyril, run away!" or +"Cyril, I will not have you rough to your brother." + +Why mother, who was a beautiful thing, would catch up little Cecil and +look so bitterly at him, and on more bitterly still to Cyril. + +"Funny how her ladyship adores Master Cecil," Mrs Stanson would confide +to the under-nurse; "being delicate, I suppose." + +Cyril was heir to four places, to grouse moors and fishings, to +diamonds and plate and pictures, all entailed. Cecil would have a +younger son's ample portion, and no more. Cecil was puny, a weakling; +his father sighed over him. + +Paddling his spade, Baby Cyril came round the castle, brushed a little +roughly against Baby Cecil; the spoilt child fell and whimpered. + +"Cyril sorry. I sorry, Cecil." + +"Cyril, you rough little wretch!" Lady Blakeney leant forward, slapping +the boy harshly. "You little bully!" + +"I"--Cyril touched the white place which stung on his soft cheek, the +white which turned to dull red. "I--" His mouth quivered, but he said +nothing, merely looked out at the heaving sea. + +The pathos in his child's eyes might have touched anyone but a mother +jealous of another woman's child, storming behind a rage which must be +hidden. + +Esmé Carteret's baby must oust Denise's son from his kingdom. + +"Ah, Denise! How can you?" A pained cry, another woman springing +forward, catching the slapped baby to her. "Denise! How can you!" + +"Why not, Esmé? He's a born bully. Bad-tempered, always hurting Cecil. +A great strong tyrant." + +The women's eyes met with anger and dislike flashing in both glances. + +It was not altogether chance which had brought Esmé to Bournemouth. She +hunted health now, strove for what once had been hers to trifle +with--hunted health and peace, and found neither. + +Denise's payments were desultory; she had to show outward civility to +Esmé to make up for the half-yearly hush-money. Sir Cyril had houses at +Bournemouth; she had offered one to the Carterets for nothing. + +"Poor Esmé, Cyril. I told her she might have the little lodge. She's +looking wretched." + +"She's the most restless being on earth. Of course, Den; give it to +her. If she had a pair of boys, now, as you have." + +"Yes." Denise had to hide the pain in her eyes, for with Cecil's birth +had come a fierce mother-love, making the careless indifference which +she had felt for Cyril turn to bitter dislike. He got the measles, +brought it to her boy, who almost died of it; whooping-cough, before +the child was old enough to bear it well. + +They were down at Blakeney Court when Denise told her husband that she +had lent Esmé the lodge. The boys were playing outside; the little one +crawling solemnly, Cyril arranging sticks and flowers into a pattern. + +"He's got an extraordinary look of someone," said Sir Cyril. "Cecil's a +true Blakeney, if he wasn't so delicate; but Cyril's finer--not like +us; he mopes and dreams already." + +If there were no Cyril! Denise clenched her hands, understood how men +felt before they brushed aside some life in their path. That day was +wet later; she found the children playing in the picture-gallery, with +Nurse Stanson showing a friend the Romneys and the Gainsboroughs, and +other treasures which represented a fortune. + +Cyril loved one cavalier, painted on a fiery charger, an impossible +beast, all tail and eyes and nostril. The boy was happy staring at the +picture, patting at the great frame. "Cyrrie's man," he would say. +"Cyrrie's man." + +"Oh, Cyril's man--all Cyril's men," Denise flashed out furiously. "No +men for Cecil." + +"Cecil not care for Cyril's man, mummie," the child's eyes looked +wistfully at Denise. "He never look up yet." + +"Oh, they'll all be yours--gloat over it!" snapped Denise. "Take your +friend on, Mrs Stanson; show her the picture of Lady Mary Blakeney--the +one by Lely. Yes, all yours!" Half unconsciously she pushed Cyril; he +slipped on the polished floor, slid toward the fireplace, fell with his +yellow head not three inches from the old stone kerb. + +Nurse Stanson ran to him, screaming. Demon-driven, Denise had watched. +If--if--the little pate had hit the hard, cold stone, if her boy had +been left heir. + +"All right, mummie--Cyril not hurt," he had said, bravely, as he got up. + +And now--they were playing at Bournemouth, and Baby Cyril had come +through croup, with the best doctors in London striving against King +Death for the life of Sir Cyril's heir. + +How many children would have died in the wheezing, cruel struggle! At +heart it made Denise a murderess, and she hated herself for it. + +"You--you are cruel to that child," Esmé said. "You are, Denise. Take +care." + +Two small, sand-dusted hands pushed her away. Cyril backed with dignity. + +"Mummie only made a miftook, tank you," he said--"only a miftook." + +He was loyal to the woman who hated him. Her child, yet he pushed her +away, would not accept the clinging tenderness of her hands. Esmé sat +down again, her eyes hard and bitter. + +The years had changed her greatly. Her dazzling beauty had not so much +faded as hardened. Her eyes were still bright, her hair gold; but the +flush of red-and-white was all art now; her mouth had tightened; the +brightness of her blue eyes was that of aching restlessness. + +She had tried rest cures and come away half maddened by the quiet, by +her leisure to think. She had travelled and come home to England +because the boy was there. + +Sometimes she would turn to Bertie, show the same half-wild outbursts +of tenderness which she had first shown on the day she had sold the +pendant; trying to find comfort in his caresses, clinging to him, +pouring out tender words. Then the phase would pass. Without perfect +confidence perfect love cannot exist. There was a secret between them; +they were lovers no longer. For weeks she would go her own careless +way, spending recklessly, always in debt, paying off the mites on +account which make debts rolling snowballs, mounting until they crush +the maker. + +Sometimes Denise was difficult to get at; sometimes she said she was +afraid of Sir Cyril. The boy's price came in small sums, fifties, +twenties; often frittered away on a day or two's foolish amusement. + +Old Hugh Carteret made his will, left it ready for signature. + +"When you have a child, Bertie, I will leave you everything," he said, +"and make your allowance up to what my boys had." He sighed as he spoke +of his loss. + +Esmé would have welcomed a child now--a mite to wipe out Cyril's +memory, but none came to her. + +She had taken to concealing her debts, to paying them as well as she +could, for Bertie grew sterner as the years passed. + +"I believe that Reynolds girl advises him," Esmé once confided to +Dollie Gresham. "They're always talking sense." + +"So frightfully trying," sympathized Dollie kindly; "kind of thing one +learns up for maiden aunts, or uncles about to die; but in everyday +life, unbearable." + +Esmé's old friends dropped her a little; she lost her fresh, childish +charm; she was always hinting at her poverty; asking carelessly to be +driven about in other people's cars, picking up bundles of flowers and +carrying them off, vaguely promising to send the money for them; but +she hadn't time to go round to get her own. She wanted now to be +entertained rather than entertain. She was feverishly anxious to win at +bridge, and irritable to her partner if they lost. + +The club saw more of her. Men friends dropped Esmé after a time; the +disinterested spending of money is not the way of ordinary mankind. +Dinners, suppers, flowers, theatres must have their credit account on +one side of the ledger; and Esmé would have none of it. + +Behind the aching love for her lost boy she liked her husband, and even +if she had not liked him, would not have deceived him. + +Stolen interviews, bribed maids, carefully-arranged country-house +visits, were not of her life. + +She sat still now, staring at the sea. Sometimes she would get into a +bathing dress, and swim out. She was a fine swimmer, but the ripple of +the salt water meant an hour's careful repairs. Her figure, too, had +lost its supple beauty and she did not care to show it. + +Estelle Reynolds was swimming, carefully, with short, jerky strokes, +Bertie holding one hand under her small, firm chin. + +Estelle's mother had married again; the girl lived on with her aunt in +London. A dull life, only brightened by her friendship with the +Carterets. + +With eyes which would not see Estelle and Bertie Carteret had put aside +that day in Devonshire, tried to hide from each other how sweet it was +to meet and talk, how easy to drop into the fatally intimate +confidences when man and woman tell of their childhood, and their hopes +and fears and foolish little adventures, as men and women only tell to +those they care for. + +"She is no swimmer," said Esmé, contemptuously, "that Reynolds girl." + +"Your husband takes care of her." Denise Blakeney's laugh was full of +spiteful meaning. "He will teach her to swim, belle Esmé." + +"I'll swim myself; I'll show them how." Esmé's bathing dress was by her +side. She picked up the bundle, calling to her maid; regretted the +impulse before she had got to her tent; flung herself hurriedly then +into the thin webbing, fastened on stockings and sandals and a +bright-coloured cap, and ran out. + +"Here, Bertie, tell Estelle to look at me." Vanity breaking out as she +poised on the board, slipped into the cool water, swam easily, +powerfully out to sea; the rush of the water soothed her nerves; she +was its master, beating it down, cleaving her way through it. Treading +water, she looked through the translucent depths; how quiet it was +there. What if she gave up struggling and slid down to peace? She +looked down, morbidly fascinated. But before peace there would be a +choking struggle; the labouring of smothered lungs for precious air; +the few moments of consciousness before the blackness came. + +A child's voice rose shrilly from the shore. + +"No, mumsie, Cyril didn't. He not sorry, 'cos he didn't." + +Esmé turned and swam back. She could not die. She would have a son of +her own to still the longing for the sad-eyed boy she had sold. + +"See, Estelle--strike out! Don't be afraid. Let Bertie go." + +"But I am afraid, horribly. And I like one toe on the sand," said +Estelle, placidly. "I swim all short, somehow." + +"It's because you are afraid." No one was looking at her; Esmé's +interest in the swimming died out suddenly; she grew bored again, +fretful. + +She went in, the bathing dress clinging to her, showing how thin she +was growing. + +"You had better go in too, Estelle. You've been out for an hour. No, +you'll never swim the Channel." + +Half nervously Bertie sent the girl away, tried to forget the thrill of +contact as he held up the firm little chin, as he touched her soft +round limbs in the water. + +The girl was so completely fresh and virginal, with a new beauty +growing in her face and sweet grey eyes. She was lithe, active; he +watched her run to catch his wife, to walk in beside her. + +Esmé was quite young, but she walked stiffly; she was growing angular. + +The two women pulled to the flap of the tent, flinging off their +dripping things. Esmé had thrown a silken wrapper over her shoulders; +she stood looking into the long glass she had hung up in a corner. A +sense of futile anger racked her as she looked; the powder was streaked +on her face; the rouge standing out patchily; she looked plain, almost +old. The mirror showed her slim body, with limbs growing too thin, with +her girlish outlines spoilt and gone. Behind her, unconscious of +scrutiny, she watched Estelle drying herself vigorously, perfect of +outline, with rounded arms moving swiftly, slight and yet well-covered, +a model of girlish grace. + +With a muttered exclamation Esmé looked at tell-tale marring lines, +began hastily to put on her expensive under-garments; cobwebby, silken +things, trimmed with fine real lace. + +"Go for my powder, Scott"--Esmé's maids never stayed with her for +long--"for my powder, quickly!" + +"A clumsy woman." Esmé lighted a cigarette, sat in the shadow, +accentuating the age she had seen by knowing of it, lines of +unhappiness deepening in her handsome face. + +Scott, objecting to a quarter of a mile in scorching heat, went +mincingly. Came back with powder alone, without rouge or lip salve, or +face cream--stood woodenly listening to an outburst of abuse. They were +going on at once to a picnic luncheon; the motors were waiting. Denise +had called out twice impatiently. + +"You said powder, mem." + +"I cannot go like this. I must get back; and they will not wait." + +Esmé had denounced the picnic as a bore in the morning; now she knew +what it would be like to sit alone at a cold luncheon and miss the +drive. + +"Madame"--a soft voice spoke outside the flaps of the tent. Scott, +enraged and giving notice, had left to bridle in the sunshine--"is +there anything I can do for Madame?" + +It was Esmé's old maid, Marie. The girl came in with a Frenchwoman's +deftness, and pulled a make-up box from her pocket. + +"Pauvre, madame; after the bath too. I always carry this." + +Marie dabbed swiftly until the streaked complexion was made cunningly +perfect. Marie was out of a place--had left her last mistress, a +plebeian nobody. + +"With no dresses to come to me but those in violet silks or of the +colour called tomato!" cried Marie. "Oh, Madame! And with no life, no +gaiety, nothing but five-o'clock parties, and long luncheons, and, +madame--oh, but raging when she lost at the bridge. Mon Dieu! So I left +Madame. It is true one night I did put on the false plait--oh, but not +carefully, for a dinner, but after a great scolding my fingers did +tremble. Madame's great guest was an Eveque, what you call down Church, +and strict. James the footman told me, and it was dreadful; it was to +his lap the loose plait fell. I left. Madame is ravishing, and I would +I were again in the service of my dear Madame." + +It was easily arranged. Esmé forgot that Marie might know a little and +guess more. She sent the irate Scott away immediately, and directed +Marie to the house they were lodging in. + +A glance at the glass had made Marie seem indispensable; a brilliantly +handsome face was reflected there now, pink-cheeked, white-skinned, +smooth. + +"Esmé! What have you been doing? We are hopelessly late, and we are +driving you." + +"All my powder was washed off"--Esmé was frank, up to a certain +point--"I'm sorry, Denise." + +"And Cyril will bring the children; they are gone in the small car." +Denise was irritated, impatient. + +Sir Cyril drove; a big, pearl-grey Mercedes hummed away, nosing through +traffic, sensitive as a child, eager as a hunter. + +The picnic was on the cliffs, miles away. They lunched in a dazzling +sun, since it is ever in the mind of man that he enjoys himself more +away from his own cool dining-room, seated on hard ground in the heat. + +The Blakeneys' cook knew that which was indigestible and therefore +indispensable. Lobster mayonnaise, cold salmon, devilled shrimps, +galantines, pastry, whipped cream. + +The appetite of picnickers is a great thing, and one which towards +tea-time wonders what possessed it. But girls laughed merrily, planning +strolls by the shimmering sea; they had brought shrimp nets. Girls with +pretty, unspoiled feet would take off shoes and stockings and paddle +into pools, treacherous places where one slipped and wanted help to +steady one. + +Other girls would sit quiet in shady nooks. Youth loves its picnics +where it may wander in couples; and mamma loves them, knowing how +sunshine and fresh air and the folly of shrimp-hunting all lead to the +hour when the young man feels he cannot do without the merry, pretty, +foolish thing who cries "A crab!" and clings to him. + +Denise had asked young people; she had no London friends down here. She +watched them pair off as she sat down in the shade--listened to shrill +laughs and merry voices. + +Esmé, yawning, bored again, strolled away alone; there was no one she +wanted to talk to. The sea had slipped far out; opal-tinted pools +gleamed on the sands and shingle; brown seaweed clung to the rocks. + +The children, busy with pails, were gathering shells and stones, +looking with delight at the gay colours of the pebbles as they picked +them up, wet and glistening, to fade into dull-hued things of red and +brown and grey. + +Esmé waited with them; helped Cyril to find yellow shells and brilliant +bits of polished brick and pebble. + +He looked pale, wistful. It was in her mind to shriek out her secret +aloud--to pick the child up and cry out that he was hers and she would +keep him. + +How she had dreaded his coming; how gladly she had arranged the plot +with Denise. And now she knew that her heart was no harder than other +women's; that nature was stronger than her love of indolence and +pleasure. If she had been honest and patient Bertie would be heir now +to several thousands a year, and this child, her son, to a title. He +was hers and she had cheated him, given him to a loveless life, sent +him into unhappiness. Who would have dreamt of Denise having a child, +of the bitter jealousy of this false son. + +"And we dare not," whispered Esmé to the pebbles, "we dare not tell." + +Cyril was settling his pebbles in rings and loops, making quaint +patterns of them, on a strip of dry sand. + +"Funny thing." Bertie Carteret strolled across to his wife. "I was +always at that when I was a kiddie. Let me help, Cyril. I used to love +making patterns." + +"Did you?" said Cyril, solemnly. "I does." + +Esmé saw the faces together. There was a likeness, faint, but yet +plainly visible. The same level eyebrows, finely-cut nose, and eyes +with their power to suffer. + +"Playing?" Sir Cyril joined them, the children's faces lighting up, for +they loved the big man. "We'll all play. Let's dig a castle. +Cyrrie"--his arm closed round the elder boy--"mummie says you were +naughty to-day--pushed Cecil." + +"Mummie made a miftook," said Cyril equably. + +"Mummies never make miftooks," Sir Cyril answered gravely. "Never. +Cyril must be a better boy and not bully the baby. I don't want to +punish you, Cyril." + +"It doesn't last long, dad--if she'd like you to." The boy's eyes, with +an old look in them, met Sir Cyril's. "I don't mind, dad--it's soon +over." + +Esmé's fingers closed on a handful of pebbles, so closely that when she +let the wet stones fall her hands were marked and bruised. + +The boy was telling them calmly that he was used to punishment. Her boy! + +Sir Cyril grunted to himself. His wife adored delicate Cecil; had never +cared for the elder boy. It puzzled the big man, vexed him, so that he +made a pet of Cyril, loving him as the child whose coming had made such +a change in his own life; the strong, big boy who was a credit to the +name. + +Foolish young people hunted for shrimps until they were weary; then, +looking at the advancing sea, they whispered how dreadful it would be +to drown, and listened, flushing, as proud young manhood assured them +that to swim to shore with such a burden would be a joy. The crawling +baby waves, inch deep in their advancing ripples, heard and laughed. To +prove devotion young manhood would have welcomed white-crested rollers, +swift currents running fiercely between them and the land. + +Bertie had wandered far out, Estelle Reynolds with him. + +They talked of books and plays, but always ending with the same +subject, the lives of two human beings called Albert and Estelle. + +"If one only could live down at Cliff End," he said. "I wanted to go +there now, but Esmé would come here. Oh, how tired I am of asphalte and +'buses, and the comforts of clubs. I hunted five days last winter, +Estelle." + +"But you shot a lot," she said. + +"At huge house-parties, with a two-hours' luncheon to be eaten in the +middle of the day, and bridge to be played when one is dead sleepy +after dinner. I have an old-fashioned liking for scrambling over rough +ground with a setter and a spaniel, and bringing home a few snipe and a +pheasant or a couple of duck. They give me more joy than my pile of +half-tame pheasants, reared for slaughter, or my partridge or grouse. +My friends wouldn't come to my shoots, Estelle. And--Esmé's +friends"--he shrugged his shoulders--"they are too smart for me. She's +straight herself as Euclid's line, but--one hears and sees--Dollie +Gresham, for instance." + +"Well?" said Estelle. + +"She is a very clever bridge player," he said drily. "Oh, I say +nothing, but I've watched the people she picks out to play with. +Aspiring idiots who think high stakes give them a reputation as fine +players. There's Gore Helmsley, too--the black-eyed Adonis. I meet him +everywhere, and my desire to kick him flourishes unappeased. There are +queer stories afloat about the man. There was Sybil Knox; she won't +speak to him now, almost cut him at the Holbrooks last Christmas. He's +running after Lady Gracie de Lyle now, a little, dolly-faced baby who +goggles into his black eyes and thinks him magnificent." + +"Oh, Bertie! Goggles!" said Estelle. + +"Well, she does. She's got china-blue eyes, just like saucers; and +she's barely eighteen. I spoke to her mother, and she said it would +make the girl less school-girly to be taken up for a month or two by a +smart man--that is a word," grunted Bertie, "which I'd like to bury. +'Smart'--it's a cloak for folly, extravagance, display and +gambling--for worse. Never be smart, Estelle." + +Estelle looked at her brown hands and remarked drily that she did not +think she ever would be. + +"They know no rest, these people," he said. "They wake to remember all +they absolutely must do, and how many meals they must eat with their +friends. Madame breakfasts in bed. Monsieur picks at devilled kidneys +in the dining-room. He has his glass of port at twelve at the club. She +has hers before she goes shopping. Then luncheon, bridge, drives, +parties, tea; more bridge-parties, cocktails, dinner. Theatre, and +bridge, a ball; supper; bridge again; devilled bones and chloral; they +are too tired to sleep naturally. And since all this must pall, they +must have some zest of novelty, and so go through the oldest round on +earth--that of stolen meetings and hidden letters, and the finding out +if a new lover has really anything new to say to them. If they lived in +the country and looked after their houses and their gardens, and just +had a yearly outing to amuse them, they wouldn't all go wrong from +sheer nerves. The Town is swallowing home life, Estelle; the smell of +the asphalte gets into their nostrils, the glitter and noise of +restaurants become necessity. We cannot be bothered with a cook, so the +restaurant for the flat can send us in what it chooses, called by any +name it pleases. We get our breakfasts in now in the new flat. And +anything else we want. Esmé only keeps two maids. Everything is +exceedingly cold by the time I get it, and if we have people to dine it +means crowds of things from Harrod's, but it all saves trouble. And to +save trouble is the spirit of the age. To eat glucosey jams, and drink +cider which never heard of apples, and so forth. I believe, in the +future, that every square and street will have its monster kitchens +with lifts running to each house. No one will cook." + +"And one day," said Estelle, laughing, "will come the swing of the +pendulum, and we shall go back to an England which bakes and preserves +and brews, and finds out how healthy it makes its children." + +"No." Bertie shook his head. "We are going too fast for that. So fast +that one day, with its motors and aeroplanes, old England will find it +has fallen over a cliff, and lies buried in the sand of Time, +forgotten. The brakes will not always act, and exceeding the speed +limit generally ends in disaster. We are a mighty nation, but always, +always the sea-road for our supplies. We should starve here in a month +if that was stopped. Some day it will be--by some strategy. Tea is +ready--let us forget lobster and eat again." + +Hot-faced footmen had built a big fire on the shore. The couples came +flocking back to eat and drink again. Some shyly radiant, their +afternoon a golden memory; others laughing too loudly for happiness; +others visibly bored. + +"The most absolute dullard," Rose whispered to her cousin, Hilda +Hamilton. "He only made two remarks the whole afternoon, and one was +'that shrimpin' was shockin'ly wet.' And the other that 'he did hope it +wouldn't wain to spoil the bathin'.'" + +"Oh, Rose, he didn't lisp," laughed Hilda. + +"Well, he ought to, he's such an idiot. Yes, I'll take muffins, thank +you. How clever toasting them." + +"There was a fire," said the dull youth, sapiently; "it made it easier." + +"Oh, it would." Miss Rose giggled over her muffin. + +The opal tints grew wider on the sea as it creamed in over the sands; +the murmur of the baby waves grew louder. + +Marie was airing her triumphant return at the door of Esmé's pretty +house. She had tripped into the bedroom, altered and arranged, peered +into the cupboards. + +"Ciel! but Madame has now an outfit," said Marie; "it is good that I +return. Evidently Madame has an income." + +Scott, the ousted one, waited stolidly for her wages, and grumbled in +the kitchen, hinting spitefully that she might not receive them at once. + +Marie settled and sang, and settled, poring over the heaped letters on +Esmé's tables, raising her thin eyebrows at the gathering of bills. + +"I wonder"--Marie laid down an urgent letter from a Bond Street +firm--"where Madame went when she sent me away. I have always +wondered," said Marie, tripping down the path of the little garden. + +A young man strolling by stopped in amazement, listened to Marie's +voluble explanations. A freckled youth, who kept a little hairdresser's +shop, and hoped in time to keep fair Marie over it as part +proprietress. Marie possessed schemes for moving westwards and becoming +affluent. The youth's name was Henry Poore, his hobby photography. + +"Tiens! they come, and you must go," said Marie, seeing the big motor +humming to the door of the Blakeneys' house. "Ah! it is well that I +came here, for there are many clothes and a fine wage, and voila! there +is Monsieur le Capitaine. See, he stands with a thin mees." + +Henry Poore looked down the road. "Seems I've seen him before," he +said. "Sure I have." + +"Laikely. Ze world is full of meetings," observed Marie. "He was +soldier; he has now retire. Oh, Henri, I am happy. Nevair did I have so +good a time as with this Madame. You shall come to do her hair for ze +Court. You shall be great hairdresser. Allez vite, quick!" + +Marie made an appointment, and Henry walked off. But the invisible +lines of fate were closing round Esmé. She had taken up one herself +when she re-employed Marie, who knew just a little too much. + +Scott, dourly respectful, waited for her due. + +"Four months, mem, if you please." + +"Give it to her, Bertie. I am tired." + +"But--I gave you the wages cheque each month, Esmé," Bertie said +sharply. "Why did you not pay the woman?" + +"I suppose I spent it on something else. Don't fuss over a few pounds. +Give it to her and let her go. Tell her not to come to me for +recommendations." + +Esmé strolled off to give herself over to the deft brown hands, to be +powdered, tinted into new beauty, to have her golden hair re-done. + +"It is not the money. It is only a few pounds, but it is always the +same thing," muttered Bertie to himself as he wrote the cheque, +"always." + +"Sure to be right, sir?" Scott permitted herself a little veiled +insolence. + +"Right? What do you mean, Scott?" + +"Mrs Carteret's were not always, sir," snapped Scott, primly. "Several +shops have had to apply again. Thank you, sir. Good-night." + +The block of a fat cheque-book was looked at unhappily. The balance +left was so small, and there was no more money due until Christmas. +Bertie Carteret sighed drearily. Another lot of shares must go; +long-suffering luck be trusted to replace them. + +Esmé, in one of her gay moods, came down, dressed in filmy white, black +velvet wound in her burnished hair, a glittering necklace at her +throat. She chattered incessantly, hung about Bertie with one of her +outbursts of affection. + +Marie had given Madame ah, but a tiny thing for the nairves, a thing +she had learnt of at Madame la Comtesse's and treasured the +prescription. Marie had prescribed further, suggested massage, a sure +cure for nervous ills. + +Esmé made plans in her head; leapt from reckless despair to reckless +hope. She spent in imagination the big allowance Bertie's uncle would +give them; she saw herself "my lady." She felt clinging fingers in +hers, saw baby faces in her house. She would brush away the effect of +her own wicked folly; she would be happy and rich and contented. + +So, with her thoughts leaping ahead, she frightened Bertie by talking +of her plans; they comprised country houses, a yacht, hunters, jewels, +new frocks. + +"I'll have that sable coat altered. The Furrier Company will do it for +a hundred pounds. I'm sick of it. We'll go to Tatts, Bertie, and buy +you a couple of hunters." + +"Out of what?" he asked gravely. + +"Out of--futurity," Esmé laughed. "Estelle, don't look sensible; it +worries me. Look here, children, I'm not well. I'm going over to Paris +to see Legrand. That dull doctor's wife I met to-day says he can cure +death itself. And then, when I am well--" + +With flushed cheeks and shining eyes she perched on the arm of Bertie's +chair, her fingers caressing his hair. "And then," she said, bending +and whispering to him. + +He flushed, but took her hot white fingers in his. + +"Oh, it's for that," he said, in a low voice--"for that, Esmé." + +"For that. Then I'll settle down--give up Society," she said, jumping +up and running to the window. "Come, we'll go out and join the +trippers. I wonder Denise has not sent for me to play bridge. No, we +won't go out; ring up the Adderleys, Bertie. They'll always play.... +It's too dull just walking out in the dark." + +It was always too dull to do anything which left room for thought. + +Esmé played until morning, then, with the effect of the nerve tonic +worn off, went irritably upstairs, knowing that nothing but chloral +would give her rest that night. + +"Tell Monsieur I am not well, that I must sleep alone. That will do, +Marie. You can go." + +Marie held the cobwebby nightdress ready to put on, but Esmé sent the +maid away. + +Marie laid down the scented silken thing and went thoughtfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +"I fear it is unlikely, Madame. I am very sorry." Dr Legrand put his +capable finger-tips together, looked sympathetically at the tall, +golden-haired Englishwoman who had come to consult him. + +"The child died, then, Madame--that another is so important?" he asked +kindly. + +Esmé flushed scarlet. "It--yes--I lost it," she said bitterly, her eyes +filling with tears. "I lost him. And I am not likely to have another?" + +"Frankly, no, Madame. But you are young. Madame is nervous, says she +cannot sleep without something. Give the something up, Madame; there is +a little death, a little madness, bottled in each innocent dose. Go to +the country, live in the open air. Get Madame's nerves well, then +perhaps your wish may be realized." + +Esmé 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"--Esmé 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, Esmé 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 Esmé started and jumped into her waiting taxi. + +The little man passed 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 passed 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." + +Esmé, 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." + +Esmé 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. + +Esmé 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 Esmé easily--for one +hundred and twenty pounds for cash, with jupons to match thrown in. + +Esmé 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," Esmé 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 Esmé's mind to lose her temper, to call the woman insolent +and suspicious. But the three models lying together, green and blue and +shimmering 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!" Esmé 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 space 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 Esmé 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. + +Sir Thomas, ordering tea, first called the unknown an impossible +bounder, and then let his blue beads rest on Esmé with some surprise in +them. + +"Don't exactly wonder either," he said. "Dress very fine, ain't it? +Hubby over with you?" + +"No," Esmé answered, irritably. + +"Oh!" A comprehensive pause. "Let me know when to sheer off then. I'm +doing nothing. Just over to look round. Lots of things to look at, eh? +over here. Same sort look like peaches in the apple-house over in +London." + +Sir Thomas drank his tea. Esmé knew that in his shrewdly lewd little +mind he quite believed that she had come to Paris to meet +someone--looked on it as merely natural. Sir Thomas knew one code of +life, and love had never come to make him wish he had not believed in +it thoroughly. + +He talked on lightly; with him no wife was faithful, no man a keeper of +his marriage vow. He told of little scandals pleasantly; they were +nothing in his eyes. + +"She was very nearly caught that time. Dicky Margrave rolled up quite +unexpectedly and milady had the forbidden fruit in her boudoir. She +told him to turn his back and take off his coat, and clean the windows. +'Horrible mess in here, Dicky,' she said. 'Man's just finishing the +windows. Come to the library.' The forbidden one walked out boldly two +minutes later." + +"But the servants?" said Esmé. + +"Oh, if they tell, they go; also, they won't get other places; they +keep quiet all right. Betty Margrave told me that herself. She's got +Dicky in order now; he's afraid of reprisals about Caromeo." + +So from story to story, a male Vivien carelessly blackening reputation. + +Esmé told him so, growing impatient. + +"Bless you! who's got 'em nowadays? We only treasure visiting lists," +he mocked. + +After a time Esmé talked herself, found herself enjoying the +ever-pleasant task of pulling our friends to pieces, added a new +whisper or two for Sir Thomas to elaborate. + +"Just left the new Penelope, haven't you?" he said. "Denise +Blakeney--she's into the starch bag after several years in hot water. +No one but Cyrrie now, and he--well, he was always a gorgon husband. +Saw a parson gazing at Denise last month at her big garden-party. +'There is a model of English wifehood, of truth and purity,' he said to +something in brown muslin, whom I fancy was his wife." + +"And if he knew," flashed Esmé, indignantly, and stopped. + +"Knew what?" Sir Thomas grew interested. + +"A little secret." Esmé's face grew grave. "Pah! if we all knew each +other's secrets. If you knew mine and I yours." + +"Haven't got any," he said comfortably. "Secrets are the kind of things +you've to keep a flat for and a motor which they drive some other +fellow out in. A day's amusement is my sort. But--you--you're a bit of +a Penelope yourself, Mrs Carteret." + +"Anything else is so stupid," said Esmé, laughing. + +Sir Thomas, falling into complete bewilderment, asked Esmé to dinner +when he found she was really alone. To forget her misery she was +hilariously gay, telling smart little stories, flashing out sharp +speeches, amusing the little man immensely. + +"Kind of woman you don't know what to make of," grumbled Sir Thomas. +"Lets you kiss her ear in the taxi, and gives yours a verbal boxing +when you suggest supper in a quiet room. Gets herself up to look like +what she's not, and is frightfully offended when she's taken for it. +Tires one's eyes, that class of cipher. We'll read plain print again +demain, thank the Lord." + +Folly would never be Esmé's refuge; she sat in her room, her sleeping +draught ready, wondering what life would be like if, for mere +amusement, she had been what Sir Thomas took her for. There was not +even a pretension of affection, but merely: "We are well met. You are +pretty, your skin is soft, your eyes are bright; let us see how much +joy we can steal from Time's storehouse." + +"There must be crowds of people who are like that or he wouldn't think +it so natural," said Esmé. "I believe Dollie wouldn't care--or Denise, +once--but I--I could never forget my miseries by becoming a beast." + +Then, soothed by the drug, she slept soundly, to wake with a parched +mouth and heavy head, and lie tossing feverishly because her tea was +late. + +There were the three dresses. Fretting for them--more because she +wanted to fret than because she really wanted them--Esmé went to the +telephone. + +"Is that Madame? No? Well, give her a message. Tell her I'll send over +a cheque for those dresses from London. To alter and keep them for +me--Mrs Carteret." + +It was a weary journey back. When thoughts would come crowding in +bitter array. If there was never to be a child, then they would never +be rich. Only a week before Bertie had told her plainly that they could +not go on spending so much. Here again Esmé blamed someone else. If +Denise would only pay her regularly, it was all Denise's fault. There +was two hundred owing now, since June. The thousand pounds vanished so +easily. Dresses, bridge, furs, so many things that Esmé wanted, could +not do without. If Bertie knew that besides what he knew to be spent +she was using this other money, too. + +If Denise would only pay up her debts for her, let her start fair +again! Esmé looked sullenly at the calm sea. If not she would threaten +to take the boy--she would take him. He would forget it all in time. +Then, with a shiver, she thought of the telling, of the scandals, of +tongues wagging, of the proving and altering, and, she was not +pitiless, of Denise Blakeney's complete undoing. + +Denise was still in Scotland. Rashly, pressed by her desire for the +dresses, Esmé made up her mind to write. + +Bertie met his wife at Charing Cross. With her irritable mood making +her observant, Esmé noticed that his light overcoat was shabby, that he +lacked smartness. + +"Oh! Bertie!" She kissed him, eagerly glad to see him, always hoping to +find comfort in his love. Then the barrier which her secret made rose, +drearily, between them. They had so little to talk about now, so little +in common. + +"That coat's shabby, Bert. You must get a new one," she said +impatiently. + +"Not just now," he answered; "it's all right." + +"It's not right." Esmé felt that he was hitting at her extravagances. +"You shall get one. I'll buy it for you, Bert." + +"Millionaire," he mocked. "Have you got some secret fount of money, Es? +You never have enough to buy your own things, child. And--the doctor, +Es--Legrand?" + +"Says I'm to drink milk and eat turnips and pray," she said bitterly, +"and live in the country, and sleep on ozone, and so forth." + +"And--if you would?" His voice grew eager. "Oh! Esmé, if you +would--just you and I together again." + +The tenderness in his voice was forced there, stilling thoughts which +would not sleep; he assured himself that with a fresh start, without +perpetual extravagance and excitement, he would feel the old passion +for his wife wake in him. Fresh air and exercise would banish the +memory of the companion whose presence he longed for so much now. + +"Come to Cliff End, Butterfly. Try it as a cure, with me as chief +physician." + +London, huge and splendid, flitted by them as the taxi rushed to the +flats; the streets called to Esmé; the restaurants were lighted up, +glowing golden behind their portals. She thought of the whimper of the +wind, the thunder of the surf against the rocks; the dreariness of the +country. + +"I couldn't," she said at last; "the man doesn't understand. Town's my +life, Bertie; all my pals are here. No, I couldn't." + +"It will have to be Town with a difference very soon," he said, sighing. + +Economy again--money; he thought of nothing else. She was not back five +minutes and he was preaching at her. He could look up what he'd paid +for her clothes last year. It wasn't so much. "And I'm better dressed +than rich women," stormed Esmé, hysterically. "You might be proud of me +instead of grumbling--always grumbling." + +The taxi stopped at the door of the tall buildings. There was no home +in it to Bertie. The hall porter greeted them. The lift took them +upwards to their flat, past other flats, and then into the pretty rooms. + +Marie was ready waiting, supplying the petit soins which Bertie had +forgotten. + +"Pauvre Madame is tired." Marie had a cup of coffee with but just a +soupçon of eau de vie. The bath was prepared. She hovered round Esmé, +getting a soft wrapper, soothing jangled nerves. Marie was a treasure! + +Esmé took up her letters. Bills, invitations, more bills, a scrawl from +Dollie asking them to dinner. Esmé had forgotten her ill-humour. + +"Bertie, we're dining out--telephone to Dollie. Yes, I said we'd go." + +Dollie Gresham's was better than dinner in the restaurant, or brought +up by a flat-faced German to their dining-room. Bertie distrusted the +tinned soup, the besauced entrées and tasteless meat. He was glad to go +out. Esmé had told him nothing; he was hurt and would not show it. + +"Ring up the coupé people, Marie. Dollie may be going to a theatre, +Bert." + +"We must owe them a fortune," was on Bertie's lips, but he stopped. To +even ask if a taxi would do might disturb peace. + +Dollie wanted them for bridge. Her little dinners surpassed Esmé's now. +They were a party of eight, Dollie's bitterly clever tongue keeping +away all fears of dullness. + +"Cousin May was here to-night, Esmé; she came from Paris to-day also. +She saw you there--at the Ritz, having a dinner with blue-eyed Tommy. +You heard some pretty tales before that evening was over, Esmé. Let's +have them now." + +"Am I to undermine the peace of this dinner-table?" Esmé's wit was +fairly ready, and she watched with a smile as women flushed and men +looked uncomfortable. + +"Unsavoury little dustman," said Bertie, sharply. + +Esmé had not told him of her dinner. His look at her made the table +know it, and gave them something to talk of afterwards. + +"Sly Esmé, setting up as such a model too. And Tommy of all men. She +was a friend of Jimmie Helmsley's once, too; _don't_ you remember he +dropped her for the Chauntsey girl?" people whispered. The teeth of +Society loves a bone of scandal to crunch. + +After dinner Bertie cut in at Dollie's table, and as her partner found +himself absent, playing badly, losing tricks carelessly. + +"I'm really sorry," he apologized, as their opponents went across for +sandwiches. "I'll wake up now." + +"You're out of sorts," Dollie said kindly. "What is it?" + +"Debts," he said wearily. "We're the old proverbial china crock, Mrs +Gresham, trying to swim with the brass one. What does it cost a woman +to dress, Mrs Gresham?" + +"It costs Esmé about fifteen hundred a year," said Dollie, shrewdly. +"Claire is ruinous now. Never an evening frock under sixty, and the +etceteras at so much an ounce. Then Esmé's furs are all new. She's a +bad little lady going to Claire, and Lilie in Paris." + +"Fifteen hundred!" Bertie laughed. "No, about three; and it's far more +than I can manage." + +"Three--grandmothers!" observed Dollie, blandly. "You see Claire's +little bill and tell me then. You're very extravagant children. Esmé +paid those electric people fifty pounds before you left London, and +taxis are just as good." + +"Fifty pounds!" Bertie shuffled the cards silently. He had not given +Esmé fifty pounds for the garage. He certainly did not pay Claire's +bill. His payments had been to big drapers, and to a tailor. + +A sudden sickening doubt was assailing him. Was Esmé getting money he +did not know of? Was he one among the hundreds of fooled husbands? He +flung the thought away, and turned to the game, and played carefully. + +But on the way home the thought returned. + +"Esmé, we must pay these people," he said, trying to speak carelessly. +"Not let it get too high." + +"Oh, I sent them a sop to Cerberus months ago--a big one." + +"But--I never gave it to you." + +"No." He saw her hand move impatiently. "No, it was bridge winnings, I +suppose. Or when Poeticus won the Hunt Cup. I forget." + +Suspicion is a seed which, sown, grows, and will not be hoed up. Bertie +came into his wife's room as she lay asleep, and looked sadly at her +pale face. There was a small room next door, lined with cupboards; he +went to it, opened the doors, saw the shimmer of satins and silks, the +softness of chiffon and lace, the gleam of rich embroidery--dress upon +dress. He had loved to see her well dressed, and not dreamt of the +great cost of some of these mere wisps of evening gowns. Sixty pounds! +Bertie shut the doors, feeling mean, as if he had spied, but he was not +satisfied. + +Had Esmé some way of getting money? Instead of sleeping, he did +accounts; got up frowning, to go to sleep at last in the grey bleakness +of an autumn morning, to wake with the little parasite, suspicion, +gnawing at his heart. + +He went into his wife's room after his breakfast; she did not come down +for hers now. Esmé was up, her golden hair loose, waiting to have some +brightening stuff rubbed into it. + +She was bending over her jewel-case, choosing a necklace and pendant to +wear. + +"This clasp is loose, Marie; the clasp of these sapphires"--Esmé held +up a thin chain holding together little clusters of sapphires and +diamond sparks. "It's--oh! you, Bertie!" + +"That's new, isn't it, Esmé?" He took the chain from her. + +"New--if a year old is new." + +"And this"--he snapped open two or three cases, holding glittering +toys. "I didn't give you any of these, did I?" + +Esmé moved impatiently. "Paste," she said suddenly. "Parisian! I can't +go about always wearing the same old things, so I am foolish, and get +these." + +"Oh, paste!" He was putting back a pendant when he looked at the +setting. Surely paste had a backing, was not set clear. + +"They're wonderfully done," he said gravely. The satin lining of the +case bore a Bond Street jeweller's name. + +"Oh, wonderfully." Esmé snapped the case to. "And I get the cases so as +to deceive my friends' maids. Run away, Bertie, you worry me standing +there." + +He went slowly. Esmé was lying to him. The things were real. Her +jewel-box was full of new toys and trifles; he began to realize that +her dresses were magnificent. + +Her letters lay in a litter on her bureau, some half-opened, all tossed +about as if they had worried her. One long slip oozed from its +envelope, with a huge total at its foot. It was a bill for new furs. +Another thick envelope bore the word "Claire" on the back. + +A man has a right to see his wife's bills. Bertie took out the letter. + +Madame Claire begged immediately for a cheque on account. She really +must have a few--Bertie turned white--a few hundreds. A smaller slip of +paper was enclosed. Amount of account furnished, three hundred and ten +pounds. Yellow evening gown, lace overdress, seventy pounds. Blue tea +gown, forty pounds. The total was for five hundred pounds. + +Bertie laid it down with a sick feeling of despair. He could not pay +this. It was impossible. Five hundred pounds to a dressmaker. Dollie +Gresham had been right in her estimate. He sat looking at the dull blue +of the drawing-room carpet, sat thinking hopelessly. + +Then Esmé, in dull blue-green, masses of black making a foil to her +fair skin, came back. A faint perfume clung about her, nothing +emphasized, but the memory of sachets or little pieces of perfumed skin +sewn into her dress. + +The necklace of small sapphires and diamonds glistened at her throat. +She was humming gaily, ready to write to Denise. + +"Esmé!" Bertie raised his white face. + +"Bertie! Have the Germans taken London, or is Lloyd George made Regent? +Or--you're not ill, Bertie?" + +"We can't go on, Esmé," he said. "I saw your account on your bureau +there. Esmé, I can't pay it, unless we sell everything--go away." + +He saw her hand clench, but she did not look at him. + +"How dared you pry?" she began, then checked herself. "Paul Pry!" she +mocked. "Paul Pry! But I can pay it." + +"You? How?" he asked, getting up. + +"How? I've won a lot lately," she said, after a pause. "I got some +tips. I can pay it, Bertie." + +"You've got money to your account, then?" he said, for he knew that she +was lying again. + +"Not now." + +"Bookmakers," said Bertie, "pay on Mondays. Who is your man?" + +"Oh! _don't_ bother, Bertie." Her hands shook as she began to write. +"Denise did the bet for me. I'm writing to ask her to send it on now." + +"Oh!" he said, more quietly still. + +"I backed first one and then another," she said; "got it that way. So +don't fret, Boy." + +"But if you had not won," he said softly. "The account is not new, +Esmé." + +"I chanced it! I let the winnings go on to other gees." He could hear +the anger rising in her voice. "I chanced it. Don't bother now, I'm +writing." + +"But I must bother, Esmé. We can't go on like this. We're getting +poorer every day. If we had a child things would be different, but as +it is Hugh Carteret will leave me Cliff End and what he allows me +now--four hundred a year." + +"And you'll be Lord De Vinci," she said. + +"With a title and two mortgaged places, and every penny left to the +girl. Esmé, if you can't pull in we must give up London." + +"Not until London gives me up," she flashed out. "Leave me my own +affairs, Bertie. If I make a bit it doesn't hurt you. You don't have to +pay then." + +"You're mad, Butterfly," he answered, "to dream of living by backing +horses. Look here! Nothing's ever been the same since I went away that +time. Esmé, we're young. Let's start again." He came nearer her. + +If he had taken her in his arms she might have fought down the restless +demon of anger and resentment which was tearing at her. But he did not +touch her. + +"Start in a sand castle by the sea," she mocked, "with limpets for +friends and neighbours." And then suddenly her self-control gave way. +She burst out hysterically and told him he wanted to make her +miserable, to imprison her in the country; cried tears of sheer peevish +temper; swore that all the world's luck was against her; that she had +no pleasure, no real fun; that even a few rags paid for by herself were +grudged to her. + +After a little Bertie turned away, went out so quietly that she did not +hear him go, and left Esmé raving in an empty room, until Marie with a +tabloid came to soothe and comfort. + +Bertie walked swiftly across London, up through the roar of Piccadilly, +with its motor monsters, diving, stopping, rushing, with its endless +flight of taxis, its horse vans out of place in the turmoil. It was +cold, a thin rain falling; he walked on to narrower streets, and came +to the grey, dull square where Estelle lived with her aunt. It was +London at its dreariest; smoke-stained old houses, blinking out at a +smoke-grimed, railed-in square. A few messengers delivering meat at +area doors, a few tradesmen's carts standing about, now and then a taxi +gliding through, spurning the thin slime of the quiet street. Decorous, +old-fashioned carriages were drawn up at some of the doors, with large +horses poking miserably at their bearing reins, and getting their +mouths chucked as they did it by obese and self-satisfied coachmen. The +self-centred life of a colony of quiet people was making its monotonous +way from free lighting to lights out. People who lived next door and +never knew each other, who revolved in their own little circles and +called it living. Perhaps lived as happily as others, since to each +their own life and drawing of breath. + +"Was Miss Reynolds in? Yes?" + +Estelle was dusting the china in the big, brown-hued drawing-room, an +appalling museum of early Victorian atrocities, with efforts of the +newer arts which followed the cumbrous solidity; pieces of black and +gold, plush monkeys clinging to worked curtains, fret-work brackets and +tables covered with velvet sandwiched in here and there. + +Estelle dusted an offensive bronze clock with positive loathing. It was +a gouty effigy of Time, clinging to his scythe because he must have +fallen without it, and mournfully accepting the hour-glass set in his +chest, which held a loudly-ticking clock of flighty opinions and +habits; evidently, judging by his soured expression, a cross to the +holder. Two large vases containing dyed pampas grass guarded each end +of the mantelpiece; two others held everlastings. + +Estelle had once said that the room inspired her with a deep longing to +throw stones there, so as to break some of the monotony. + +Mrs Martin, her aunt, padded softly in each morning, moving pieces of +furniture back to their exact places if they had been stirred by +visitors, patting the muslin antimacassars, pausing every time at the +doorway to remark, "Is it not a charming room?" and then padding out +again--she wore velvet slippers--to sit in the room at the back and +stitch for the poor. Mrs Martin had reduced dullness, skilfully touched +up with worthiness, to a fine art. + +She gave Estelle complete liberty, because, behind her conventional +stupidity, she herself had a mind which imagined no harm, a child's +mind, crystal clear of evil thoughts. She had married, been widowed, +lived blamelessly. The swirl of London was part of the newspaper world, +"which everyone knows, my dear, the compositors make up as they go on," +she told Estelle, "except of course the divorce cases, and no doubt +half of those are not true." + +The most blameless daily which could be procured was taken together +with the Athenćum and the Sunday Chronicle. + +"Oh, I shall throw them some day," said Estelle aloud to the vases. + +"Who is that, Magennis?" said Mrs Martin to the butler. "Captain +Carteret! I trust he has come to arrange an outing for Miss Reynolds." + +"He does that often, 'e does," said Magennis, as he went back to his +pantry. Magennis had not a mind of crystal purity. When he was younger +he had been pantry-boy in a large country house. + +"Bertie! What is it?" Estelle dropped one of the smaller vases. It +crashed on to the silver brightness of the polished fender, making a +litter of bright-flowered glass and crackling everlastings. + +"It's broken," said Estelle. + +"And so am I." Bertie crossed the room and took her hands. "And you +cannot ever mend the vase, Estelle, but I wonder if you can mend me." + +Estelle turned very white. + +"I'm tired," he said drearily. "I feel as if the fates had drubbed me +mentally, until my sore mind aches. We'll get another vase, +Estelle"--for she was picking up the pieces with shaking fingers. "And +I tell you, I have come to you to be mended," he went on, almost +pitifully. + +"But I--what can I do?" she whispered. + +The room faded; she saw the open sea shimmering blue and green and +opal; she felt again the love she had hoped she had fought down and put +away. + +"You can stop pretending," he said. "You can give me a little comfort, +Estelle, a little love. I have lost faith in everything except you. +And--I love you, Estelle," he added gravely. + +The rush of mingled joy and sorrow made the girl gasp. + +"But Esmé?" she whispered. + +"Esmé was a will-o'-the-wisp--a false light on a marsh. You are the +solid world. Estelle, I don't know where I am. Esmé has made a fool of +me--and I can never care for her again. Will you help me--or see me go +to the dogs alone?" + +The cunning of man, turning the mother-love in woman, which he knows is +stronger than passion, to his own ends. Man triumphant, merry, full of +strength and hope, she may resist; but man broken, pitiful, needing +her, is irresistible. + +Bertie had sat down on the brown sofa; he was looking at her with dazed +eyes. + +"I'll help you, Bertie. I'll be all I can ... as your friend ... +remember, only as your friend." + +"Child, do you take me for a brute?" he said, as he drew her down +beside him. + +Poor Friendship, lending his cloak once more, standing mournfully as +Love flings it over his pink shoulders; knowing so well how the god +liked to hide and mock beneath the solid folds. + +"Oh! I am so tired, Estelle," said Bertie. + +Friends only--the cloak held firmly. But friends' lips do not meet with +a thrill of joy; friends do not know the unrestful happiness which came +to these two as they sat hand-in-hand--their two years' sham fight over. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +"OH, bother!" said Denise Blakeney. "Bother!" + +"What is it, Den?" + +Sir Cyril sat on his wife's bed; he was up early, out about the place, +arranging the day, looking at his horses, his herd of shorthorns, +speaking to the keepers. His men feared Sir Cyril, and served him well. + +Denise pushed a letter away. + +She was pretty and fresh in her lace cap, her rose-pink wrapper. + +"Oh, nothing!" she answered. "It's time to get up, isn't it?" + +"To-morrow," he said, "it will be time an hour earlier." + +"Shooting mornings are so long," yawned Denise. + +"But what, or who, worried you, Den? Why did you exclaim?" + +An insistent man, he held out his hand for the letter. + +"Oh! nothing, Cyrrie. No, you mustn't see it. It's only from Esmé, +grumbling. I couldn't show it to you. There are things about +herself--her health." Denise talked very fast, growing a little +breathless. "And she wants a little loan--and I'm short. She was so +good to me that time abroad, you know--she--" + +"She's rankly extravagant," said Cyril, equably. The silken quilt had +slipped on one side; he saw the figures Ł200 written plainly. Sir Cyril +sat thinking, frowning as he thought. He gave Denise a huge allowance +to do as she chose with; but twice in the last year she had asked him +for more. + +"She's rankly extravagant," he went on, "and she must not worry you, my +dear. I'll send her five-and-twenty." + +"No, Cyril, not you--it would be a breach of confidence." + +"There can be no breaches of confidence between a wife and her +husband." His eyes hardened, his big jaw stuck out. "No secrets, Den. I +tell you that, and I mean it. If she has asked you before I should have +known. I expect to know again." + +Stooping, he kissed her lightly, but she knew the meaning in his voice, +knew and dreaded him. The folly of her petty sinning had been crossed +out, but since then she was his, and he would stand no deceiving. + +"You fool! to write to me," almost whimpered Denise. + +Esmé had written excitedly. She had raved on at Bertie, stormed, cried, +grown calm, and then angry. Money must be found now--must! Two hundred +was not enough. Denise must send three, advance the money for January; +she must give at least two hundred to the rapacious Claire. So her +letter was a flurried one, lacking caution. "I must, Denise," she +wrote--"I _must_ have money. I could have it of my own if I--if +I--upset everything. You know what I mean. So don't refuse me, old +girl, for old sake's sake. Send me something to sell if you can't +manage coin. I'm really in a corner. Bertie's grumbling, Claire +pressing. You know what Hugh has said--that if I had a child he'd leave +us money, and so--" then a long blank. + +"She is mad," whispered Denise, now white to the lips, shaking from +sick fear. "If she told, if it came out. I'd deny it all! She dare not; +but--if she did!" She sat up, shivering, and Sir Cyril, looking in, saw +her. + +"That Carteret girl is worrying Den," he said to himself. + +"And I haven't got it," muttered Denise. "I don't think so, and I +daren't send off jewels, for that tiresome Studley counts them all, and +nothing wants mending." + +She must slip into the town, get money and send it off. Cyrrie had been +looking over her accounts lately; she had had to draw out money in +small sums, and send them on. + +Denise was frightened. She was going down when she saw the tell-tale +letter lying on her bed. She ran back, tore it up, burnt it in her +fire; came to breakfast shaken and looking ill. + +Cyril was making his own tea; Denise took coffee; the boys, in their +high chairs, were solemnly eating bread and milk, eating fast that they +might reach the stage of scrambled eggs, and later, honey or jam. + +"Oh, Cyril, how you mess!" Cyril had dropped his spoon. "You shan't +have any jam now, or egg--only bread and butter." + +"You're hard on him, Den. Any fellow can drop a spoon." + +"He can also learn to hold it. Now don't cry, Cyril." + +"I never does," said Cyril, quietly. "Never, mumsie." + +"No--you sulk." Denise was venting her irritation on the boy. + +Big Cyril was thinking. He thought quietly, and, equally quietly, +acted. Denise must not be weak enough to go on paying for one winter's +kindness. + +"Say sorry and mumsie will give us jam," said Sir Cyril. + +"Didn't drop it a pupus, dads." The clear baby eyes met Sir Cyril's, +filled with the mystical reasoning of childhood. "Not a pupus--the dog +joggled me, dad." + +Sir Cyril grinned gently; Denise muttered something, and he helped the +boys to egg. + +Cyril, forgetting the wisdom of silence, wished to know why hens +wouldn't lay eggs scrambled, an' save cook's trouble, and Cecil +suggested telling the fowl-woman. + +"I am going to Insminton, Cyril. I have to get some things." + +"Yes. I'll come in with you. No one will be here before one." + +Denise flushed; then she must go in the afternoon, and the bank would +be shut. + +She sat fidgeting, afraid to the bottom of her shallow soul of the +big-jawed man she had married. + +She had seen him angry--knew the depths of his cold anger, and his +ideas of justice. The hard Blakeney pictured faces frowned down upon +her from the dining-room walls; a race of human steamrollers, driven by +the power of determination; diving aside respectfully for what they +realized to be the rightful traffic of the road of life, but coming on +mercilessly to grind what needed grinding. + +"Coming, Den?" Sir Cyril called from the door. + +Denise came reluctantly; she must pretend to have some errands, for she +knew she would get no opportunity now of going to the bank. Her husband +would do his own work quickly, then drive her about, waiting for her. + +The big drapers scored by an order for silk and for table linen. + +Mr Holmes, the grocer, rubbing his fat chin, decided that sardines must +be about to be used as fish by the great, seeing that he had supplied a +dozen boxes the day before and was asked for another dozen now. + +"Finished, Den?" + +"Yes. I think I've forgotten something, though." Denise was driven +home, answering questions, but not speaking, frightened, and too +visibly ill at ease. + +"H'm!" said Sir Cyril to himself. + +He went to his study to write, stayed there until the luncheon gong +rang, came out to find the first arrivals in the morning-room, and to +see Denise, her colour high, hurrying in. + +"I'm so sorry I'm late. I had to run over to the Vicarage to give the +vicaress some books for her club. I forgot them this morning." + +Denise had been to the bank, extracted two hundred pounds in notes from +a beaming manager. She came in a little nervously, looking aside at Sir +Cyril. The big man would have made a good detective. His hard eyes +narrowed a little, his big chin shot out. Denise was not in the least +likely to have remembered the books for the vicar's wife without some +other motive. Without the faintest suspicion of Denise in his mind, he +summed it all up. + +"That Carteret woman's worried the girl; she went to get her the +money." After all, the Carteret woman had been once full of devotion; +Denise had heaps of money; but it must not go too far. Cyril Blakeney +was a man who walked straight to his goal. He meant to ask Denise how +much she had sent, to warn her against being bled. + +He ate his plainly-cooked luncheon, almost in silence. A thorough +Englishman, eating large helpings of roast beef and vegetables, topped +up by a steamed pudding and cheese. A mouthful of something highly +flavoured had no attractions for Cyril Blakeney. + +Denise, picking at a cutlet, watched him, grew brighter as she began to +feel certain that she had managed everything so well. She would have +her own money soon, send on the advance to Esmé. + +Denise pulled out the one foot she had dabbled into the Slough of +Despond. She walked gaily again in the sunshine on firm ground. + +And yet the cue was on the call-boy's lips; the drama was being played +out, and a net she never dreamed of closing about her. + +By tea-time the party had nearly assembled; they took it in the big +drawing-room, chilled people coming gladly near the blazing fire, +drinking hot tea, eating tea-cakes and hot biscuits as if dinner were +twenty-four hours away. + +Lucy Richmond, a big blonde, married to one of the best shots, came to +sit by Denise. She was a dull, stupid woman, deeply impressed by +herself. Hostesses were profoundly bored by Mrs Richmond, but she +delighted in house-parties and was comfortably certain that Gus, her +lean little husband, was only asked for her sake. + +"So nice to be here again, dear Lady Blakeney. I do love your big +house. And now tell me all about the babies, and how they are." + +Denise nibbled a sandwich, and looked for rescue. She was lamentably +ignorant as to flannel undervests and patent foods. + +"The little one is in knickers now, I expect, isn't he? I hope he +wears...." + +Denise's appealing eyes raked Sir Thomas from his chair; they called +openly for help. + +"That he wears really fine wool," said Mrs Richmond, heavily. "No, Sir +Thomas, run away; you're not interested in children's clothes." + +"In knickerbockers," giggled Denise, faintly. + +"Not going to come out with the guns in 'em really, are you?" said Sir +Thomas, blandly, ignoring everything except the last words. "Sportin' +of you, Mrs Rich--very. Has Raleigh taught you shootin' then?" + +Mrs Richmond sniffed angrily. + +"Get me some tea," said Denise, "and oh, here's Cyril." + +The big man strolled across to his wife, handing her a telegram from a +delayed guest. + +"Nuisance," he said; "good shot, too." + +"Oh! Lady Blakeney, I must show you my new pendant." Lucy Richmond +forgot knickerbockers, and turned to a fresh subject. "One of those +dear, old-fashioned, heavy things. Raleigh sent me to buy myself a +birthday present, and it had just come in to Benhusan's." + +Unfastening a clasp, she held the jewel out. Seeing it, Denise felt her +colour ebb until she feared her cheeks must be deathly white. It was +the pendant she had given to Esmé. Why had the woman chosen this moment? + +"It's just like yours, Den"--Sir Cyril took the jewel in his big +fingers--"exactly the same." + +"I love these dear old-fashioned solid things," babbled Lucy Richmond. +"As it was heavy, it wasn't so dear. Benhusan told me he had just +bought it, but that they had made it originally themselves." + +"Oh!" Sir Cyril sat down. "Yes. Bought it when, did you say?" + +A bore is a person stocked with date and detail. Lucy Richmond loved a +listener. How interesting she was, she felt, as she re-clasped the ugly +pendant. Oh, on such a day--at such an hour. + +Close by Denise sat listening, afraid to speak, hoping she was not +showing her fear, her heart fluttering. + +"Yes. Curiously, my wife has a duplicate of this, one an old aunt gave +to her. Wear yours to-night, Denise." + +"I hate it, Cyrrie," she faltered. + +"Yet wear it," he said very quietly, and strolled away. Sir Cyril never +seemed to hurry. + +Denise, for the best reasons, could not wear the pendant. Wild thoughts +shot through her head. Should she go to Mrs Richmond, borrow the +diamonds, make up a story? No, for the gossiping fool would repeat it +all over London. + +It was late when Denise came to her room; she sent her maid away, sat +by the fire. It was so comfortable there; she was surrounded by rich +things; her dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory; her bed was +carved white wood, a nest of silken eider-down. + +And if Cyril knew. + +He came in then, quietly, walked to the fire and stood looking down at +her. + +Some silences are harder to bear than words. Denise shivered nervously. + +"You did not wear the pendant to-night, Denise." + +"No," she said miserably. + +"Because you could not. Denise, why lie to me?" + +"I--I," she crouched down in her big chair, sick, frightened, wondering +what lie might serve her best. + +"I know Benhusan," he said. "I rang him up at his own house. Den--Esmé +Carteret took that pendant, and--you lied to screen her." + +The woman cowering in the chair turned as red as she had been pale, +felt as some sinking swimmer who suddenly feels ground beneath his feet. + +"I saw her standing at your safe, opening and shutting cases. She +thought you might never miss this thing, as she knew you hated it. +Denise, I don't blame you; but one cannot know a thief. It was that, +was it not?" + +Stronger people have taken their rescue at the cost of a friend's +reputation. Denise was not strong; she was shallow-natured and afraid +and shaken. + +"Oh, Cyril," she said, beginning to cry. "Oh! don't tell a soul. Oh, +promise--promise! She wanted money so badly." + +"Money to spend upon herself, upon frocks and furs and entertainment. +Den, she must not come to the house again. And this exonerates you from +sending her gifts of money." + +Sick fear jumped to life again. If there was any difficulty with Esmé's +allowance the whole story might come out; she might still be ruined, +disgraced. + +But reflection brought comfort; there would be heaps of ways of +managing the money. + +Denise put her arms round Cyril's neck and pleaded for silence for her +friend; let the stigma of thief fall on another woman, and wondered why +she had found so easy a way out. + +"I don't blame you, Den--don't cry." He held his wife closely. "But +don't lie to me, girl! Don't! even to save other people. I must have +truth. Must--and--will. The past's past; the future's mine, Denise, +remember that." + +He held her away a little, so that he could see her face. "You took +some money out to send this wretched woman to-day. Don't send it now. +How much was it?" + +"It was not all for her, Cyril; she wanted--fifty," stammered Denise. +"I got a lot--I was thinking of buying those ponies and the little trap +for the boys as a surprise. You know, Edwardes' pair." + +It was a good lie this time; he had no suspicion. + +"Well, put your money back," he said kindly. "I'll get that. I'll put +it in for you to-morrow ... send it for you." + +Denise Blakeney did not sleep that night; and next day, driving into +the town, she lost a valuable ring; it was loose, must have slipped off +in her glove. + +Esmé, opening the parcel, read a letter which surprised her. + +"You were mad to write, Esmé, mad! All kinds of things have happened, +and I cannot tell you. Take these stones out to sell them. I've said I +lost the ring. And don't go to Benhusan's." + +Sir Cyril, before he promised silence to his wife, had talked too +openly to Amos Benhusan; said more than he had perhaps intended to. + +Mr Benhusan had not promised silence; he talked a little, discreetly, +but he talked. + +Esmé bought her Paris frocks; paid something to Claire. Denise had sent +her something valuable; but when the Blakeneys came to London, and she +called, the "Not at home" was unmistakable. + +"When would her ladyship be in?" + +"Could not say, madam." + +The door respectfully pushed to. Sir Cyril, meeting her, passed her +with a cold bow. + +Esmé rang up furiously. What was it? She must know. + +"Not here. I can't talk here." Denise's voice was hurried and strained. +"Meet me at the club to-morrow--at eleven." + +Esmé kept her appointment punctually. + +"Down here, Esmé--down in this lounge." Denise hurried to a dim corner, +poured out a badly-jointed tale. + +It was the letter. Cyril had caught sight of some of it, been furious; +Esmé must keep away. It was the only plan. "And never come near the +boy, never," wailed Denise, "never. After all, you never wanted him. +You mustn't come to the Square. Cyril would suspect." + +A passion of anger rent Esmé. Not to see the little son she had sold. +Not to spend the half-hours which sent her away yearning and wistful. +Not to bring sweets to the unloved child; to try to be his friend. + +"Then, if you're not good to him," she stormed out, "by Heaven, Denise! +I'll have him back. And for money, I must have my payment, but the boy +comes first. Be good to him." + +A sneer from Lady Blakeney. It was a little late to prate of +mother-love, to assume virtue. Esmé had hated the idea of the baby +coming. It was rubbish to suppose that anyone so hard-hearted could +want to bother now. "I wouldn't have sold my child," sneered Denise. +"No real woman would. Let cant alone, Es." + +A pretty quarrel between two well-bred women who, with primitive +instinct itching their fingernails, flashed out sharp truth and sharper +innuendo. + +A couple of women passing in saw the two. + +"Hullo! I think that Esmé and Denise are disagreeing." Lady Mary Ploddy +peered down the corridor. "They're flaming at each other. Look, Sukey." + +Lady Sukey, her sister, looked; she even listened. "Quite interestin'," +she drawled languidly. "Quite!" + +When Esmé, flushed and furious, had gone out of the club, she flung +back a last threat which left Denise raw with fear and anger, so +irritated that her words were not quite under her control. She forgot +caution, only wanted to hurt. + +"Denise, you've been fighting with your Esmé," said Mary Ploddy. + +"I was telling her I could not go on being friends and she resented +it," said Denise, unsteadily. + +"Couldn't? Why?" It was ill-fortune for Esmé that Denise should meet +two women who loved a scandal dearly. + +"Oh, never mind why. Cyril has forbidden me to. It's something I could +not tell; nothing to do with morals." + +"Money then?" Lady Mary's eyes were glowing with curiosity. "Only money +and morals nowadays in the sin catalogue." + +"Oh, never mind--she's impossible," snapped Denise, and, flustered, +shaken, went out. + +"It's something bad. Scratch the Carteret woman's name off the list of +your Bridge Tournament, Sukey. I'll drop a hint to the Rollestones, +too, for their dinner and dance." + +So a whisper grew. Esmé, going to a big reception that night, caught +one or two frigid bows from women who had smiled the day before. + +The rooms were crowded, full of notabilities. The reception was in +honour of a French diplomatist and his wife; the tripping tongue was as +much used in the rooms as English. + +"There is one lady whom I wish to see." Dr Legrand looked at the +brilliant crowd. "Milady Blakeney." + +"So, Monsieur. She is close to us--passing downstairs. There--in +grey-blue--with the diamond stars." + +"But, non, that is a dark lady." The doctor stared, puzzled. + +"My nephew attended milady in Italy; but she is fair." + +"No, Monsieur; she was always dark. He's muddled her with Esmé +Carteret, who was with her. She is brilliantly fair. She +might--yes--there she is, just going out." + +Legrand turned, caught a fleeting glimpse of Esmé, started. + +"Meeses Carteret," he half whispered. "But surely, it is so like the +Mrs Smith of London. I seem to know this Mrs Carteret," he said aloud. + +"She is a pretty woman. Oh!" + +For Legrand had slipped away, struggled to the far doorway to get to +Esmé, caught a glimpse of a fair head on the stairs, but got no nearer. + +But that night he drew the strands of fate closer, for he wrote to +Luigi: + +"I have seen your Lady Blakeney, and she is brown-haired, ordinarily +pretty, no fair-haired goddess. If you will join me here for a day--get +Cartier to act for me. Thy Nonno." + +Luigi arranged to come to London in ten days' time. + +As fog spreads, cold and bitter, so a whisper crossed London. + +Esmé, restlessly pleased by new dresses, by money to gamble with, went +to the Holbrooks. Came, without thought of the scandal which was biting +at her name, down to dinner. + +The new dinner-gown clung to her long, thin limbs; she was haggardly, +dazzlingly handsome. + +Lady Mary Ploddy was at the fire. + +"How cold it is!" Esmé had played bridge for years with the Ploddy +women. + +Lady Mary went on talking to Vita St Just as if she had heard nothing. + +"How goes bridge, Lady Mary?" Esmé said, carelessly. "Been winning +lately? We can play in the mornings here." + +Mary Ploddy's powdered profile was slowly turned. + +"Oh, you, Mrs Carteret," she said icily. "I am rather off bridge. Vita, +shall we sit down?" + +The whisper to yet another friend: + +"Oh, something. Her old friend, Denise Blakeney, has had to cut her. +Sir Cyril insisted. I heard that it was something about a pendant. Amos +Benhusan told one or two people--you know, the big jeweller." + +The chill deepened. Esmé was left alone at the fire, realizing suddenly +that the women had drifted away from her. She looked at them curiously, +turned to talk to a couple of men who came in, and forgot it. Something +had put out the old Ploddy women, she decided carelessly. + +But that evening, next day, Esmé began to realize people were avoiding +her. She saw glances as she came into a room; she noticed the sudden +hush which told her she was being discussed. + +What was it? What could it be? The Holbrooks' party gave her no +pleasure. For a time she tried to think it was jealousy, envy of her +gowns, but Esmé was not small-minded; the thought had to be put away. + +She sat up for Bertie one night, called him in from the small room off +hers, where he slept. + +"Bertie! these women are avoiding me," she flung out. "What is it? I've +done nothing. They keep away from me--are almost rude; there's +something, Bertie." + +"Lord!" He sat down, staring at his wife. She looked haggard, worn; +older than her years. He began to think. People had been curiously +_kind_ to him since he had come. He had been almost fęted by the men; +they had "dear old chapped" him, asked him to play bridge and +billiards, praised his shooting, offered to lend him horses, with a +whispering undernote of pity in it all. + +"Lord! It--must be nonsense, Butterfly," he said kindly, with something +telling him that it was not. They had got wind, he thought, of Esmé's +extravagance, and then he shook his head. What were debts to women who +thought it smart to evade them, who paid exorbitant bills because they +had been running too long to check them, who all wanted a little more +than they had got? + +"It must be nonsense," he said gruffly. "Scandal wouldn't offend them, +even if you'd ever gone in for it. Want of money is nothing. Perhaps +you've won a bit too much off 'em at bridge, or attracted someone's +private man-property." + +"I haven't," she said irritably. "Well, good-night." + +Luke Holbrook, big and good-natured, paddled across his palm-court next +day to the stiff room where he knew he would find his wife writing +letters. + +"Seem to have made another mess of it, my love," he said mildly. "Went +to Sukey Ploddy now about what you told me, and she swears it's true. +Telephoned to Benhusan. He wouldn't commit himself. Very awkward, my +love, having the woman here." + +"Too awful," said Mrs Holbrook. "To have stolen a friend's diamonds! +That's it, isn't it? Gracious!" said Mrs Holbrook, weakly. "And Daisy +Ardeane coming to-day." + +"Bad as the dancer, my love." Luke Holbrook stroked his fat chin. +"Bad as the dancer. See the _Morning Post_, my love?" + +He picked it up. + +"'A marriage has been arranged and will take place immediately between +the Marquis of Boredom and Miss Maisie Moover, of Magnificent fame.'" + +"The Duchess, my love, is having hysterics at the Hyde Park Hotel. +Ploddy informs me that his cousin Trentwell is attending. She cut me +dead last week in the Park, my love; and all because we wished to amuse +a Cabinet minister." + +"That affair," said his wife, "may alter the Boredoms' missing chins. +But this is important. I can't have Esmé Carteret here." + +Mr Holbrook remarked that actions for libel were unpleasant, and that +Carteret was an excellent fellow; then he sighed. + +"The woman has been living at a ridiculous pace," snorted Mrs Holbrook. +"French frocks, furs, out everywhere and in debt." + +"I'm afraid I'm horribly sorry for her; she looks wretched." The big +man got up. "Debt's the devil, Maria." + +"The reminders generally go to a hot place," said his wife, absently. +"Think it over, Luke. Help me." + +"I must, my love," said Luke, meekly. + +And then chance cut the difficulty in two. Esmé, picking up the +_Morning Post_, saw another paragraph. + +"Sir Cyril Blakeney's son and heir was to-day run over by a taxi-cab. +Lady Blakeney was with her two children, returning to her house, when +the eldest boy stepped off the footpath and was caught by the wheel of +a passing cab. Faint hopes are entertained of his recovery." + +The paper slipped from Esmé's hands; she grew numb and cold. + +"She pushed him," she whispered to herself. "She was angry and pushed +him." + +Her boy! Her baby! She knew now what she had sold and lost. Panting out +his tiny life, dying! + +Esmé 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; Esmé did not notice it; she unhooked the +telephone. + +"Who is that--Mrs Stanson?" A pause. "_How_ is the child?" + +Swaying, Esmé 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 hoarse voice. + +"The ... Duchess of Boredom. Thank you ... thank you!" + +A great wave of relief swept over Esmé. 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, Esmé. 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 Esmé. + +"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." + +Esmé sat on, taking no count of passing 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 Esmé could come Marie had snatched +up the receiver. + +"Is that you, Esmé? 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. Esmé 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," Esmé burst out, then checked +herself. + +"It is sad that Madame who loves so much a bébé should not have a +little son," said Marie. "I thought ... when I left Madame...." + +Esmé felt the flood of scarlet rushing 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. Esmé 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 Esmé had rung up to know if she might see the child, and +Denise had answered: "No, no! Cyril was suspicious. Esmé must not come." + +The Marchese had taken a big house in Eaton Place, had spared no +expense on her entertainment. + +Esmé, 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!" Esmé 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. Esmé 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?" Esmé 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. + +Esmé 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." + +The lighted room, masses of flowers, gay dresses and bright jewels, +swam before her eyes. Then at the door she saw Luigi, and saw him wave +and smile to her. + +The secret was undone. This man knew. Fate had brought him to London. + +Mechanically she walked on. + +"Ah, milady!"--his brown hand gripped hers. "Well met. And--you do not +look well." + +"Mr Herbert, I've dropped a brooch, just over there; try to find it for +me." Esmé sent the boy away, stood staring at the Italian. + +"I have not ten minutes," he said. "I have to go, but my uncle would +have me come here to see the English monde. And so--I see the child is +hurted, but is nearly well again. I came yesterday," he said. "I leave +to-morrow, recalled to Italy, or I would have gone to see him and you." + +He knew no one there. He was alone and he was leaving London. Yet at +any moment he might meet Denise with her husband. + +"I am so glad to see you," Esmé faltered. "See, come to supper, and I +will try to find Esmé; she is here too." + +She hurried him downstairs to the supper-room; saw Denise, and leaving +Luigi ran across to her. + +Denise was with Lord Ralph Karton. + +"Denise!" Esmé bent down to her. "Get away. Luigi is here. He takes me +for you. He is at supper with me. Get _away_, I say; but I must see the +boy to-morrow, if I keep silence again--I must," she said. + +Denise Blakeney slipped to the door, stood there panting, hiding; she +was not well, she told Lord Ralph; sent him for her husband. + +"Esmé--I dare not," she whispered back; "but here--you are hard +up--take this for gratitude." + +She slipped a great bar of diamonds from her bodice, held it out. + +"It cost a thousand," she said. "But you've saved me." + +"I'll take it if I see the boy," said Esmé, sullenly. + +"Not until Cyril's out of London. Telephone to me. I dare not." + +Esmé's fingers closed on the glittering toy she held. It was +magnificent; meant ease, peace--for months. + +"So again I sell him," she said bitterly. "Go, Denise, quickly, while +there is time." + +She was pressed against Denise by the crowd, struggled away just as Sir +Cyril came down the stairs to his wife. + +Esmé slipped the diamond bar inside her dress, fastening the clasp to +some lace. She went back to the Italian doctor, sat talking to him, saw +him leave, and at the last was almost discovered. + +For Luigi, bowing low over his country-woman and hostess, had told +joyously of his meeting with Milady Blakeney. + +"I will tell the uncle who said she was not fair that he is blind," he +laughed. + +The Marchese smiled, puzzled. "Fair to us, perhaps," she said. "She has +gone home, poor lady." + +"But no," said Luigi, puzzled. + +Then the crowd separated the two Italians. Luigi went back to his +hotel, and on next day to Italy. + +A line no broader than that of a spider's weaving had saved Denise from +exposure. + +She drove home so frightened that she looked really ill; went to her +room, clinging to Cyril's arm. The husband she had once treated so +lightly seemed now a bulwark between her and all misfortune. To lose +him--lose her home, her position-- + +Denise was pale, exhausted, as she slipped into her big chair, crouched +there shivering. + +Sutton, stiffly sympathetic, unloosed the clinging satin gown, brought +a warm, rose-pink wrapper. Cyril ran for brandy. + +"But, milady, the bar of diamonds. It is gone." + +Cyril Blakeney paused at the door; he had heard. + +"I told you that the clasp was bad, Sutton; I was afraid." + +"I do not remember your ladyship having mentioned it," said Sutton, +acidly. + +"Your big bar, Den? The one I gave you last Christmas?" + +"Yes." Denise sipped the fiery spirit. "Telephone, Cyril; send a man +round. The fastening was bad; search the car." + +"I do not think that we shall find it." Sir Cyril's face was very +stern. He remembered seeing Esmé pressed close to his wife. In his +heart he had no doubt the woman had stolen again. + +Esmé had been Denise's friend in time of trial. He could not give her +into the hands of the police. He said nothing to his wife, but went +down slowly, heavily, to write a note and send it round. + +And as fogs rise, so the whisper grew; Sir Cyril shrugged his shoulders +when he spoke of the loss; he openly turned away from Esmé Carteret in +the Park. + +"Someone, I fancy, took it from my wife when she felt faint; at a huge +reception like that there are curious people. Lord Harrington noticed +it as she came to supper." + +Sharp eyes had seen Esmé press close to Lady Blakeney, whisper to her; +someone had noticed that she slipped something inside her dress. + +London must draw its skirts aside from this offender and suspect. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Spring again, dancing backwards from summer's hot grasp. Light winds +whispering wantonly as they caressed the waking earth. Soft sunlight, +and everywhere the scent of narcissi, the blaze of golden daffodils. + +The brown drawing-room had known no change during the passing months. +It was as stiffly hideous as ever. The _Church Times_ and _Sunday +Herald_ lay on the same table; the winter fires had been ordered away, +and a vase of daffodils glowed yellow in the grate. + +"It would be good in Devonshire to-day." Bertie Carteret looked out at +the dull, prim square, where the sooty trees were trying to grow green. +"Lord! think of the great clean air there blowing in over the sea, and +the flowers in the old spring garden; and here with spring there is +dust, and there are always pieces of paper blowing round corners." + +Through a weary winter he had drawn the veil of friendship across love. +Estelle's gentle face had brightened the world for him, a world which +had grown very dark. + +"Poor boy," she said softly now; and there was no friendship in her +voice. Spring called. She was a woman, weary of watching the game she +might not join. The wanton voice of London was in her ears to-day--the +sooty, dark square, the prim room stifled her. Your being of transient +emotions has frittered so many thrills, so many little mockeries of +passion, that one a little deeper matters little; but the hard-held +nature frets at barriers, tears at its self-made bit as its longing +eyes look at the wide fields it must not go into. To give nature the +rein for once, to know the glory of loving. Man and woman, one giving, +one possessing, both tasting the joys of the gods. + +"And it is always the same?" Estelle's strong, slim hands were pressed +together as though she held something in them that she would not let go. + +"It is always the same," he said bitterly. "The world--what Esmé calls +the world--has dropped us. Somewhere--Heaven knows where--she finds the +money to make another for herself. Is always with Cissie de Burgh--a +woman glad to know anyone--with her friends the Henley leaders, and +Frank Dravelling. Bridge parties, dinners, bitter tempers. I had to go +to supper at the Savoy last night to find one table a mass of flowers +and fruit, to see Esmé sweeping past her old friends, to hear her +laughing too loud, talking for effect, so that they should see she did +not care. It was a pretty party, with neither Tommy nor Lord Francis +Dravelling quite sober." + +As Sir Cyril Blakeney believed Esmé to be a thief, so her husband +believed firmly now that some man must pay, and that she was too clever +to let him find out. + +Their roads lay apart; they were frigidly friendly, and the depth of +Esmé's hurt prevented her asking for an explanation. + +She did not know why her London turned its head away from her; never +guessed that Denise had let her fall under such a vile suspicion--to +save herself. Never guessed either why Bertie grew suddenly cold, told +her one day that for the future she would still hold his name but no +more. + +Brooding, sore, Esmé's brilliant beauty faded; she lived, clawing at +the spiked door which closes the room called right. It was bitter to +see her book empty of engagements, to hear the cold "Not at home" of +well-drilled butlers, to be left out of bridge at the club. For a time +she went there, sitting alone, then it hurt too much; she went no more. +As Cain she was tempted to cry out that her punishment was greater than +she could bear. + +"Leave London. Come to Cliff End," Bertie pleaded once. + +"No! Someone has lied, and I must find out who. No, Bertie, I can find +other friends." + +They were found. Esmé spent money recklessly. Smiled now on people she +would not have bowed to. Went to houses whose reputation had endured +one of the many smudgings. Played high, and lost and won. Ate grilled +bones at six o'clock in the morning, and tried to make it pleasure. Her +tongue could trip lightly over well-known names. She was welcome in the +new set, which called folly, smartness, and weak vice, life. + +What was it? A cloak may hide a sore, but the very manner of the +concealing chafes the thing it covers. + +Unpitied, wrongly suspected, Esmé's heart broke as she tore at the +locked door. If one could find the backward road--if the Great Powers +would give us back the years, seeing as we see now. Lie and scream and +bleed, little human, the way is always onward--there are no scissors to +cut the false stitches we have made. + +If she could go back to that careless springtime and do right. Take +motherhood as woman's right and joy and pain; guess how she would love +the child which then she had dreaded. + +"I was mad--mad," Esmé would groan, and yet blame circumstance and +opportunity and Denise, rather than her own selfish weakness. + +If Denise had not come to her she must have gone through with it, and +gained peace and happiness. + +Selfishness and greed and fear had stood for her boy's sponsor, had +marred both these women's lives. And Justice, smiling grimly, saw one +floating on a flood-tide of prosperity, made happy and successful by +her scheming. The other an outcast, broken in health and spirit. +Justice sat quiet. To some the whip is administered at once; to all the +punishment, the payment of the fine. Interest grows in the black ledger +of our sins. + +Two women had schemed successfully, and other lives were drawn now into +the mesh. + +"I am very tired of it all, Estelle." Bertie got up restlessly. "Very +tired. My home is no home. My old friends look at me with a pity which +is worse than enmity. I went to Denise Blakeney once. I asked if she +knew what was amiss, and she turned red and white and stammered, and +'Oh, no, of course not--unless there might be some scandal, something +foolish.' I came away, knowing she would not tell me the truth she knew +of." + +Estelle's head turned away; she knew; she had heard the black +suspicion, but she could not tell Bertie Carteret that the world held +his wife to be a thief. Better let him suspect the other, which was not +true. + +"Well, little companion?" He stopped his restless pacing, looked down +at the sunny brown hair, and at the girl's sweet, glowing face. "How is +it all to end?" + +"When I go back to--to Cape Town," she said. + +The words were as knives slashing at self-control, cold steel carving +finely at an open raw. + +"No," he slipped out. "By Heaven! you shall not go." + +"But I must." Then Estelle's voice faltered; she knew what it would be +to part, with nothing known of love save imagining, save a few +hand-clasps--friends must not kiss; save the sweetness of nearness +driving home from theatres. + +"No," he said again. He caught her hands suddenly, held them closely. + +"You would take my only comfort," he muttered. "Estelle--don't go." + +Man does not see sometimes his supreme selfishness. That this girl +should eat her life out to keep him from his sorrows. + +"I ... let us go out," she said. + +Outside spring rioted, danced, kissing men and maids to madness and to +merriment. His breath passion, his light touch a thrill. + +"Come from this sooty sarcophagus," Bertie said. + +They drove to the Park, and on to Kensington Gardens, where London +plays at being the countryside. There the big trees were really green; +one could look through the tracery at the blue sky, and forget the +great city roaring at right and left, at back and front. Toy lap-dogs, +belled and netted, and larger dogs held on leash, by well-dressed men +and women, bereft of liberty, told that this was a mere painted scene, +and no true piece of country. + +But it was fresh. Spring danced there gleefully. Summer would gather +the harvest; spring was the sower of love thoughts. + +Estelle strolled across the grass, sat down at length on a wooden +bench, where a great beech above her made green fretwork against a sea +of tender blue. + +They were silent. Everyday words were out of tune to spring's music; +and they feared to say the others. + +"You cannot go, Estelle. You will not really." Bertie harked back to +the fear of parting. + +"And if I stayed," she said, suddenly mutinous, alluring. + +"If you stayed," he whispered, then grew grave. "Could two people not +make a world for themselves, Estelle, and be happy in it alone?" + +She held sweet fruit to her aching mind, then broke through to the hard +kernel of the truth. + +"No, for we are never alone," she said gently. "That is the weariness +of it. There are no two who strive to make this world who do not draw +others inside the hedge of their secret orchard." + +His hand fell on hers softly. + +"Then, since there is no future, I'll have to-day," he said sharply. +"We'll dine and do a theatre, Estelle, and sup recklessly in some quiet +place." + +What theatre? Bertie had a paper in his pocket; they bent over it. + +"This new thing--Spring," he said. + +"It's advanced, isn't it?" she asked. + +"It's very much so, they say. Miss Prude! But I am not in the mood for +flounced virtue set in Scotch, nor for all the solid worth which the +fashion follows. The music's lovely. I hear the piece floats through a +pale green wood, and over primroses and daffodils, away to a sapphire +sea." + +"Let it be Spring then," she said. "This day is yours, my friend." + +Friend! whose hand lay hot on hers, when their eyes met half joyously, +half despairingly. Joy that fate should have allowed them to meet; +despair that since man and woman are created for each other they could +not know the fullness of happiness. + +A cord long strained will snap at last. The cord of self-restraint +which they had tied up the hands of nature with had come to its last +strand, and they knew it. + +The spring day slipped away to the hour when the curtain rose on the +new musical play. Well-named, for it was light and sweet as spring +himself, full of tenderly passionate music, of waking love, of budding +youth. Tame blood which would not run a little faster as the south and +west winds, the sunshine and the showers, came creeping to wake the +spring earth maidens. Girls veiled in tender green, their limbs and +faces seen through a mist of some transparency. The wild winds blew the +draperies aside; a mock gale blowing from the wings; sunshine turned +the green to a glow of gold; the showers came, mistily green, with +light behind them, but to each the maidens turned, trembled, and gave +themselves to the wooing arms. + +The whole piece was full of suggestion and of fantasy. + +Quiet Estelle, watching, felt the longing in her blood grow stronger; +was youth to pass and leave her unwoken by a lover? Was she never to +know the madness of hot kisses, the restful heaven of the afterwards? + +"I dreamt once that I had found Spring"--Bertie's voice sounded far +away to her--"and it was a mocking wraith. Estelle, if we might find it +together--you and I." + +"If!" She moved her hands to the time of a haunting dance. + +The house was full. People who had been the Carterets' friends were +here and there. Dollie Gresham, with the Blakeneys; the Holbrooks in a +box, often looking sadly at a pair in the stalls--the Marquis and +Marchioness of Boredom. + +One big box at the left, empty until the middle of the second act, was +suddenly filled by a noisy crowd. Three women came to the front, +throwing back rich cloaks, showing over-bare necks and arms, flashing +with jewels; the background was filled in with the black-and-white +uniform of dining mankind. + +"Esmé," Bertie whispered, "with those people." + +Poor Esmé, glaring defiance at the friends who had cut her, her cheeks +scarlet, her lips crimson, dazzlingly handsome still, but haggard, bad +style, laughing too gaily, talking too loudly, holding up her careless +happiness too openly. And straight opposite, Denise, quietly dressed, +placidly happy, avoiding Esmé's challenging looks. + +The parts had been played and gone strangely for the players. + +"My wife," said Carteret, bitterly, "with a crowd of fourth-rate +impossibilities--and looking...." He paused, expressively. "Estelle, do +you think a man likes to see his wife look like that? I hope she may +not see us." + +A vain hope. Esmé's restless eyes looked everywhere. She started, +turned laughingly to Lord Francis Dravelling. + +"See my immaculate spouse and his flame," she said, "there, in the +stalls. I used to like the girl once, but I leave her to Bertie now." + +"Hot stuff, eh?" said the boy, his eyes devouring Esmé. Then he +whispered to her eagerly. + +Esmé's eyes grew hard, her face set bitterly. + +Bertie, the man she had once loved dearly, was sitting with another +woman, and she was listening, without anger, to a bold suggestion. And +all, everything, had come from that one rebellion against nature and +custom. + +"I am not taking you among the world to-night," Bertie said to Estelle. +"I've ordered a quiet supper in a quiet place." + +It had turned cold; they drove to a hotel, went to a warm room, its +stiffness tempered by huge bowls of flowers, supper laid on the table. + +The waiter discreetly presumed that they would ring if he was required; +he left them with a faintly un-waiter-like grin. + +Estelle was not hungry; she pecked at aspic and foie gras, but drank +champagne; glad as the sparkling wine banished care, did its allotted +work. + +It was peaceful in there; the scent of the flowers filled the room; the +fire burnt brightly. + +They left the half-eaten meal and came to the glow of the blazing coals. + +"Estelle!" The last strand snapped. Bertie's arms closed round the +girl, crushed her supple body to his, kissed her with the reverence of +great passion. "Estelle!" he said. "You are spring--turn to me." + +The lips that answered his, the arms that clung about his neck told him +she loved him. + +Forgetting the barrier of custom and law, they snatched bliss from the +greedy gods. Yet, even as he held her, Bertie knew this was no creature +of light intrigues; she might come to him in a glory of sacrifice, to +be his for all time; she would not sink to the furtiveness of secret +meetings, to the sharing of her man with another home. + +He put Estelle in a big chair, knelt before her, told her all the folly +which is never old, which the great master Passion can tune anew each +time. And what were they to do? Part--and let the world rob them of +their joy, or.... + +"It must be all or nothing now," he said hoarsely. "We could meet so +often, little sweetheart--be so happy." + +"Living a lie," she said bravely, though with all her nature yearning +for him. "No, Bertie, no." + +He pleaded on--pleaded with lips which touched her hotly and yet +reverently, with soft whispers of what life might mean. "Estelle--then +come to me. Let us go away altogether. Take some house in the country, +and live for each other. People would forget in time." + +"And Esmé?" Estelle asked simply. "How would she live?" + +"I would give her money, what I could spare; then she has someone who +supports her; there is no doubt of that, Estelle, or I would not be +here now. I would have buried my love for you, taken her away to Cliff +End if she had been faithful to me." + +"You do not know," Estelle faltered. + +"I know she can pay bills, do as she chooses. It comes from someone." + +Estelle sat silent. People said it came from stolen jewels, and she did +not tell him. She knew him so well; she feared his burst of wrath, his +going straight to Cyril Blakeney and demanding proof or retraction. + +"It is time to go," Estelle said. "Bertie, I'll tell you to-morrow. +Come to me about four. I'll be alone. I'll tell you then." + +With a sudden thrill of fear and joy she knew that in her own sultry +room she might be less strong. + +"For if I lose you, I shall go to the Devil without you," Bertie said +recklessly. + +The heart of woman delights in self-sacrifice. Estelle knew that she +would lose the world gladly to make her man happy. She was pure enough +to look passion in the face and not hide hers; to joy in the thought of +giving herself and to realize what it would mean. + +"I will come to-morrow," Bertie said, his hands heavy on her bare +shoulders, his eyes more eloquent than words. + +The discreet waiter came padding noiselessly, took his bill and tip. + +"But not our sort," he muttered, as Estelle went out. + +Bertie Carteret walked home alone. Estelle would not let him drive with +her. Far up the stars blinked in a violet sky, the cool spring wind +blew against his flushed face. Having been, up to the present, a mere +ordinary honourable man, he was miserable. Gloss it over as he might he +knew what he was asking for. + +The tall mass of the mansions towered high above him; he hated the +place, its comfortless show. + +"Mr and Mrs Rabbit, who live in a warren," he said, as he let himself +in. + +The little sitting-room was dusty, neglected, but he sat in it smoking +until the stars went out and grey dawn came sickly pale to oust the +night. + +A motor siren bleated below. After a little he heard the swish of silk. +Esmé, haggard and flushed, came into the room. + +How she had changed. The childish look had gone for ever, replaced by a +hard bitterness, by mirthless smiles. + +"You!" she said carelessly. "You've made a night of it, my friend." + +"I have been home for hours," he said coldly. + +"Tiens! Who knows!" She went to a table, poured out brandy and opened a +bottle of Perrier. "Who knows, my Bertie. I saw you with Her at the +theatre." + +He sprang up, white, angry, to find the words wither on his lips. How +could he deny, refute, with to-morrow--nay, to-day--before him? He sat +down again, wearily, as a man does who is very tired. + +"Look here, Bertie." Esmé lighted the gas fire, flung off her cloak; +her hair was tossed, her thin arms and neck bared to the bounds of +decency, her dress was a sheath outlining each slender limb. "Look +here!" she said. "You're sick of me. Let's have done with it. I'll meet +you half-way." + +"What do you mean?" he stammered. + +"Mean?" She lighted a cigarette, then took a little tablet from a box +and dropped one into her glass. "This is Nervine--Steadier--what you +like," she mocked, "and really morphia. My nerves have gone to pieces. +I mean--go away; refuse to come back; amuse yourself with the fair +Estelle, and I'll divorce you. Frank Dravelling would marry me," she +said eagerly. + +Bertie gave no answer. + +"And I'm sick of this. He's a bleating, mawkish calf, but he's got +fifteen thousand a year for me to spend, and if I don't, a dozen other +women will." + +Cold disgust gagged him. Had she no sense of decent feeling, to talk +like this? Was the girl he had married dead? + +"He is at the age when he admires rouge and paint," mocked Esmé. "He'll +make me My Lady, and Society will be glad to know me again. I'm sick of +being no one, of seeing glum looks and tracking round with fifth-rate +women. Come, Bertie! It's easily arranged." + +As swift hands rub blurred glass, so that one can see clearly through +what was dim, Esmé's words let the man's mental eyes look across the +future. + +Estelle, his pure little Estelle! This painted, haggard woman would +make a cat's-paw of her, drag her shamed name into the maw of the +press, and stand aloof herself, an injured wife. And he--he--in his +madness had been about to help her. Hidden by glamour of passion, how +different it had been to this standing naked, showing its distorted +limbs. Let sorrow come or go, he knew that he would not now drag the +woman he loved into sinning. These are the world's laws, men say, yet +surely God's laws also, since to break them means remorse and +punishment. Slight bonds of custom, but holding sane humanity. + +"You have a curious mind," he said at last. "My God, have you no sense +of right or wrong, Esmé--no shade of decency left?" + +"Oh, leave sermons to the Church," she said roughly. + +"And supposing"--he got up, stood facing her, man baited, driven to +bay--"I were to divorce you, my wife?" + +"You can't," she said coolly. "If I stay out all night it's with +companions. And look here, Bertie, I am sick of it all. I say, let me +divorce you, or I'll take proceedings myself. If you are wise any woman +of the streets will serve your purpose; if you are not, your pure +Estelle's name will be in every paper. See!" + +She tossed a photograph across to him. A glimpse of sea and cliff, and +two people asleep, lying close to a bank. Their faces were clear; the +girl, lying back, had one hand outstretched; the man, his face against +the bank, had his upon it. + +"Repose," said Esmé, coarse meaning in her voice, as every shade of +colour whickered from her husband's face. "Repose by the sea." + +The girl's face was Estelle Reynolds; the man's his own. + +"Marie's young man is a photographer; he snapped this at the seaside +one day in June, years ago. Marie brought it to me, commenting on the +likeness to you. I kept it. Come, Bertie, give me freedom, or I'll take +it." + +Holding the photograph, he saw what its evidence would mean. Idle to +prate of innocence with this before the jury. It might be printed with +a dozen suggestive names below it. His uncle would turn against him; +Estelle would not get over it. + +"Well?" she said, watching him. + +"No, but ill," he answered. "Yes, it's true. We dropped asleep sitting +looking at the sea. Pah! what use to tell you?... We merely dropped +asleep. But if you show this there shall be counter action, Esmé." + +"As I said," she flung out defiantly--"if I stay out at night, it's +with companions." + +He was ready with his counter-thrust; it darted, swift and true. + +"From what companion," he asked slowly, "do you get your money? Do you +think me a fool, Esmé, not to have noticed all that you spend and pay?" + +The colour ebbed from her face now, leaving the reddened mouth, the +rouged cheeks, standing out unnaturally. + +Evidence was so easy to find and trump up; she wanted her freedom, but +with her name untouched--it was her one chance. + +"I've known for months or more that there was someone," he went on. +"There is such a thing as common intelligence, Esmé." + +"You've known for months and years--known that there was someone," Esmé +repeated; her red lips drew away from her white teeth as she sat, +stunned. So Bertie had believed her a light woman, untrue to him, a +creature vending her beauty to some man. That, too, the consequence of +her deceiving, of her folly. + +She sat still, a stricken thing, her eyes alone alive in her face. + +"That, I suppose, was why you changed to me," she whispered, in a +curious metallic voice. + +"That was why I ceased to love you--to live with you as your husband," +he said simply and very sadly. + +"That too!" The words rasped from between her white teeth, and suddenly +she laughed--a hopeless, mirthless laugh, coming in noisy gusts; +laughed, sitting there, white and haggard, until the laughter changed +to gulping, sobbing gasps. + +"Don't, Esmé, don't," he cried. "Don't laugh like that." + +She got up, her rich dress trailing round her thin limbs, the fire of +her jewels catching the gleams from the electric light. + +"So you won't let me divorce you?" she said. "Well, find my +fellow-sinner if you can, and for the present say good-night to Mrs +Cain." + +Still laughing, she moved slowly across the room, and into her own; +shut the door quietly behind her. + +"That too!" she said. "Cut by Society; suspected by her husband." Oh, +poor Esmé, just because she was a selfish, wicked fool. Poor Esmé--who +was once so happy. + +"Marie, I ... have you heard me? Marie--come!" + +And then, for the first time, Esmé fainted; sank into a merciful +blackness, lay cold and still, until Marie found her. + +Estelle had decked her room with flowers; had put on a soft gown, when +a messenger brought her a letter. + + +"Estelle, I will not come. You are not a woman for a selfish man to +drag down. It is good-bye, and not good-bye for me, for I shall never +lose sight of your dear face; but for you, you are a +girl--young--forget me. Marry someone you can like; don't leave your +life empty. Let home and the kiddies be the cloth to wipe my memory out +with. Estelle, I've woken you. I speak from man to woman, plainly. Go +to your mother, and marry, for thwarted nature leads to strange +miseries. Good-bye, Estelle. Last night Esmé spoke out, and I saw where +I was taking you to, and I'll not do it. My place is here, to save my +wife, for who am I to prate of morality?" + + +Estelle read the letter, folded it up; the world was empty, swept clear +of love and hope and tenderness. + +Very quietly she went to her writing-table, sat down there. + + +"I have just got your letter," she wrote. "You are right, but one word. +People believe that Esmé took, or got, jewels of Lady Blakeney's and +sold them at Benhusan's and elsewhere. Her money comes from this +source, they say. That is why people have cut her. I could not tell you +before, and I was wrong. I do not believe it, but think that they were +given to her by Denise Blakeney, and that there is some secret between +them. Estelle." + + +She sent the letter by a cab. + +"A thief!" Bertie Carteret turned white to the lips as he read. They +called his wife a thief. He sat for an hour before he moved. Should he +go to Cyril Blakeney, fling the foul slander in his face? What should +he do? + +"Move carefully, or I show this." + +Esmé had the photograph which could brand Estelle before the world. He +feared it, feared his wife. She came in now, dressed to go out. + +"Esmé," he said hoarsely, "Esmé, do you know why people dropped you?" + +"I have never known," she answered coldly. "Come, Bertie, are you more +sensible to-day? Get out of my life and I'll let your girl's reputation +be." + +She was his wife, bore his name. He told her then, quickly, his brain +reeling. + +"They say that!" she cried wildly. "Denise let that lie pass. Denise +knew, and let them say I _stole_." + +There was no guilt in Esmé's storming, but a madness of rage, of blind, +futile fury. + +"Did you sell diamonds?" he asked. "Esmé, tell me the truth, and I'll +see the slander buried. You are my wife." + +"I did. I sold them," she flung out. "They have the evidence. But +Denise gave them to me; she gave me money to buy silence. So that, +too--that too! all for one thing. A thief to the world--a fallen woman +to you. A thief! Oh, God! a thief!" Her hands were at her throat; she +gasped a little. "Oh! I have borne enough," she raged wildly. "And now +Denise shall suffer. Tell as much truth as will clear me, and give me +back my own. You don't believe it, Bertie?" There was wild appeal in +her tortured eyes. + +"Before heaven, no, Esmé," he rang out. + +"And your belief is as false. Before to-morrow you shall know what I +am, and what I've done, and judge me then. I am going to find Denise. +I'll send for you." + +"What is there between you?" he asked. "What?" + +"You'll know to-morrow." There were tears now in her eyes; just at the +door she turned, held out her hands. "Forgive a sinner, Boy," she +faltered, "though not the sinner you dream of." In all her bravery and +paint she was very pitiful. + +Before Bertie could answer she had slipped away. + +She had gone to the Blakeneys; there was something between the two +women. + +Then Marie, trim, moving deftly, came in. + +"Monsieur," she said. + +"Well?" He hated the woman who held the photograph and had shown it. + +"Monsieur, I would follow Madame. She was distraught, wild! There is +some secret, Monsieur, between her and Milady Blakeney. Always notes to +the club, and notes by special messenger for Madame, though it is that +they do not speak. And, Monsieur, I leave to-day. I go to be married. I +will speak. Has Monsieur never suspected anything? Before I left +Madame, Madame was enceinte. I know, I could not be mistaken. The two +Madames then disappear--alone. Has Monsieur never seen?" + +"What?" almost shouted Bertie. He got his hands on the maid's shoulder, +unconsciously he shook her. + +"_How like Milady Blakeney's son is to Madame here_," hissed Marie; +"that when he was ill Madame sat here as one distraught. Ah! gently, +Monsieur." + +"You mean?" he gulped out, letting go. + +"That Milady Blakeney is not the mother of one of her children," said +the Frenchwoman, softly. "And that sorrow for having parted with her +child has made Madame so miserable as she is now. Follow her, Monsieur. +She is worn out from drugged sleep--from remedies full of the cocaine. +Follow her swiftly." + +"Woman, I think you're mad." + +With a groan stifled in his throat Bertie ran down the stairs and +hailed a taxi to drive to Grosvenor Square. + +The butler was human; distress and gold broke his reserve. + +"Her ladyship was out of town. Master Cecil had not been well, and her +ladyship and the children were at Trelawney in Devonshire." + +Trelawney was the village close to Cliff End. + +"Mrs Carteret was here, sir. She got a time-table and looked out the +trains; she has left for Devonshire, I fancy. There is a fast train +reaching Trelawney at about four, no other now for some time. Mrs +Carteret, sir, said she would get a motor, as it would be much quicker." + +"You, Carteret!" Cyril Blakeney had driven up in his big car. "What is +the matter? You look ill." + +"Slander's the matter. Mischief's the matter," Bertie burst out. "A +story too strange for credence is the matter." + +"A moment! Come in here. The doorstep's no home for confidence." + +"With you--who spread this lying tale!" rasped Bertie. + +The two men faced each other. One worn from unhappiness; one big, +prosperous, untroubled. + +"You've only heard it now then? Now, Carteret? Come in here. You're +ill. Keep the car, Jarvis! Come and hear my side." + +There was something dominant in Sir Cyril; his will forced Bertie into +the dining-room, kept him there to listen to the explanation. There, +quietly, without any exaggeration, he told the whole story. + +"And you believed this? One side," said Bertie, bitterly. "Sir Cyril, +your wife lied; she gave diamonds to my wife." + +"Gave them? Why?" The big man's voice rang in cool contempt. "That's +your wife's story to you." + +"As silence money for some secret. Esmé told me that. It must have been +when they were away in Italy. Sir Cyril, my wife was not lying to-day. +It was the truth." + +"And if mine was?" The big chin stuck out, the heavy brows drew +together. Cyril Blakeney could always think quickly. "As silence +money," he muttered. + +Bertie talked on, told how he had spoken to Esmé, and what she had +said. "And she was telling the truth," he said proudly. "She's no +thief, Blakeney." + +Denise had spent a great deal of money; Cyril knew that; on charity, +she said. He had no thought of what it could be. He believed in his +wife as much as he believed in any woman. + +"Come to Trelawney," he said quietly. "My car is at the door. We cannot +catch a train now, and if your wife is hysterical, overwrought, there +may be trouble." + +As a man in a dream, Bertie went with Sir Cyril, heard the quiet +questioning, nothing forgotten. + +"The tank's fairly full, isn't it? Put out the jack and the levers. We +shall not want you, Anderson. Now, Carteret. Oh, you'll want a +coat--take one of mine. We must run fast for it's a long way." + +The big Daimler glided off, threading her decorous, restrained way +through London, gathering speed in the endless dreariness of the +suburbs, shooting past tradesmen's carts, past suburban children herded +by nurses in spotless white, for Suburbia on two hundred a year must +not be surpassed by Belgravia on four thousand. Then the open country, +the hum of warm engines, the glorious rush of the highly-powered car +through the sunlit world, spurning the miles, taking the hills +contemptuously, rushing along the level. Roads showed white ribbons, +and then when that ribbon was gone another was to be ruled off. +Policemen sprang out waving angry hands; the red car was past and away, +and the quiet man who drove did not mean to stop. They stopped once for +petrol and water, drank a whisky and Perrier, and munched some biscuits. + +"Not bad." Cyril Blakeney looked at the clock which marked five as they +tore into Trelawney. "We left at eleven. Now we shall know." + +He drove to a little red-brick house looking on to the bay. Denise had +brought her Cecil down to grow strong in the soft mild air; the boy had +caught cold and been delicate. + +Mrs Stanson was at the door, her face wrapped in a shawl. She came to +meet them. + +Her ladyship was out, she said, had taken the children to the bay. + +"My face ached, Sir Cyril. Her ladyship said she would go alone without +Ellen." + +"Has Mrs Carteret been here?" Sir Cyril asked. "Quickly, nurse, answer!" + +Mrs Stanson blushed, faltered. "Yes, Sir Cyril. She came in a motor, +has gone out to her ladyship. Oh! is anything wrong?" + +"Yes!" Cyril Blakeney's face was very quiet, but his eyes gleamed +thoughtfully. "Where shall we find them, Mrs Stanson?" + +There were two bays, one on each side of the town; two stretches of +firm sands. Mrs Stanson looked dubious. + +It appeared that the children had quarrelled as they started. Master +Cyril wanted to go to the bay to the east, where the big rock ran out +into the sea. Master Cecil to the west bay. + +"Then it is sure to be this way." Sir Cyril turned to the right--to the +west. "Come, Carteret--we'll walk fast." + +Something was making Bertie Carteret afraid. The two men had scarcely +spoken on the way down. Just once Sir Cyril had asked: "You think +you're right, Carteret?" and Bertie had answered: "Yes. My wife's no +thief. She was _given_ those jewels." + +"Then there is something," Cyril said. "Something!" and did not speak +again. + +"I'll go the other way." Bertie pointed to the cliffs. "One never +knows, and Esmé was dreadfully excited. I'll go along the cliffs, +Blakeney; I can see the whole shore, and there are passages leading +down, and the cliff path is quicker walking." + +"Very well! It's all rather a fuss about nothing, isn't it, Carteret?" + +Bertie hurried away towards the cliffs. An opal evening was falling on +the world. The sea glimmered and sparkled out to the sinking sun. As he +hurried, Bertie could see the woods of Cliff End, and the gables of the +old house. So far he had seen no one on the beach. The tide was coming +in, creaming back softly over the sands, nosing upwards on the rocks. + +He was coming close to where he had sat with Estelle and known for the +first time that he loved her. Far below was a stretch of firm sand, +with a curious rock running out, deep water always at its landward +side--a treacherous, slippery rock, not high above the water, but its +sides sheer and steep. + +Then he saw Denise Blakeney and his wife. Esmé was gesticulating, +speaking loudly. Denise standing with bent head and outstretched, +pleading hands. He saw little Cecil playing with his spade, making a +castle. + +The next downward track was some way on. He watched for a minute. + +"Bertie!" He swung round, astonished. + +Estelle, with lines in her pale face, was on the cliffs. + +"You!" he jerked out. "Here--to-day. Why?" + +She flushed. "I ... came to say good-bye to the cliff here," she said +gently. "Where I knew for the first time that you were my world, +Bertie. I came down this morning. I was walking back to Trelawney now +to catch a train." + +For a minute he forgot everything except that the girl beside him would +understand and sympathize. He stood pouring out his story; there was no +hurry. + +Estelle listened, saw suddenly that Marie had not dreamed; looked back +on little incidents. + +"Her child!" she muttered. "Poor Esmé. Oh, Bertie, listen! we can hear +what they are saying, and it's as well to know." + +The voices rang clearly. Esmé was flinging out passionate words, +demanding justice. + +"You'll not take him," Denise cried. "Esmé, it would ruin me." + +"Did you think when you allowed me to be ruined?" stormed Esmé--"saw me +cut, banned by my friends?" + +"You wrote a foolish letter," wailed Denise. "Cyril thought you had +stolen the diamonds. I never told him so." + +"No, but to save yourself you left it at that. You acted a cruel lie. +Now give me my boy. I have borne enough." + +"You cannot prove it," Denise sobbed piteously. "No, Esmé, no." + +"I can and will. Because I was weak, and loved ease and pleasure, all +this has come. The world believes me to be a thief--my husband that I +am an adulteress. At least I'll have my boy. Oh, Denise, do you know +how I've longed for him? How my whole life has been one ache of regret?" + +"But the scandal. Oh, God! I cannot face Cyril." Denise flung herself +down on the soft sand, gripping it with her hands. "I'll give you more +money, anything." + +"Nothing but the truth will give me back my honour. Where is the boy?" + +"Cecil wanted some red seaweed for his castle. Cyril is on the rock +getting it," said Cecil, looking up. "Mumsie not let Cecil go." + +"On the rock!" Esmé sprang round. + +The two on the cliff could hear the raised voices. With white, strained +faces they listened, bewildered, almost afraid. + +"The boy is hers. It is true," whispered Bertie. "Look, he's out on the +rock, and it's slippery, dangerous. He ought to keep down." + +A little figure was toiling along the sharply-cut edge. The tide was +washing at the safe side where the rock merged into the sands, so Cyril +kept high up. + +"It's not safe; he may fall. You want to kill him," Esmé cried, +beginning to run towards the rock. + +It was safe at low tide, because the sands were bare, but no place for +baby feet on the upper side above the deep water. + +"You would not have let Cecil go," Esmé stormed as she hurried on. "Oh, +Cyril, stop! Keep near the tide." + +Perhaps her voice frightened the child as he picked his way. He +started, slipped, and fell over. In a second a little white face could +be seen on the calm, dark water. + +"Cyril, oh, Cyril! Oh, my baby!" rose a shrieking cry. + +With mad haste Esmé tore off her skirt and sprang into the sea, +clutching at the sinking child. She caught him as he came up for the +third time, and swam back holding him. But the black sides towered +sheer and straight four feet above her; the seaweed gave as she caught +it; the child was a dead weight on one arm, and she had hurt the other +jumping in. + +"Get help," she cried. "Get help, Denise." + +Denise lay on the sands, shrieking, half-unconscious, useless and +helpless. + +"They'll drown! Go for help, Estelle. I may get down to them in time." +Bertie swung over the edge of the cliff, beginning a perilous climb. + +Another rescuer went hurrying too. + +"It's Cyrrie! My Cyrrie, dwownin'." + +Baby Cecil left his castle, began to patter out along the rock, sobbing +as he ran. "Wait, Cyrrie, wait! I tumin' to help. Oh, my Cyrrie!" + +Half-way down Bertie knew that he ought to have run on to the path. +Sometimes he hung and thought he could go no further, then dropped and +scrambled, and caught some point which saved him. He was still too high +up to jump when he came to a jutting ledge and could see no way on. +There, Esmé, clinging, slipping, as she called for help, looked up and +saw him. + +"Bertie!" she said. "You followed me." + +She stopped calling out, clutched a new piece of seaweed and grew +strangely quiet. + +"Bertie, I'm not worth it," she said. "Don't risk anything." + +Voices are strangely clear across the water; hers rang plainly. + +"I'll come, Esmé. I must find a way. I'll save you." + +"I'm going to drown, Bertie. I'm so tired, it won't hurt much; but I've +time to talk a little." + +As he raged up and down his ledge he heard her voice telling, as +quietly as though they were in some room, safe and sheltered, her story. + +"Send for Luigi Frascatelle, he'll identify me as the boy's mother. +Bertie, I sold my birthright, but I've been punished for it, so forgive +me now, and keep my Cyrrie--he's alive." + +The pity of it as she clung there--young, pretty, once so happy. Truly, +the punishment had been hard. + +"Esmé! I see a way. I'll get down in five minutes. Live on and let the +past be." + +Twice she had felt the water at her lips, once her boy had almost +slipped from her arms. + +"I would have swum round but one arm is hurt," she said weakly. +"Bertie, I think the boy is dying. If he dies let Denise be. Don't tell +if she will clear my name." + +A man ran out along the rock, heard the faltering words. + +"By the God above us she shall clear it," stormed Bertie, "and give us +back our child. No, Esmé, no. Oh, wait! I'm down." + +He was in the water now, swimming strongly, too late; the last strand +of weed had parted; weak, tired Esmé had slipped to her rest in the +cool, clear water. And as she went, little Cecil, sobbing wildly, +holding out his spade, fell over into the sea. + +A clawing, twisted woman rose from the sands, screaming wildly, looking +up as baby Cecil fell over. + +Sir Cyril ran past her, kicking off his shoes as he went. + +Bertie hesitated for a second, but the struggling, drowning mite had +fallen in coming to try to save Cyril; he turned, swam to Cecil, and +carried the child to the rock, where his father leant over. + +"Quickly, man!--we'll dive," Sir Cyril cried. + +"I give you back your child," Bertie said. "Mine is gone for ever." He +swam on. + +Diving, he brought up Esmé, her boy clasped to her. + +Estelle had fetched help. They carried the still figures quickly to the +cliff and back to the house. + +"You meant?" Cyril Blakeney said as he went with him, carrying his +drenched boy. + +"Cyril is Esmé's child," Bertie said bitterly. "Your wife bought him +from her. I heard it all as they talked on the sands. She told me where +to find proof." + +"Ah!" said Cyril, slowly. "Ah!" + +Denise was tottering behind them, wild with fear, grey-faced, all +beauty reft from her. + +"God send," said Sir Cyril, reverently, "that both come to, and we live +to repay for the blight we cast on your wife's name, Carteret." + +"I cast a worse one," said Bertie, fiercely. + +Then long-drawn working, as the living strive with death, as the poor +quiet body is forced to life. But no working brought a quiver to little +Cyril; they left him at last quiet in his cot; the motherless boy was +at peace for ever. + +Esmé's breath came fluttering. She had closed her eyes on sea and sky, +opened them to see watching, kindly faces. + +"Hush, do not speak," they told her. + +"Cyril?" she whispered, and knew without an answer. + +"Then let it rest," she murmured, and so drifted out again, this time +for ever, into the land of shadows, glad to go and rest. + + * * * * * + +Denise, half wild, had stumbled in alone, sobbing, shivering, +unnoticed, as the household worked for the two lives. + +Cecil had been put to bed; his hip was hurt; he lay still and +exhausted; sometimes asking for "Cyrrie--my Cyrrie." + +"Not you, mumsie--Cyrrie," he said fretfully. "I couldn't pull Cyrrie +out--fetch Cyrrie." + +Mrs Stanson, weeping for her eldest charge, came in. Seeing her, hope +leapt up suddenly into Denise's heart. + +"The boy, milady?" Mrs Stanson sobbed. "No hope. We've laid him to +rest." + +"And--Mrs Carteret?" + +"Came to, and passed away, milady." + +The wave of hope swelled high. For as all the punishment had fallen on +the woman who lay still in the pretty drawing-room, it might lie on her +still. No one else knew. + +"She spoke?" Denise faltered. + +"Once, milady--to ask for Master Cyril; and again to say, 'Let it +rest.'" + +"Ah!" The greyness slipped from Denise's cheeks. The dead cannot speak. +After all, she was to escape. + +Then, his big bulk filling the door, her husband came in, Carteret +following. + +"Oh! oh!" she cried, and held her hands out, sobbing. "Oh, Cyrrie! the +boy and poor Esmé. She died to save him. Oh!" + +"You can go, Mrs Stanson." The sick fear crept back to Denise +Blakeney's heart. "Yes, Cyrrie is gone; and now, Denise, you will tell +the truth." + +"The truth," she faltered. "I--and I am so miserable." + +"You'll tell how you gave those diamonds to Mrs Carteret. You'll +publish it in the big papers. That is one part--and then ... now the +rest of the truth," he thundered. "Oh, you two poor fools." + +"But, Cyril--what else?" + +"All the rest," came quickly. "Of Italy and Esmé Carteret's child." + +It was over. Denise tottered to a chair, sat there staring; her +punishment had fallen at last. + +Then, faltering, stumbling, yet afraid to lie, Denise Blakeney told the +story. Of Esmé's fear of poverty; of her own wish for a child. "And +then it was arranged," she said; "we changed names. The boy was Esmé's. +Luigi Frascatelle, the doctor, can tell you." + +"The big, splendid boy was yours, Carteret; the poor, puny mite mine," +said Cyril Blakeney, bitterly. "Well done, Denise! When a foolish girl +was hysterical, foolish, as women are at these times, you advised her +well. Lord! I know what she felt when I've seen her looking, looking at +her own boy, with heartbreak in her eyes. I've wondered, but did not +understand then. It was a pretty plot, milady, to fool me back to an +untrue wife. Carteret, we are no judges to blame these two, but one has +known her punishment, and one has not." + +"Cyril!" sobbed Denise, "have pity! It was for you." + +"For me? Pardon me, for my name and my position, knowing that I meant +to rid myself of you," he answered coldly. "Carteret, Miss Reynolds is +with your dead wife--go to her." + +"Cyril," moaned Denise again. "You'll not expose me, for the boy's +sake." + +She was on her knees by Cyril's side, sobbing, entreating. + +"That is for Carteret to decide," he answered. "Go to your room; you +will only excite the child." + +In the days to come, Denise, fighting for her delicate boy's life, knew +no open disgrace. One poor foolish woman had borne it all and died; but +the other left behind knew the misery of daily fear. She was a cipher, +given no trust or belief; and with her always was the dread that as +Cecil grew older he would be taken from her. + +Cyril Blakeney, an embittered man, never forgave her. + +Denise came to him the evening of Esmé's death to ask what he would do. + +He was writing, making arrangements for the funeral. + +"You let a woman be disgraced before the world, you let that boy whom +you disliked go into danger where no baby should have gone," he said. +"But you are Cecil's mother--so keep the position you schemed for--and +no more." + +The big man went back to his loneliness; he had loved strong Cyril, had +dreamt of a boy who would run and shoot and swim and ride; and now, +Cecil, injured by his fall from the cliff, would be lame for life. + +Esmé sleeps in a graveyard by the sea; close by her a little grave with +"Cyril, drowned the 21st of April," on it. And on her tombstone is the +inscription: "She gave her life to save a child's." + +Estelle and Bertie, living in the quiet country, happy, yet with a +shadow of regret ever with them, guessed, as they came often to the +grave, what the weak girl must have suffered. + +"Judge no human being until you know the truth," said Bertie once, "for +misery rode poor Esmé with a sharp spur across the thorns of +recklessness. Poor Butterfly, whose day of fluttering in the sunlight +was so short." + +Yet, even with the shadow behind them, two of the players are happy, +every-day man and woman with troubles and joys. + + + +THE END + + + +COLSTONS LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH + + + + + +March, 1914 + +JOHN LONG'S ANNOUNCEMENTS + +All JOHN LONG'S Books are published in their Colonial Library as nearly +as possible simultaneously with the English Editions + + +SIX SHILLING NOVELS + +Crown 8vo., Cloth Gilt. Many in Three-Colour Wrappers + + ++THE GREATER LAW.+ By Victoria Cross, Author of "Anna Lombard," "Five +Nights," "The Life Sentence," "Life of My Heart," etc. + +"The Greater Law" is a story that touches the deepest currents of human +feeling, vibrating with power and intensity perhaps even more than +those which have previously emanated from the pen of this intrepid +writer. The many episodes of a brief romance are treated naturally and +sincerely and with masterly ability. It is, indeed, a typical Victoria +Cross novel. + + ++SUNRISE VALLEY.+ By Marion Hill, Author of "The Lure of Crooning +Water," etc. [Not supplied to Canada.] + +"The Lure of Crooning Water," by Marion Hill, was one of the fictional +landmarks of last year, consequently her succeeding book is bound to +evoke more than ordinary interest. "Sunrise Valley" involves a contrast +between the ideals of Town and Country; the wealth of Stanley +Ballantyne, manliest of millionaires, is confronted with the +independence of Blanche Dering, sweetest of heroines. The novel should +set the seal upon a victorious beginning. + + ++THE WOMAN RUTH.+ By Curtis Yorke, Author of "The Vision of the Years," +etc. + +Readers of Curtis Yorke do not need to be commended to her latest +novel. The secret of her continued success is that she never gives us +less than her best. "The Woman Ruth" epitomises the qualities of head +and heart to which she has accustomed us. An optimistic view of +life--tenderness, humour, human sympathy--these are the main weapons in +this gifted author's bright and shining armoury. + + ++SYLVIA.+ By Upton Sinclair, Author of "The Jungle," "The +Moneychangers," etc. [Not supplied to Australia or Canada.] + +"Sylvia" is the greatest work that has come from the pen of this +brilliant author, surpassing "The Jungle" both in the bigness of its +theme and in its dramatic intensity. Just as the timeliness of "The +Jungle" promoted its great success, so "Sylvia" appears at the +psychological moment when social questions are to the front. It is a +fascinating story, presenting a girl-character more charming, more +powerful, more remarkable in every way than Mr. Sinclair has yet drawn, +while beneath lies a vein of serious purpose, a criticism of +contemporary ethics which ranks it among the profoundest moral forces +of the day. + + ++DESMOND O'CONNOR.+ By George H. Jessop, Author of "His American Wife," +etc. + +Desmond O'Connor was a good fighter, a brisk wooer, and a breezy +companion on the march or in the bivouac. He was one of the many +wandering Irishmen who drew the sword for France after the siege of +Limerick. It was while in the service of Louis XIV., in Flanders, that +he met the lovely Countess Margaret, and surrendered to her charms. One +will find a no more romantic story of love and war than is contained in +these pages. + + ++BLESSINGTON'S FOLLY.+ By Theodore Goodridge Roberts, Author of "Love +on Smoky River," etc. [Not supplied to Canada.] + +The qualities which made "Love on Smoky River" such an instantaneous +and unqualified success are again brought into play in the present +novel. The author unfolds his theme with skill and power, and fully +maintains the reputation he has gained for telling a good story well. + + ++AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE+. By Violet Tweedale, Author of "The House of the +Other World," etc. + +This is a book of a very unusual type. It is a powerful novel dealing +with Satanism, an evil cult which is making great headway in Europe. +The man who forms the unholy alliance is Canon Gilchrist, who has been +unfairly deprived of a peerage, and hopes to regain his position by the +help of the Powers of Darkness. There is a charming love element, and +the story shows the author at her best. + + ++A GAMBLE FOR LOVE+. By Nat Gould. (For Complete List of Nat Gould's +Novels see pages 12 and 13). + +This novel follows "A Fortune at Stake," the first novel by Nat Gould +to be issued at the outset at 6_s_. The innovation was an immediate +success. The new tale, "A Gamble for Love," should undoubtedly win for +itself many admirers. The hero and heroine have strong dominating +personalities, and the love interest is well sustained. The element of +sport of course prevails, and the book may fairly be said to be as +thrilling as any Mr. Nat Gould has written. + + ++THE SECRET CALLING.+. By Olivia Ramsey, Author of "Callista in +Revolt," etc. + +This is a love story of unusual charm dealing with the fortunes of two +girls. An artist falls in love with one; the other rejects the +brilliant marriage arranged for her by her worldly aunt. Each girl +seeks safety in flight. How both are finally won by the men who love +them is convincingly described by the author. In this book she again +displays her acknowledged skill as a clever novelist. + + ++THE SNAKE GARDEN.+ By Amy J. Baker, Author of "I Too Have Known," "The +Impenitent Prayer," etc. + +As with her two previous successes the scene is laid in South Africa. +Miss Baker writes with a realism that is the outcome of personal +experience. Theo, the heroine, is an unusual type of girl, and how she +straightens out her life is told with rare humour and psychological +insight. The book is remarkable for its clear-cut pictures of Colonial +life. + + ++THE BELOVED PREMIER.+ By H. Maxwell, Author of "Mary in the Market," +"The Paramount Shop," etc. + +The author imagines what would happen in England were the authorities +to govern with absolute disinterestedness and singleness of purpose. +The picture thus drawn depicts a topsy-turvy world indeed. The story is +told with much humour and many shrewd thrusts at our most cherished +institutions. It is an unusual book replete with good things. + + ++THREE SUMMERS.+ By Victor L. Whitechurch, Author of "The Canon in +Residence," "Left in Charge," etc. + +Here is a book that will appeal to all who love a good plot and plenty +of incident. It runs along fresh and sparkling and true to the end. The +hero and heroine are cleverly depicted in this charming romance, which +teems with lovable characters. It is a novel which enhances the +reputation of this popular author. + + ++THE RESIDENCY.+ By Henry Bruce, Author of "The Eurasian," "The Native +Wife," etc. + +The previous novels by Henry Bruce have secured for him an appreciative +following. Like its predecessors, "The Residency" is a story of life in +India. The heroine is a beautiful Eurasian who, after twenty-two years +of sheltered life in England, rashly returns to India. The novel is an +account of the passionate attachment she forms for a Native of rank. +Mr. Bruce has a power of humour all too rare in these days. He tells +the narrative in a masterly way. + + ++PAUL MOORHOUSE.+ By George Wouil, Author of "Sowing Clover." + +_The Morning Post_ said, in reviewing the author's first novel, "Sowing +Clover": "We shall look for Mr. Wouil's future with every anticipation +of continuous and increasing delight." The second novel is another +Black Country study, but of much greater dramatic power. It depicts the +central character, reared in poverty, without influence or promise; of +the struggles of youth; of artisan life, the prospect of a "little +'ome" and drab respectability; of ambition; of the coming of love; of +the making of a gentleman, and the battle with environment. + + ++THE WIDOW OF GLOANE.+ By D. H. Dennis, Author of "Crossroads," etc. + +Mr. D. H. Dennis is one of the most promising exponents of the modern +school of fiction. His new Work contains a capital idea. Phyllis, the +heroine, who is a charming young widow when the story opens, meets and +marries the playmate of her childhood. The narrative is full of good +things, of wit as well as wisdom, and readers who like their fiction to +be brainy as well as human will thoroughly enjoy its pages. + + ++THE BARBARIANS.+ By James Blyth, Author of "Rubina," "Amazement," etc. + +The marital relationship is the keynote of "The Barbarians" Original, +virile, human, bold and sympathetic, the novel, both in interest and +craftsmanship, is a worthy successor of a sequence of brilliantly +limned portraits of the feminine character. It is the tale that +matters, and as a story teller Mr. Blyth may well challenge comparison. + + ++UNDER COVER OF NIGHT.+ By R. Murray Gilchrist, Author of "Weird +Wedlock," etc. + +A book of vivid atmosphere, probably the best of this author's novels +of incident. Throughout, the strange country background, with its +swiftly moving folk, gentle and simple, reminds one of a weird and +fascinating drama. The contrast between the quiet inn house, and the +dilapidated hall with its guilty secret, is admirably depicted. The +plot is excellently fashioned and the unfolding of the mystery done +with admirable restraint. The author understands to perfection the art +of thrilling his readers. + + ++MAIDS OF SALEM.+ By K. L. Montgomery, Author of "The Gate-Openers," +"The Cardinal's Pawn," etc. + +The witch-persecution of New England, one of the most dramatic chapters +of American history, is the theme of K. L. Montgomery's new novel. The +scene is Salem, Massachusetts Bay. The story is one of tragedy and +romance, told in the inimitable way with which the author's admirers +have been so charmed by her previous books. + + ++THE DICE OF LOVE.+ By Edmund Bosanquet Author of "A Society Mother," +"Mary's Marriage," etc. + +Since the days of "A Society Mother," Mr. Edmund Bosanquet has gone +far, and this, his latest romance, will more than satisfy the +expectations of his admirers. The characters are never insipid, and +have the happy knack of getting on the right side of the reader +immediately. There is a sustained brilliance about the book which +augurs well for its success. + + ++THE MEMOIRS OF PRINCESS ARNULF.+ + +These reminiscences form the record of the intimate life of the +Princess Arnulf and her royal relatives. Not for many years has a work +of such extraordinary interest been given to the reading public. It is +the mart of news, of scandal, of rumour, of intrigue, of a galaxy of +princes, courtiers, men and women of rank and fashion, of sullied +virtue and invidious attachments. + + ++WHY SHE LEFT HIM.+ By Florence Warden, Author of "Love's Sentinel," +etc. + +Miss Warden's gypsy heroine forms a very interesting study. It would be +unfair to explain the plot of the story, but behind it is tragedy. The +hero, Lord Tregaron, is a well-drawn personage, and so, indeed, are the +other characters clustered around the charming heroine. + + ++THE MAZE.+ By A. L. Stewart. + +"The Maze" is the love story of a famous operatic singer who marries +her protégé, a violinist considerably younger than herself. As is +inevitable, their gifts clash and jealousy ensues. The plot is cleverly +unfolded, and the book reaches a satisfactory conclusion. The scene is +laid in London, Paris, and the West of England. + + ++THE OYSTER.+ By a Peer, Author of "The Hard Way," "The Decoy Duck," +etc. + +The Novels of a Peer are distinguished among present-day fiction by +their brilliant literary qualities and their deep emotional appeal to +human hearts and sympathies. They are addressed to men and women who +know the world and the significance of life: their keynote is strength. +The _motif_ of this enthralling story is centred upon the maternal +instinct--the profoundest of all human feelings. An idea of consummate +originality is presented in a manner free from reproach or any +suspicion of pruriency. + + ++A MILLION FOR A SOUL.+ By Mrs. C. E. Phillimore, Author of "Two Women +and a Maharajah." + +An Irish patriot bequeaths to his child, as her sole inheritance, his +love for drink. She marries in India and through constant strain +succumbs to the degrading habit. Cast off by her husband, her lover +seeks to regain her and effect her regeneration. The story ends with +this achieved, though the manner of its accomplishment is by way of the +unexpected. + + ++THE WHITE VAMPIRE.+ By A. M. Judd, Author of "Lot's Wife," etc. + +This is a powerful story of love, hate, revolution, and revenge, woven +around the central figure of a beautiful, fascinating, unscrupulous +woman who lures men to ruin and then dooms them to a horrible fate. +Retribution overtakes her at last through the love of one of her +victims. The book contains many thrilling episodes, and the ending is +highly dramatic. + + ++LAW THE WRECKER.+ By Charles Igglesden, Author of "Clouds," etc. + +Is it feasible that a sane man may be sent to a lunatic asylum? This +vital question is answered by Mr. Igglesden in "Law the Wrecker." The +author is especially qualified to deal with the subject, as he has +acted as certifying magistrate for many years and been a governor of a +county lunatic asylum. Life in a lunatic asylum is vividly and +truthfully described. The plot is an exciting one with many dramatic +situations, a young Colonial trying against heavy odds to prove his +sanity to the girl he loves, and she in turn struggling with the doubt +that racks her mind. + + ++MARY'S MARRIAGE.+ By Edmund Bosanquet, Author of "A Society Mother," +"Catching a Coronet," etc. + +Securing public favour at the first time of asking--such is this +author's almost unique record. That he has come to stay may be gathered +from the progressive successes he has achieved since the days of "A +Society Mother." This novel follows its predecessors in that it makes +the same direct appeal to the average human heart. Readers in their +thousands and tens of thousands will rejoice to know something about +the heroine and her wayward marriage. + + ++THE ENCHANTING DISTANCE.+ By Lilian Arnold, Author of "The Storm-Dog," +etc. + +This is a love story, in the development of which it becomes apparent +that things are seldom what they seem and that the most passionate +attachments are rarely based on pure reason. The adventures of the +heroine in search of a life of her own in London are told with much +humour. + + ++A BESPOKEN BRIDE.+ By Fred Whishaw, Author of "Nathalia," etc. + +Mr. Fred Whishaw's description in this novel of the gallant little +nation, Finland, fighting to a man and woman against inevitable +absorption by the irresistible giant at the threshold, is moving and +holds the reader. Every Finn is a resister, active or passive. Some +fight wisely, some foolishly, but all fight and all sacrifice self for +the sake of the Motherland and her disappearing rights and privileges. + + ++SALAD DAYS.+ By the Author of "Improper Prue," "The Price of +Possession," etc. + +This amusing novel can well be called a comedy of youth, for it depicts +the invasion of a well-ordered English bachelor by a good-intentioned +humourless Irish girl and twin young men of free and easy disposition. +The bachelors are Mr. Weatherby, most chivalrous of victims, and his +nephew, Richard Torr, an Oxford exquisite, who tries hard to save his +own and his uncle's dignity under the most trying conditions. It is a +book that men and women will laugh at and enjoy. + + ++FROM PILLAR TO POST.+ By Alice M. Diehl, Author of "Incomparable +Joan," etc. + +For the many readers of Mrs. Diehl's novels the present story will be +rather a new departure in female portraiture. The heroine's +aristocratic descent, conflicting with her father's democratic ideas, +is the pivot on which much of the tale turns. Her experiences as a +wife, and yet all the time no wife, go to make up a very fascinating +romance which shows that the author has lost none of her power. + + ++CALLISTA IN REVOLT.+ By Olivia Ramsey, Author of "A Girl of No +Importance," etc. + +This dainty love-story is told with great charm and skill. A beautiful +girl is forced, through adverse circumstances, to lead a monotonous +existence in an isolated village. It is here that she is discovered by +the wealthy Bruce Armadale, whose force of character is powerfully +drawn. A dazzling dancer of London fame is introduced as a dangerous +rival for his affection, and her plot to separate the lovers is +convincingly told. + + ++THE RANSOM FOR LONDON.+ By J. S. Fletcher, Author of "The Bartenstein +Case," etc. + +This is one of the most enthralling conceptions that has yet appeared +in realistic fiction. From the advent of the stranger at the week-end +retreat of the Prime Minister, with his demand for ten millions +sterling as the ransom for London, right through to the end, the +narrative compels attention. Mr. Fletcher has in this story surpassed +himself. + + ++ANGELS IN WALES.+ By Margam Jones, Author of "The Stars of the +Revival," etc. + +A tale of Welsh life in the last century, describing faithfully and +vividly, in the glow of a sympathetic imagination, the joys and sorrows +of the Celtic soul, and having for its central theme the all-important +problem of true life. Here the lover of fiction will be continually +charmed by a mysterious revelation of hidden life clothed in a new +dress of spiritual psychology. + + ++THE PRICE OF CONQUEST.+ By Ellen Ada Smith, Author of "The Only +Prison," etc. + +The story has its setting partly in the west country and partly amidst +the changes and chances of London musical life. As a risen Star, +Sigismund Wirth is happy as only the successful can be. How at last his +weakness is discovered and his final victory over self achieved is +shown in this clever novel. + + ++FAITH AND UNFAITH.+ By James Blyth, Author of "Rubina," "Amazement," +etc. + +This novel is the study of a woman's love. The theme is developed with +the certainty of touch and the clearness of vision which are the gifts +of experience in life and art. It is as engrossing as the author's +previous works, and a notable addition to his gallery of brilliant pen +portraits of beautiful, frail women. + + ++THE RED WEDDING.+ By E. Scott Gillies, Author of "A Spark on Steel," +etc. + +The novel deals with one of the stormiest periods of history and of the +fierce feud between two Highland Clans, each so powerful that Queen +Elizabeth sought to gain their friendship for England against the +Scottish Sovereign, James IV. It is a story of love and jealousy and +the gradual success of the true lover in the face of all obstacles. + + ++ENVIRONMENT.+ By Mrs. A. M. Floyer. + +The story illustrates the influence of environment upon character. The +plot consists of episodes, amatory, humorous and otherwise, in the +lives of people who are not always in their proper element. It should +appeal to all who like something out of the beaten track. + + +RECENT POPULAR NOVELS + +SIX SHILLINGS EACH + +Several of these novels were the successes of last year. Some reached +the distinction of a Second Edition and even a Third Edition, whilst +with "The Lure of Crooning Water" a Thirteenth Edition was called for. + + LOVE ON SMOKY RIVER Theodore G. Roberts + SOWING CLOVER George Wouil + THE PARAMOUNT SHOP H. Maxwell + A FORTUNE AT STAKE Nat Gould + THE EURASIAN Henry Bruce + MAZE OF SCILLY E. J. Tiddy + ETELKA Stanley Ford + A SOCIAL INNOCENT R. St. John Colthurst + GREEN GIRL Mrs. Henry Tippett + THE WISDOM OF THE FOOL By "coronet" + THE ELUSIVE WIFE R. Penley + LOT'S WIFE A. M. Judd + AN OFFICER AND A-- E. D. Henderson + YOUNG EVE AND OLD ADAM Tom Gallon + THE VAUDEVILLIANS Anonymous + A HANDFUL OF DAYS Hal D'arcy + CROSSROADS D. H. Dennis + LIGHT FINGERS AND DARK EYES Vincent Collier + THE MAN IN THE CAR Alan Raleigh + THE LURE OF CROONING WATER Marion Hill + THE DECOY DUCK By a Peer + LEVITY HICKS Tom Gallon + OUR ALTY M. E. Francis + QUEER LITTLE JANE Curtis Yorke + CATCHING A CORONET Edmund Bosanquet + THE HOUSE OF THE OTHER WORLD Violet Tweedale + THE ONLY PRISON Ellen Ada Smith + A GIRL OF NO IMPORTANCE Olivia Ramsey + UNQUENCHED FIRE Alice Gerstenberg + MARY IN THE MARKET H. Maxwell + THE IMPENITENT PRAYER Amy J. Baker + THE LITTLE MAISTER R. H. Forster + LOVE'S SENTINEL Florence Warden + INCOMPARABLE JOAN Alice M. Diehl + THE VISION OF THE YEARS Curtis Yorke + HIS AMERICAN WIFE George H. Jessop + WEIRD WEDLOCK R. Murray Gilchrist + THIN ICE Anne Weaver + A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE Charles Löwenthal + (Low Lathen) + + + +THE WORLD'S FAVOURITE AUTHOR + +ATHENĆUM, June 10th, 1911, says:--"All living writers are headed by Mr. +Nat Gould, and of the great of the past, Dumas only surpasses his +popularity." + +TRUTH, Jan. 22nd, 1913, says:--"Who is the most popular of living +novelists? Mr. Nat Gould easily and indisputably takes the first place." + + +The Novels of Nat Gould + +Sales now exceed NINE MILLION Copies! + +NAT GOULD'S NEW 6/- NOVEL + + +A GAMBLE FOR LOVE + +[Ready in April, 1914] + +All Mr. Nat Gould's NEW Novels will now be issued at the outset at 6s., +Crown 8vo., in handsome Cloth Gilt, over 300 pages, with Wrapper in +Three Colours. They will also be issued simultaneously in John Long's +Colonial Library at 3s. 6d., Cloth, with Special design, also Wrapper +in Three Colours; and 2s. 6d. with Stiff Paper Covers in Three Colours. + + +RECENTLY PUBLISHED AND UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE + +A FORTUNE AT STAKE + +[Third Edition.] + +Remarkable success attended the publication of this, Mr. Nat Gould's +First Novel to be issued at the outset at 6s. The large First Edition +was soon exhausted, and Second and Third Editions have been called for, +thus proving that Mr. Nat Gould has a very big following in the Library +and Colonial form. + +N.B.--Messrs. JOHN LONG are the SOLE Publishers of all Mr. Nat Gould's +New Novels and control the output. To ensure a long run with the +Library and Colonial Editions they will not publish the 1s. net Edition +until at least a year, and the 6d. Edition until over two years, after +the publication of the more expensive Edition. But in the meantime +there will be the usual periodical 6d. issues of Novels by Mr. Nat +Gould that have already appeared at 2s. and 1s. + + +NAT GOULD'S NOVELS at 1s. and 2s. + +Crown 8vo. Paper Cover, three colours, 1s. net; cloth gilt, 2s. + + THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME + THE KING'S FAVOURITE + A CAST OFF + *THE PHANTOM HORSE + *LEFT IN THE LURCH + *THE BEST OF THE SEASON + GOOD AT THE GAME + A MEMBER OF TATT'S + THE TRAINER'S TREASURE + THE HEAD LAD + +* Nat Gould's Annual, 1911, '12, '13 respectively. + + +NAT GOULD'S NOVELS at 6d. + +In large demy 8vo., thread sewn. Striking cover in three colours + + #A GREAT COUP January 21st, 1914 + + *ONE OF A MOB + *THE SELLING PLATER + A BIT OF A ROGUE + *THE LADY TRAINER + *A STRAIGHT GOER + *A HUNDRED TO ONE CHANCE + *A SPORTING SQUATTER + THE PET OF THE PUBLIC + *CHARGER AND CHASER + THE LOTTERY COLT + A STROKE OF LUCK + *THE TOP WEIGHT + #THE KING'S FAVOURITE April, 1914 + *THE DAPPLE GREY + *WHIRLWIND'S YEAR + *THE LITTLE WONDER + A BIRD IN HAND + *THE BUCKJUMPER + *THE JOCKEY'S REVENGE + THE PICK OF THE STABLE + #THE STOLEN RACER + #A RECKLESS OWNER + #THE ROARER + #THE LUCKY SHOE + QUEEN OF THE TURF + #A CAST OFF July, 1914 + +* Also at 2s. picture boards, and 2s, 6d. cloth gilt. + +# Also at 2s. cloth gilt, and 1s. net paper. + + + +NAT GOULD'S ANNUAL, 1914 + +THE FLYER + +(Twelfth Year) + +Cleverly illustrated. Cover in three colours. Paper, thread sewn, 1s. +Large demy 8vo. + +READY FOR EXPORT END OF AUGUST. ORDER NOW. + + + +THE MAGIC OF SPORT + +Being the LIFE STORY OF NAT GOULD, written by himself + +With over 50 Illustrations of Notable Sportsmen, Places and Horses and +Photogravure Portrait of the Author. Demy 8vo. 370 pages, handsomely +bound, Gilt Top. Price 12s. 6d. net. + +For further List of Nat Gould's Novels see page facing + + + ++JOHN LONG'S FAMOUS 1/- NET SERIES+ + +N.B.--All the Volumes in this Series are most attractively bound in +three-colour covers, art paper, thread sewn + ++NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914+ + + ++LIFE OF MY HEART.+ By VICTORIA CROSS. + +_Now first published in 1/- form._ + +Victoria Cross's immense popularity rests on the fame she achieved with +"Anna Lombard" and "Five Nights," and in "Life of My Heart" we have a +worthy successor. It is a story of intense passion and dramatic +interest. + + ++THE STORY OF MY LIFE+. By EVELYN THAW. With 8 portraits of the +principal characters. _Now first published._ + +In this remarkable book Evelyn Thaw unbosoms herself to the world, and +now for the first time gives her full life history in all its vivid +details. + + ++THE LIFE OF LENA.+ By W. N. WILLIS, ex-M.P. + +(Australia), Author of "Why Girls Go Wrong," "The White Slave Market," +etc. _Now first published._ + +Few tales within recent years have been so realistic, and the book from +its sincerity should appeal to the hearts of all thinking men and +women. Mr. W. N. Willis is an author whose books sell in tens of +thousands. + + ++SONNICA.+ By VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ, Author of "Blood and Sand," "The +Shadow of the Cathedral," etc. + +_Now first published._ + +Vicente Blasco Ibanez is the most brilliant author of the modern school +of Spanish fiction, and in this daring novel he is probably seen at his +best. In "Sonnica" the publishers believe they have discovered a second +"Quo Vadis." + ++Volumes already published+ + + THE LIFE SENTENCE Victoria Cross + FIVE NIGHTS Victoria Cross + ANNA LOMBARD Victoria Cross + A WIFE IMPERATIVE By a Peer + THEO By a Peer + TO JUSTIFY THE MEANS By a Peer + THE HARD WAY By a Peer + THE SPINSTER Hubert Wales + CYNTHIA IN THE WILDERNESS Hubert Wales + MR. AND MRS. VILLIERS Hubert Wales + THE WIFE OF COLONEL HUGHES Hubert Wales + HILARY THORNTON Hubert Wales + A PRIESTESS OF HUMANITY Mrs. Stanley Wrench + A PERFECT PASSION Mrs. Stanley Wrench + BURNT WINGS Mrs. Stanley Wrench + LOVE'S FOOL Mrs. Stanley Wrench + FOLLY'S GATE James Blyth + A COMPLEX LOVE AFFAIR James Blyth + THE MEMBER FOR EASTERBY James Blyth + THORA'S CONVERSION James Blyth + THE PENALTY James Blyth + AMAZEMENT James Blyth + RUBINA James Blyth + CHICANE Oliver Sandys + THE WOMAN IN THE FIRELIGHT Oliver Sandys + DECREE Lady X + THE DIARY OF MY HONEYMOON Lady X + THE STORM OF LONDON F. Dickberry + A SOCIETY MOTHER Edmund Bosanquet + I TOO HAVE KNOWN Amy J. Baker + THE DUPLICATE DEATH A. C. Fox-Davies + A HOUSEHOLD Jerrard Syrett + CONFESSIONS OF CLEODORA Carlton Dawe + SECRET HISTORY OF THE COURT OF BERLIN Henry W. Fischer + MIGHTY MAYFAIR "Coronet" + CONFESSIONS OF A PRINCESS Anonymous + IMPROPER PRUE Anonymous + THE PRICE OF POSSESSION Author of "Improper Prue" + THE PROGRESS OF PAULINE KESSLER Author of "The Adventures + of John Johns" + + +JOHN LONG'S 1/- NET (CLOTH) NOVELS + +_Crown 8vo. Cloth gilt. Wrappers in three colours_ + +NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914 + + THE LURE OF CROONING WATER Marion Hill + OFF THE MAIN ROAD Victor L. Whitechurch + THE STORM-DOG Lilian Arnold + THE REALIST E. Temple Thurston + +_Volumes already published_ + + THE GREAT GAY ROAD Tom Gallon + HIS MASTER PURPOSE Harold Bindloss + THE MASK William Le Queux + FOR FAITH AND NAVARRE May Wynne + KISSING CUP THE SECOND Campbell Rae-Brown + THE GREAT NEWMARKET MYSTERY Campbell Rae-Brown + A JILT'S JOURNAL Rita + ADA VERNHAM--ACTRESS Richard Marsh + SWEET "DOLL" OF HADDON HALL J. E. Muddock + THE OLD ALLEGIANCE Hubert Wales + ++JOHN LONG'S 7d. NET (CLOTH) NOVELS+ + +A New Series of copyright Novels which, in more expensive form, have +achieved marked success. They are printed in clear type, newly set, on +good paper, tastefully bound in Red Cloth, full gilt back, with +attractive pictorial wrapper in three colours. Each volume has a +decorative title-page with frontispiece, both on Art paper. + ++_NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914_+ + + 19 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA (2nd Feb.) Guy Boothby + 33 THE GOLD RAIL (2nd Feb.) Harold Bindloss + 23 THE GRASS WIDOW (2nd Mar.) Dorothea Gerard + 25 THE GIRL IN GREY (2nd Mar.) Curtis Yorke + 24 THRICE ARMED (1st Apr.) Harold Bindloss + 38 OUR ALTY (1st Apr.) M. E. Francis + 34 MOLLIE DEVERILL (4th May) Curtis Yorke + 39 MEMORY CORNER (4th May) Tom Gallon + 35 A GLORIOUS LIE (25th May) Dorothea Gerard + 40 THE BARTENSTEIN CASE (25th May) J. S. Fletcher + 36 ALTON OF SOMASCO (22nd June) Harold Bindloss + 37 IRRESPONSIBLE KITTY (22nd June) Curtis Yorke + ++_VOLUMES NOW READY_+ + + 1 FATHER ANTHONY Robert Buchanan + 2 DELILAH OF THE SNOWS Harold Bindloss + 3 ONLY BETTY Curtis Yorke + 4 THE GARDEN OF MYSTERY Richard Marsh + 5 IN SPITE OF THE CZAR Guy Boothby + 6 THE VEILED MAN William le Queux + 7 THE SIN OF JASPER STANDISH Rita + 8 A BORDER SCOURGE Bertram Mitford + 9 WAYWARD ANNE Curtis Yorke + 10 THE GREATER POWER Harold Bindloss + 11 A CABINET SECRET Guy Boothby + 12 THE EYE OF ISTAR William le Queux + 13 A WOMAN PERFECTED Richard Marsh + 14 HYPOCRITES AND SINNERS Violet Tweedale + 15 THE SILENT HOUSE Fergus Hume + 16 BY RIGHT OF PURCHASE Harold Bindloss + 17 THE OTHER SARA Curtis Yorke + 18 LITTLE JOSEPHINE L.T. Meade + 20 THE MAGNETIC GIRL Richard Marsh + 21 THE MATHESON MONEY Florence Warden + 22 CRIMSON LILIES May Crommelin + 26 THE LADY OF THE ISLAND Guy Boothby + 27 THE WHITE HAND AND THE BLACK Bertram Mitford + 28 THE STOLEN EMPEROR Mrs. Hugh Fraser + 29 A MAN OF TO-DAY Helen Mathers + 30 THE PENNILESS MILLIONAIRE David C. Murray + 31 LINKS IN THE CHAIN Headon Hill + 32 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR Maxwell Gray + + + ++JOHN LONG'S NEW 6d. (PAPER) NOVELS+ + +The new, up-to-date Cover Designs by leading Artists, printed in three +colours on Art paper, are the most effective that have ever adorned a +Sixpenny Series. This, combined with the established popularity of the +authors, will ensure for JOHN LONG'S 6d. (Paper) Novels first place in +the public esteem. Good paper, clear type. Thread sewn. Size 9 inches +by 6. + + +Volumes for 1914 + + 1. SOMETHING IN THE CITY Florence Warden + 2. THE TURNPIKE HOUSE Fergus Hume + 3. MIDSUMMER MADNESS Mrs. Lovett Cameron + 4. MRS. MUSGRAVE AND HER HUSBAND Richard Marsh + 5. THE SIN OF HAGAR Helen Mathers + 6. DELPHINE Curtis Yorke + 7. TRAITOR AND TRUE John Bloundelle-burton + 8. THE OTHER MRS. JACOBS Mrs. Campbell Praed + 9. THE COUNTESS OF MOUNTENOY John Strange Winter + 10. THE WOOING OF MONICA L. T. Meade + 11. THE WORLD MASTERS George Griffith + 12. HIS ITALIAN WIFE Lucas Cleeve + 13. No. 3, THE SQUARE Florence Warden + 14. MISS ARNOTT'S MARRIAGE Richard Marsh + 15. THE THREE DAYS' TERROR J. S. Fletcher + 16. THE JUGGLER AND THE SOUL Helen Mathers + 17. THE HARVEST OF LOVE C. Ranger Gull + 18. BITTER FRUIT Mrs. Lovett Cameron + 19. BENEATH THE VEIL Adeline Sergeant + 20. THE BRANGWYN MYSTERY David Christie Murray + 21. FUGITIVE ANNE Mrs. Campbell Praed + 22. IN SUMMER SHADE Mary E. Mann + 23. A JILT'S JOURNAL Rita + 24. THE SCARLET SEAL Dick Donovan + +N.B.--The first Eight will be published March 16th. There will then be +an interval of one month, when, commencing April 20th, the volumes will +appear fortnightly, two at a time, until July 27th. + + + +GENERAL LITERATURE + + ++OSCAR WILDE AND MYSELF.+ By Lord Alfred Douglas. With rare Portraits +and Illustrations. Demy 8vo. Price 10s. 6_d._ net. + +Some of Oscar Wilde's biographers are persons who had only a nodding +acquaintance with him, and others had no acquaintance at all. But in +their writings there is one name which is linked with Wilde's and is +second only in importance to it--the name of Lord Alfred Douglas. After +long years Lord Alfred has decided to break the silence and to give the +real facts about his relations with Wilde from the period when Wilde +was at the top of his fame to the time of his tragedy and death. "Oscar +Wilde and Myself" contains a serious side inasmuch as it deals with the +grave disasters which this friendship has brought upon Lord Alfred. It +possesses another side in the analysis of the purely literary aspect of +Wilde's work; and a large number of anecdotes and sayings of Wilde are +included which have never before been printed. It gives also an account +of the Wilde circle, which included the most prominent persons of the +period. Of Lord Alfred Douglas's literary gifts his worst enemy is in +no doubt, and this work, apart from its great personal import, will +give the quietus to much that is false which has grown round the Oscar +Wilde tradition. + + +BELGIUM, HER KINGS, KINGDOM, AND PEOPLE. By John de Courcy +Macdonnell. Fully illustrated. Demy 8vo. Price 15_s._ net. + +The lives of Leopold I., Leopold II., and King Albert told with a +wealth of intimate detail which up till now has been withheld, the true +story of the Belgian Revolution, untold by any English writer ere this, +and much that is new and interesting about all the leading people in +Belgium, from Royalties to Anarchists. The author describes the Belgian +people, their mode of living, their thrift, their industry--the country +itself, the forests, the mining districts, the crowded cities--and +throws fresh light on many aspects of Belgian politics. + + ++THE BONDS OF AFRICA.+ By Owen Letcher, F.R.G.S., Author of "Big Game +Hunting in North-Eastern Rhodesia." With 50 Illustrations from +Photographs and a Map. Demy 8vo. Price 12_s._ 6_d._ net. + +Mr. Owen Letcher is a young Englishman who has spent the past eleven +years in Africa and has wandered into well-nigh unknown portions of the +Dark Continent to hunt big game and to pry into the lives of the +natives inhabitant of the remotest corners of it. Quite apart from its +value to the traveller, the sportsman, and the student of natural +history, the book possesses a remarkable human interest. Mr. Letcher +knows Africa from Cape Town to the City of the Pharaohs, and, as the +work covers an enormous field of but little known land in Southern, +North-Western and North-Eastern Rhodesia, Nyasaland, British East +Africa, and Uganda, its merits from a geographical point of view are +undoubted. + + ++MADAME DU BARRY.+ By Edmond and Jules de Goncourt. With Photogravure and +numerous other Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 12_s_. 6_d_. net. + +One of the most marvellously minute and realistic specimens of +biography to be found. No pains have been spared to obtain all the +information available with reference to the extraordinary woman who, +born out of wedlock in the little French town of Vaucouleurs, became +the mistress of Louis XV., and after a career of reckless extravagance, +perished on the guillotine. + + ++STORIES OF SOCIETY.+ By Charles E. Jerningham ("Marmaduke" of _Truth_). +With numerous Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 10_s_. 6_d_. net. + +In his life spent amongst the clubs and the drawing-rooms of Mayfair +the author (for more than twenty years "Marmaduke" of _Truth_) has +become familiar with the skeletons lurking in the cupboards of Society, +and there is no writer of to-day who is more fully or happily equipped +to fulfil the function of a social satirist. + + ++THE PURPOSE: Reflections and Digressions.+ By Hubert Wales. With +Portrait. Crown 8vo. Price 5_s_. net. + +Mr. Hubert Wales' object in this book is to discuss serious subjects in +a style and within a compass compatible with modern exigencies and +habits. No longer the hidden operator pulling the strings that move his +puppets, he draws aside the curtain, appears in his own person, and +talks familiarly with his readers upon such absorbing and vital topics +as Life and Death, Ethics, Sex and Beauty. + + ++HOUNDS.+ By Frank Townend Barton, M.R.C.V.S. With 37 Illustrations from +Photographs. Crown 8vo. Price 5_s_. net. + +An entirely new and original work dealing with the most important +varieties of hounds. Each variety is exhaustively dealt with, not only +in relation to the conformation, but in matters appertaining to +feeding, breeding, rearing, showing, health and sport, etc., etc. + + ++ARTEGAL: a Drama; Poems and Ballads.+ By B. C. Hardy, Author of +"Philippa of Hainault and Her Times," "The Princesse de Lamballe," etc. +Crown 8vo. Price 3_s_. 6_d_. net. + + ++BEQUEATHED MID-OCEAN.+ By Blanche Adelaide Brock, Author of "Fire +Fantasies," etc. Crown 8vo. Price 3_s_, 6_d_. net. A Story in Verse. + + ++GOLF FOR THE LATE BEGINNER.+ By Henry Hughes (One of Them). With +Thirty-two Illustrations from Photographs specially taken for the Work. +Fcap. 8vo. Price 1_s_. net. Third and Revised Edition. + +_World of Golf_ says: "Every stroke and club are carefully explained. +An excellent shillingsworth." + + + +_RECENTLY PUBLISHED_ + + ++EUGČNE DE BEAUHARNAIS: the Adopted Son of Napoleon.+ By Violette M. +Montagu, Author of "Sophie Dawes, Queen of Chantilly," "The Scottish +College in Paris," etc. With 24 Portraits and Illustrations. Demy 8vo. +Price 15_s_. net. + + ++ROBESPIERRE AND THE WOMEN HE LOVED.+ By Hector Fleischmann, English +Version by Dr. A.S. Rappoport. With Photogravure and 19 other +Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 13_s_. 6_d_. net. + + ++ROSE BERTIN: the Creator of Fashion at the Court of Marie Antoinette.+ +By Émile Langlade. English Version by Dr. A. S. Rappoport. With +Photogravure and 24 Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 12_s_. 6_d_. net. + + ++BOHEMIAN DAYS IN FLEET STREET.+ By a Journalist. Demy 8vo. Price 10_s_. +6_d_. net. + + ++TRAVELS IN THE PYRENEES: including Andorra and the Coast from Barcelona +to Carcassonne.+ By V. C. Scott O'Connor, Author of "The Silken East," +"Mandalay," etc. With 4 Illustrations in colour, 158 other +Illustrations, and a Map. Demy 8vo. Price 10_s_. 6_d_. net. + + ++GUN DOGS.+ By Frank Townend Barton, M.R.C.V.S., Author of "Terriers: +Their Points and Management." With 46 Illustrations from Photographs. +Crown 8vo. Price 5_s_. net. + + ++HOME EXERCISE AND HEALTH: Five Minutes' Care to the Nerves.+ The +Rational System of Exercising for Health rather than mere Strength. By +Percival G. Masters, B.A. Cantab. With 32 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. +Price 2_s_. 6_d_. net. A System of Exercises devised to promote health, +and not muscle development only. It particularly aims at building up +the nervous system. [Second and Revised Edition.] + + ++ENGINEERING AS A PROFESSION.+ By A. P. M. Fleming, M.I.E.E., and R. W. +Bailey, Wh.Sc. Crown 8vo. Price 2_s_. 6_d_. net. + + +"Gives a general outline of the field of engineering activity, and sets +forth the present facilities for obtaining satisfactory training and +employment, with conditions of entry to the leading engineering +institutions."--_The Times._ + + +JOHN LONG, Ltd., 12, 13 & 14, Norris St., Haymarket, London + + + +LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LTD. + + + * * * * * + + +[Transcriber's note: italicized text is indicated with _underscores_; +bold text is indicated with +plus signs+. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Oyster, by A Peer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OYSTER *** + +***** This file should be named 35217-8.txt or 35217-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/2/1/35217/ + +Produced by Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Oyster + +Author: A Peer + +Release Date: February 8, 2011 [EBook #35217] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OYSTER *** + + + + +Produced by Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t1"> +<b>The Oyster</b> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +By +</P> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +a Peer +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +London +<BR> +John Long, Limited +<BR> +Norris Street, Haymarket +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +[<i>All rights reserved</i>] +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t5"> +<i>First Published in 1914</i> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%"> +<i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i> +<BR><BR> +In Two Editions, 6s. and 1s. net. +<BR><BR> + Theo<BR> + The Hard Way<BR> + The Decoy Duck<BR> + A Wife Imperative<BR> + To Justify the Means<BR> + The Ordeal of Silence<BR> +<BR><BR> + <i>All Published by</i> +<BR> +JOHN LONG, LIMITED, London +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +The Oyster +</H2> + +<BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I +</H3> + +<P> +Gleams of bright sunshine came through the windows +of the trim little flat into the drawing-room +furnished in miniature aping of luxury. The chairs +and tables were Sheraton—Sheraton passably imitated—the +covering rich brocade. Soft white +cushion covers, fine as cobwebs, clothed the big +squares stuffed with feathers. Late narcissi and +early roses made the air heavy with scent. The +place was small, but it carried the air of comfort; it +was a miniature of its roomy brothers and sisters in +big town houses. The door of the dining-room, +standing open, showed the same taste. Polished +inlaid mahogany, good silver, embroidered table +linen. Early as it was there had been strawberries +for breakfast, and cream, and hot bread. +</P> + +<P> +"Luncheon at the Berkeley. It will be a good +one too. I'm driving with Denise to that show at +the Duchess's. Tea at the Carlton. Dining with +Robbie at his club; the Gay Delight afterwards; +supper at Jules. Oh! the days are not half long +enough." +</P> + +<P> +Long-limbed, slender, gracefully pretty, Esmé +Carteret turned over the leaves of her engagement-book. +Her blue eyes sparkled behind dark lashes; +her skin was fair and carefully looked after. She +was so bright, so dazzling, that at first sight one +missed the selfishness of the weak, red-lipped mouth, +the shallowness of the blue eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Not half long enough," she repeated. "Oh, +Bertie, you—" +</P> + +<P> +A flashing smile, a hand held out, yet in the greeting +no look of the real love some women feel for their +husbands. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Butterfly." Bertie Carteret had a bundle +of letters in his hands; he was opening them +methodically with an ivory cutter. +</P> + +<P> +A dark man, with a quiet, strong face. Dazzled, +attracted by this fair piece of womanhood, loving +her as men love when they do not stop to look +further than the flesh and blood they covet, and so, +married. And now, loving her still, but with eyes +which were no longer blinded, with little lines of +thought crinkling round his eyes when he looked at +her, yet still her slave if she ordered him, thrilling to +the satin softness of her skin, the scented masses of +her hair. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, my Butterfly," he said, opening another +letter. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé did not pay her own bills. She had not as +yet sufficient wisdom to keep the house accounts. +It saved trouble to let Bertie take them. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé child!" He looked at the total written +under a long line of figures. "Esmé! those cushion +covers are not made of gold, are they?" +</P> + +<P> +"No—hand embroidery," she said carelessly. +"Everyone gets them." +</P> + +<P> +"They seem to represent gold, you extravagant +child." +</P> + +<P> +"Dollie Maynard had them; she kind of crowed +over mine last day we had bridge here. I must have +things same as other people, Bert. I can't be shabby +and dowdy." +</P> + +<P> +"So it seems." He opened several other letters. +"Well, we can just do it, girlie, so it doesn't matter. +Breakfast now. I was working hard this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"And I was eating strawberries. Bobbie sent +them. There are eggs for you." +</P> + +<P> +"Once upon a time laid by a hen," he said resignedly. +"Got the stalls for to-night. That blue +gown suits you, Butterfly." +</P> + +<P> +"It ought to," she said, coming in to give him his +breakfast. "It cost fifteen guineas." +</P> + +<P> +Bertie Carteret was adjutant of volunteers in +London; he had taken it to please Esmé, who would +not endure the idea of a country station in Ireland. +</P> + +<P> +Now Carteret was going abroad, his adjutancy +over. His battalion was in South Africa; he was +to join it there until he got something else to do. +Esmé flashed out at the thought of the place. +</P> + +<P> +"Dust and bottled butter; black servants and +white ants. No thank you, Bertie—I won't go." +</P> + +<P> +No one expected sacrifice from Esmé; she was too +pretty, too brilliant, to endure worry or trouble. +Bertie Carteret smiled at her. She should stay at +home. They would soon get something else to do, +and he would come back. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé bent across to him that day, her face set in +unwonted thought. +</P> + +<P> +"Just think if your Uncle Hugh had no sons," +she said, "he'd leave you everything. We'd be +rich then." +</P> + +<P> +Bertie laughed. Two boys made barrier between +him and hopes of the Carteret money. +</P> + +<P> +A pleasure-loving pair, absolutely happy in their +way. Well enough off to have all they wanted, and +pleasant enough to get the rest from their friends. +</P> + +<P> +They chattered through breakfast of engagements, +parties, trips, of days filled to the brim. Bertie was +lunching at the Bath Club. Esmé, with her friend, +Denise Blakeney, at the Carlton. +</P> + +<P> +"And oh, Bert—ring up those fruiterer people. +Dollie dines here to-morrow. We must have strawberries, +and asparagus—the fat kind—and peas, +Bert. She had them—Dollie. I don't want her to go +away and talk of 'those poor Carterets and their +mutton chops'—and send in matron glaces, Bert, and +sweets from Buzzard's, will you, and some Petit +Fours for tea." +</P> + +<P> +"Anything else?" he said. "Esmé, do you know, +my Butterfly, that we spend every penny we have, +and a little more?" +</P> + +<P> +With a laugh she slipped a supple arm about his +neck. "And why not?" she said lightly—"why +not, Sir Croaker?" +</P> + +<P> +He drew her to his knee, kissing her firm neck, her +soft arms—on fire to her touch. +</P> + +<P> +"She was a witch," he told her, "and a Butterfly, +hovering over a man's heart." She should +have her strawberries, her sweeties. "And—what +is it?" +</P> + +<P> +For Esmé had turned white, put her hand to her +throat, a sudden nausea seizing her. +</P> + +<P> +"I've been like that twice before," she said; +"it's the racket. Bertie, I don't feel up to luncheon +now, and I like to be hungry when I lunch with +Denise. Oh, thank you, dear." +</P> + +<P> +For he brought smelling-salts, holding the fragrant, +pungent, scented stuff to her nostrils. He was +genuinely anxious. +</P> + +<P> +"It's nothing," she said lightly; "something +disagreed with me." +</P> + +<P> +"Lunching with Denise?" He lighted his pipe. +Carteret was not a cigarette-smoker. "Ever see +Blakeney with her now, girlie?" +</P> + +<P> +"No-o," she said reluctantly. +</P> + +<P> +"H'm! I hear they're not too good pals. Denise +has been playing the fool with young Jerry Roche—the +'wily fish' as they call him. She'd better not +go too far with Cyril Blakeney. I was at school with +him—came just when he left. But I knew his +brother there also. I tell you, Esmé, they're a bad +lot to vex." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé shook her head thoughtfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Hope Jimmie Helmsley won't be at luncheon," +Carteret went on. "Steer clear of him, old dear." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm lunching with him on Saturday, Bert." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, don't again. He's a beast. Of course +there's no fear of you, but there was the Grange +Stukeley girl, poor soul, married off to a parson +cousin; and Lettice Greene, and—oh, heaps of his +victims." +</P> + +<P> +There are some women who create trust. The +dazzle about Esmé was not one of warmth. It +was cold as she was selfish. Her husband, without +realizing this, yet knew that he might trust her implicitly, +that beyond mere careless flirtation nothing +amused her. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, good-bye, Esmé. I must go to do a few +things which don't want doing, even as this morning +I paraded unwilling youths at seven." +</P> + +<P> +Carteret strolled out. Esmé picked up the salts +bottle, sniffing at it. She rang for a trim, superior +maid to take away, going back herself to the pretty +drawing-room to write a few notes. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm feeling rotten," wrote Esmé to a girl friend, +"slack and seedy—" and then she jumped up, +crying out aloud. +</P> + +<P> +"Not that! Not that! Not the end of their +dual in the treble. Not the real cares of life forced +on her. Oh, it could not be—it could not!" Esmé +raged round the room, crying hysterically, fighting +off an imaginary enemy with her hands. +</P> + +<P> +It would mean a move from the little expensive +flat. Doctors, nurses, extra maids swallowing their +income. +</P> + +<P> +"It can't be!" she stormed. "I'm mad!" and +rushed off to dress. +</P> + +<P> +She looked hungrily at her slim figure in her glass, +watched her maid fasten hooks and buttons until the +perfectly-cut early summer gown seemed to cling +to the slender figure. There was that, too—a figure +spoilt. Dowdy, disfiguring clothes, and fear, the +fear of the inevitable. She was counting, calculating +as the maid finished fastening her dress, brought her +a cloudy feather wrap, deep brown over the creamy +gown, long white gloves, a scented handkerchief, a +bunch of deep pink roses. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I alter Madame's yellow gown?" Marie +wondered at Esmé's silence. "Madame is weary +of its present aspect, with silver and violet. I can +make it new—and the waist, it seemed a little tight +last evening for Madame." +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't," Esmé flung out. "It's quite right. +Get me new corsets, Marie—these are old. A taxi, +yes." +</P> + +<P> +Speeding westward swiftly, but with dread flying +as swiftly. Not that—not the ending of her careless, +selfish life. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Esmé, what a pretty gown; but you look +pale, dear." +</P> + +<P> +Lady Blakeney was at the Berkeley. A big, soft +woman, with a weak, pretty face, palpably face-creamed, +powdered, tinted, yet the whole effect that +of a carefully-done picture, harmonizing, never +clashing. With her brown hair, her deep brown +eyes, she was a foil to flashing, dazzling Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +"Just four, you see," Lady Blakeney sauntered +to her table. She was in dull rose, exquisitely +dressed. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Jerry and Jimmie Helmsley." +</P> + +<P> +Lord Gerald Roche, slim, distinctly young, just +getting over being deeply in love, and still trying to +think he was a victim to it, more impressive, as if to +whip his jaded fancy, came in; a bunch of rare mauve +orchids, fresh from a florist's, in his hand. Behind +him, Jimmie Gore Helmsley, a tall man, dark, with +satyr's ears, thick, sensual lips, and black eyes of +cool determination. No one realized Jimmie's fascination +until they spoke to him. It was in his +manner, his power of subtle flattery, of making the +woman he spoke to feel herself someone apart, not +of common attraction, but a goddess, an allurement. +</P> + +<P> +Unkind men, unfascinated, called Jimmie's black +eyes boiled sloes, and swore that he rouged his cheeks; +but women raved about him. +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie was a pursuer of many women, a relentless +one if his fancy were touched; there were girls—girls +of his own rank of life—who whispered his name +bitterly. The plucking of a bird sometimes amused +him more than the wearing of a full-blown rose. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah you! the sunshine is here now." He bent +over Esmé's hands, and his flattery was as water +pattering off polished marble. Esmé had no use for +the Gore Helmsleys of life; she had laughed when +he had given her a flower as though it were made of +diamonds. Jimmie made things as cheap for himself +as he could. +</P> + +<P> +But Esmé talked to him now. Jerry was almost +whispering to Denise Blakeney, making his adoration +foolishly conspicuous. +</P> + +<P> +The restaurant was filling. Denise had ordered +luncheon; she never trusted to chance. A soufflet +of fish, asparagus, grilled fillets of beef. +</P> + +<P> +As the fish was handed to them, Denise Blakeney +started and flushed painfully. Her young admirer +had been showing her a jewel flashing in a tiny box—a +pear-shaped pink pearl. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" she cried sharply, and pushed the box away. +</P> + +<P> +A bluff man, with heavy features, had gone up the +room and sat down at a small table. His companion +was an elderly woman, dowdy, rather fussily impressed. +</P> + +<P> +"It's Cyrrie!" said Denise. "Cyrrie and his old +Aunt Grace. He asked me to have her at Grosvenor +Square to-day, and I told him a fib to escape." +Denise fidgeted uneasily, her colour changing. "I +told one fib," she said, "now it will take a dozen +more to make it credible." +</P> + +<P> +"The fib is a mental fly," said Jimmie, laughing; +"he's grown large quickly. Cheer up, Milady, don't +look tragic." +</P> + +<P> +The big man nodded to his wife with a careless +smile. It is an Englishman's need to be outwardly +pleasant, to glaze a volcano with a laugh—in public. +</P> + +<P> +"He hasn't scolded me enough lately," said Denise, +grimly. "And the nature of husbands being to +scold, it makes me nervous." She watched Cyrrie +narrowly. +</P> + +<P> +"Aunt Grace is having boiled chicken, specially +ordered for her; she will finish up with stewed fruit +and rice. It makes it so difficult when she comes. +My cook is uncertain as to boiling chickens plainly." +Lady Blakeney tried to fling off her depression, to +do her duty as hostess. She muttered something +sharply to Lord Gerald, she talked a little too fast, +a little too gaily. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé would flash smiles, planning some future +gaiety, forget for a moment, and then, across her +happiness, a cloud rose looming, threatening. Oh! +it could not be! It must not be! There were so +many things she meant to do. Bertie's appointment +was up; he was going to South Africa until they got +something else, or his other battalion came to +Aldershot. Exchanges could always be managed. +And Esmé was due at Trouville in August; she was +going on to Scotland; she had been asked to Cheshire +to hunt for two months. It must not be! +</P> + +<P> +Once, in a spasm of fear, she clenched her hand, +crushing her glass in her fingers, spilling her champagne. +Esmé drank champagne on a hot May day +because it looked well to see it there, because it +brightened her wits, made pleasure keener. She +liked expensive dishes, ordering them recklessly +when she was asked out, taking the best of everything. +She was never tired, never knew sleeplessness; +could dance until four and be out riding next +morning, with her bright colour undimmed. Perfect +health makes perfect temper. Esmé was an unruffled +companion, provided she got her own way. +Down in the country, without amusement, she +would have fretted, beaten against bars of dulness. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Mrs Carteret!" she heard Jimmie exclaim +as the amber liquid vanished, as the broken glass +tinkled together on the cloth. "What dream +moved you?" he whispered, bending close. "What, +lady fair?" +</P> + +<P> +A man who could throw meaning into his lightest +word, here it was implied, had she thought of hidden +things; the eyes burning into hers expressed that +she had thought of him. Though every road in the +map of love was known to Jimmie Gore Helmsley, +he hinted at unknown turns, at heights unclimbed +to each fresh companion he took by the route, knowing +how women love mystery and hate the flat, soft +paths they can see too well. +</P> + +<P> +"Of what?" he whispered. "If I dared to think. +It would make Friday—" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't dare," Esmé flashed at him mockingly. +"And Friday—where do we lunch on Friday?" +she asked carelessly. "Let it be near Dover Street; +I must be at the club at half-past two." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé looked shrewdly at the man, wondered what +women saw in the sloe-black eyes, the high-coloured +cheeks; wondered why girls had made fools of themselves +for him. +</P> + +<P> +"I heard of an old friend of yours to-day," she +said—"Gracie Stukeley—I forget her married +name." +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie nodded carelessly; there were no chinks +in his armour. He gave no thought to a little fool +who had come flying to his rooms because someone +vexed her, who prattled to him of divorce; he was +rather fond, in a way, of his big, swearing, hard-riding +wife. He remembered that Grace Stukeley +had to be married off to save her people's name. +</P> + +<P> +"Nice girl," he said carelessly; "but a fool." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Denise! You did not lunch with Eva? +She put you off an hour ago; I see." +</P> + +<P> +Big Cyril paused as he passed his wife. Denise +made sweetly-drawled apology to Aunt Grace. +</P> + +<P> +"I see," said Sir Cyril, his big face set a little +grimly; "and now, whither away, Denise? To +drive—to the cloth show? Well—we meet at +dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—to drive;" but first Denise knew that +she had meant to go home to spend an hour with +Jerry in her boudoir. And now she was afraid; she +faltered and flushed. Would not Aunt Grace drive? +Esmé could come any day. +</P> + +<P> +Aunt Grace, easily flattered, gravely believing the +previous engagement, accepted willingly. +</P> + +<P> +She quite understood how difficult it was to find +time to receive visitors from the country. Engagements +were sacred. The vicar had never forgiven +her once because she forgot to go to tea to meet the +bishop's wife, and the hot buns were overcooked +waiting for her. Mrs Lemon made a speciality of +hot buns. Grace Bullingham chattered on, delighted +with her luncheon, her day in London; +but Sir Cyril stood silent, a curious smile on his +lips. +</P> + +<P> +"You're coming, Cyrrie? Denise, isn't Cyrrie +coming?" +</P> + +<P> +"The electric limousine of the moment has only +room for two—and an interloper," said Blakeney. +"No, I'm not coming, Aunt Grace. I should be the +interloper. But I'll meet you at four at the station, +the car can take you there, and—" +</P> + +<P> +Denise was still flustered; still talking nervously. +She arranged to meet Esmé again; she fussed uneasily, +afraid that Jerry might be openly impressive, +that he might try to whisper his regret. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, auntie, come along. Au revoir, Esmé. +Good-bye, Lord Gerald. See you some time next +week—to luncheon on Sunday if there's no other +attraction." +</P> + +<P> +Something fell with a little clatter on the pavement. +Sir Cyril stooped and picked it up. +</P> + +<P> +"You've dropped this," he said to his wife. +</P> + +<P> +It was a pear-shaped pink pearl set with tiny +diamonds, a valuable toy. +</P> + +<P> +Denise took it from him, hesitating. +</P> + +<P> +"A pretty thing," said Blakeney, quietly. "Be +more careful of it, Denise." +</P> + +<P> +"Sit and smoke a cigarette with me," Esmé heard +Gore Helmsley's caressing voice close to her, "in +my club. And look here—I've a lovely scheme—listen!" +</P> + +<P> +The scheme was unrolled simply. As Carteret +would be away, Esmé must come to Leicestershire +for a few days in the winter. He had a lodge there; +she could get another girl to come. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +She was not afraid of Jimmie, or of any man. +Esmé 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. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd love to," Esmé began. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll come," she said gaily; "I must have my +hunting. Oh! I must!" +</P> + +<P> +Gore Helmsley smiled softly. "And—drop a +hint to Denise Blakeney to go slow," he said. "Those +big men think a lot." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II +</H3> + +<P> +May made her brilliant, treacherous way across her +allotted span of days. A thing of sunshine, 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 gods of the season; +money poured out as water in the huge city; money +spent everywhere; in the crowded shops; in stately +<i>salons</i>, 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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé Carteret, in a soft muslin gown, sat in her +pretty drawing-room; sat for a moment, jumped up +restlessly, trying to escape her thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +Suspicion had become certainty; there was no +escape save through folly or worse; her easy happiness +was at an end. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll think of it, Marie. No, tell her not to; +make it loose, soft." +</P> + +<P> +Marie coughed discreetly. Marie guessed—or +knew. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé reddened, tore at a pink carnation, pulling +its fragrant petals to pieces. +</P> + +<P> +In ten minutes her guests would be there; she +would have to talk to them, to laugh and chatter, +and not show her uneasiness. +</P> + +<P> +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. Esmé's flat was not much out of +the way. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé'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. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé, dear! what lovely flowers!" Dollie's +quick eyes appraised the roses. "Oh! extravagant +Esmé!—or is it Esmé well beloved, with a someone +who wastes his income at a florist's." +</P> + +<P> +"In this case—my lawful spouse! He sent them +in yesterday." Esmé omitted to say that she had +asked for them. +</P> + +<P> +"You are a model pair, Esmé." 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!" +</P> + +<P> +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 flashing +purity. +</P> + +<P> +Dollie detested Esmé because she did so much on +half the Maynards' income; she envied Denise +deeply. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Another time Esmé would have been proud of her +luncheon; the soles in cunning sauce; the soufflet +of peas; the cutlets; the savoury—Esmé 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. +</P> + +<P> +On other days Esmé would have smiled to herself +at Dollie Maynard's peevish envy, at the praise +veiled by pricks of innuendo. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé 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." +</P> + +<P> +Coffee, liqueurs, cigarettes; then Dollie fluttered +away, called for by friends. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall we go?"—Denise Blakeney strolled to the +window—"or shall I send the car away? Esmé, I'm +in bad spirits; it's raining, too!" +</P> + +<P> +"And I am in bad spirits." Esmé looked pinched, +almost unhealthy. "Yes, tell her to come back, +Denise—let's talk." +</P> + +<P> +Speech is the safety valve of sorrow; a trouble +which can be spoken of will not hurt gravely. It +did Esmé good to fling out her fears—to tell of what +might—what would be. +</P> + +<P> +"It will upset everything," she moaned. "Scotland—the +winter hunting—and then the expense +afterwards. We were just right together, Bertie +and I." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"And Bertie," she said, "he hates it, as you +do?" +</P> + +<P> +"He would, of course. He doesn't know. He +would fuss and sentimentalize. Oh! Denise!" +Esmé began to cry hysterically. "It will spoil +everything. Something will have to be given up." +</P> + +<P> +Denise looked at her thoughtfully. This sheer +selfishness was beyond her comprehension. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps when I was thirty," sobbed Esmé, "or +thirty-five, and didn't want to fly about." +</P> + +<P> +"And then"—Denise Blakeney lighted another +cigarette—"then, my Esmé, you might pray for +the child you want—in vain." +</P> + +<P> +She got up, her weak mouth set slackly, her blue +eyes shining. +</P> + +<P> +"Es—I'm in mortal fear—fear of Cyril." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé stopped crying to listen. +</P> + +<P> +"He'll divorce me," said Denise, dully. "He's off +to Central Africa or somewhere now, but I know he +means to, and what troubles you is the one thing which +would save me. He told me once that if his wife +had children he would never disgrace their mother. +He meant it. Cyrrie says very little, and he means +it all. He's so quiet, Es, so big. I'm afraid!" +</P> + +<P> +"But surely," Esmé queried, "there's no evidence?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! evidence!" Denise shrugged her shoulders. +"I've been reckless lately, Es—a fool. I've stayed +with those Bellew people near Ascot. I've been a +fool with Jerry; he was such a boy that I was too +open; being very little harm in it, I judged the +opinion of onlookers by my own feelings; and +Cyrrie's found out. He knows the mad things I've +done. The boy was so proud of being my belonging—bah! +I know! I can see Cyrrie look at me with +a threat behind his eyes. Think of it, Esmé! The +disgrace! Those vile papers reporting; poor Jerry +defending; and then the after life. Oh! if one could +only see in time. If I had stopped to think two years +ago—it may be too late now. I've been absolutely +making love to Cyrrie lately, and he looks at me +with such a smile on his big face. You see, there's +the title—it's as old as the world, almost—and all +the money; and we have no heir; that vexes Cyrrie +horribly. He'll get rid of me and marry Anne +Bellairs, his cousin, a great, healthy, bovine country +girl, while I sit in outer darkness and gnash my teeth." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Denise! Oh! if we could change—" Esmé's +voice rang so shrilly that Lady Blakeney dropped +her cigarette and picked it up again from the skirt +of her rich white dress. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé," she said, "it's burnt a hole in it. +Heavens! yes! if we could!" She threw away the +cigarette. "If we could!" +</P> + +<P> +In her heart she knew she ought to tell Esmé not +to be foolishly hysterical. Talk quietly and soothe +her. Instead, with her eyes alight, she fed the flame +of the fear of loss of fun. Talked of how a baby was +a nuisance in London, of how much they cost. +</P> + +<P> +"If you could give me yours," she said, "and +pretend that it was mine. Lord! what a difference +it would make for me." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé sat staring at her, puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I suppose it's too melodramatic to think +of," Denise said, getting up. "It's still pouring, +and I'm going home. We have people to dinner to-night. +Cheer up, dear." +</P> + +<P> +She left Esmé sitting brooding alone; she had +been so happy with her husband; there was just +enough—enough for amusement, for entertaining +mildly, for paying visits. Her pretty face won many +friends; people were kind to so pleasant a guest. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I can't afford it! I'd love to go!" and then +someone found an outsider at ten to one, or a stock +which was safe to rise, and someone else sent wine at +wholesale prices; someone else fruit and flowers. +They were such a merry pair; they ought to enjoy +themselves, was the world's verdict. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé knew the value of smiles; in shops, in Society +they were current coinage to her. She did not want +to be tied, to have to weary over a something more +important than she was. +</P> + +<P> +"If we could only change," said Esmé, dolefully. +"Denise quite sees how it will spoil everything." +</P> + +<P> +"Call a taxi, Marie. I'll go to the club to tea." +</P> + +<P> +Denise went to pay some calls, and then to her +house in Grosvenor Square. The scent of flowers +drifted from the hall; she loved to fill it with anything +sweet. The butler handed her her letters as +she passed—invitations, notes. +</P> + +<P> +She went into her boudoir at the back of the +drawing-room, a nest of blue, background for her fair +beauty, with flowers everywhere. +</P> + +<P> +Denise shivered; she was a Someone—a well-known +hostess in society; a personage in her way; +she went to dull house-parties, where royalty was +entertained; and she yawned sorely but yet was +glad to go. Where one ate simple food and had to +smoke in the conservatories, because a very great +lady was an advocate for simplicity. +</P> + +<P> +"And if—if—" her fears were not unfounded. +</P> + +<P> +Denise knew what it would mean. A few loyal +friends writing kindly letters before they slipped +away from her. Cold, evasive nods from people +who would not cut her; the delighted, uplifted +noses of the people she had ignored. +</P> + +<P> +A hole-and-corner marriage somewhere with young +Jerry, who was already wearying of his chains; a +marriage reft of all things which makes marriage a +joy. Life in some poky place abroad or in the +country, received on sufferance or not at all. +</P> + +<P> +Denise flung out her hands as if to ward off an +enemy. She heard her husband coming in; his +heavy step on the stairs; his deep, even voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Her ladyship in? Yes? A message from Lord +Hugh Landseer; wished Sir Cyril to lunch there to-morrow +to discuss guns, etc. Yes. Dinner at eight +or half-past? At eight-fifteen? The champagne? +Better have two sorts out, Lady St Clare didn't like +Bollinger." +</P> + +<P> +There was a cool reserve of strength in Cyril +Blakeney's trivial words; he thought slowly, spoke +slowly, but seldom idly. He was a man who could +wait. Wait for a day which he believed would be +good, wait for a young dog which he thought might +improve. "Give him a year—we'll see then." And +if at the end of the time the setter was still hopeless, +he was not seen again. Cyril Blakeney would not +sell a dog to be beaten into submission—and the end +was swift and painless. A vicious horse, a bad +jumper, went the same way. People did not dispute +his opinions; if they could not agree they listened +to the arguments and wondered at their quiet +shrewdness. +</P> + +<P> +Denise heard the heavy step go on; he did not +come into her boudoir. She went up herself, fidgeting +over her dresses, coming down at last in shimmering +opal satin, a crown of pearls in her soft hair, pearls +at her throat, and in the lace on her bodice one +pear-shaped and pink. Stanley, her maid, had fastened +it in, picking it out of several jewels. +</P> + +<P> +Denise looked at them and shivered again. Her +diamonds were magnificent, but they were not hers; +they were heirlooms of the Blakeneys; she thought +of the old house in Yorkshire, big, heavy, solid as +her husband himself; full of carved panels, of cold, +stately rooms; a home which Cyril delighted in. +She dreaded the keen moorland air, the loneliness +of the country; but they spent the winter there +hunting and shooting; and she knew how Cyril +longed for a boy to come after him. +</P> + +<P> +"That will do, Stanley. What do you say?—That +I told you to remind me of new dresses for +Stranray Park. Yes. Anything will do for the +mornings, and tea-gowns are forbidden; but I'll +want six evening gowns. Oh! Cyrrie!" +</P> + +<P> +Catch of nervousness in her voice; she met her +husband on the stairs; put out a hand and touched +his arm. Quietly he lifted it, held it out, and laid +it lightly where her wedding ring gleamed behind +a blaze of diamonds. +</P> + +<P> +"Had a pleasant day?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +Denise recounted it almost eagerly. The big man +listened, held her hand still as they came to the +drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +"And you gave up Ranelagh—stayed talking +to Esmé Carteret." She saw him smile finely. +"Friends, Denise, to waste an afternoon. I was at +Ranelagh and missed you. Dollie Maynard told +me she left you just starting. I wondered where +you were. Oh! here is Elsie." +</P> + +<P> +They were a merry little party of four, taking +an evening off until it was time for one or two balls. +</P> + +<P> +Elsie St Clare, her husband, and a Baron de +Reville. +</P> + +<P> +Denise was a charming hostess; she knew how to +order a dinner; there was no hint of the fluttering +wings of trouble as the four talked and laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Stanley would not let me rest in peace to-night," +she said, "she reminded me of Stranray in October. +Cyril will not be there; it will be worse than ever. +No smoking there after dinner," laughed Denise, +"and it all seems standing up and taking the +weather's temperature with our tongues; we are so +bored we talk of nothing else. And H.R.H. likes +the Stranray babies down to breakfast. One of them +upset an egg over her one day, on purpose; they are +outwardly mild, and inwardly demons. And when +we are not out we work, because it looks domestic. +I put three stitches in last time, because I saw eyes +upon me. I shall never forget the day we found +the three babies playing when we came in. Jinnie, +the eldest, gravely smoking paper cigarettes. Just +as state entry was made, she shrieked out: +</P> + +<P> +"'That's when they're gone to bed; that's what +we do. <i>I</i> saw over the bannisters. Now you're so +loud, Nettie; and you, Tim, you say thank goodness.' +But H.R.H. was quite nice about it; and only +laughed and kissed them all. +</P> + +<P> +"'I expect it's what you all do and say,' she said, +and kissed Nettie again." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall disport myself at Swords," Elsie St +Clare laughed. "I couldn't stand the strain of +behaving perfectly for a week. Prince Wilhelm +goes to you at White Friars some time, doesn't +he?" +</P> + +<P> +"Next spring for the races," said Denise. "But +she's a dear, and if you give her a chair to sleep in +she bothers no one; the only thing which worries +her is that Wilhelm will play the bridge game. +</P> + +<P> +"'It hass my orphanage ruined,' she told me last +time." +</P> + +<P> +After dinner they played bridge. Denise forgot +her fears a little, though her luck was against her; +she could not hold a card. +</P> + +<P> +"How I hate paying you, Cyrrie," she said, +laughing, as she took gold from her purse. +</P> + +<P> +"Women always hate the day of reckoning." +Something in his quiet voice made her heart thump. +"The game is full of excitement, but it must end—and +your sex dislikes the ending." +</P> + +<P> +The guests went on to a big dance; the Blakeneys +were left alone; they were not going out. +</P> + +<P> +Quite quietly Sir Cyril came across to his wife, +stood looking at her. +</P> + +<P> +"A lovely gown," he said. "But—do you need +new jewels, Denise?" +</P> + +<P> +His fingers, big, strong, deft, fell on the pink +pearl, undid the fastening. +</P> + +<P> +Denise turned pale, stood stammering, seeking +excuse. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't bother," he said smoothly. "I saw the +boy give it you. You've been foolish there, Denise—foolish. +Well, I'm off for months, and when I come +back—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes?" she said, dry-lipped, or rather tried to +say yes and merely made some sound. +</P> + +<P> +"If we had had a child, Denise," he said, his head +bent. "They make a difference—one makes allowances +then." +</P> + +<P> +"If we had—now," she said. "Now, Cyrrie!" +her voice rang shrilly. +</P> + +<P> +He laughed. "If we had—you might be thankful," +he said. "Come, you look tired out. Go to +bed." +</P> + +<P> +"I have not been feeling well," she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +If she was to be saved, something must be managed. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé was still in her wrapper of silk and lace, +when Lady Blakeney came to her next day. Came, +white and excited, her eyes blazing, her face tense. +For half an hour Esmé sat almost silent, listening +to an outpouring of plot and plan. The weak, +flighty woman developed undreamt-of powers of +organization. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé wanted money, freedom. Oh! it had often +been done before. She flung out its simplicity. +Away in some remote part of the Continent the child +which was to come should be born as a Blakeney. +</P> + +<P> +What was easier than a change of names? +</P> + +<P> +"See, Esmé—I'll give you a thousand a year +always. Honour! Think of it! Five hundred +pounds every six months, and you and Bertie can +be happy when he comes back. And I—it will +save me. We'll go away together in the autumn; +we are always together. We'll go without maids. +Oh—do—do!" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé flung up her pretty head. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll do it," she said, "but I must have a doctor. +I must not die." +</P> + +<P> +"A doctor to attend Lady Blakeney. Why not? +Strange servants, a strange place, who would know?" +Denise remembered everything. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet it is wonderful how people do know," said +Esmé, shrewdly, half afraid now that she had agreed; +wondering what might happen. Yet she looked +round her flat with a little sigh of relief. She could +live her merry, careless life, live it more easily than +before, and she did not want a child. She hated +children, hated their responsibility. +</P> + +<P> +"Some day," said Esmé, "I won't mind; then +there can be another." +</P> + +<P> +May had given way to a dismal June. Cold winds +and showers swept over the world. Flowers were +dragged from grates and fires put in. Esmé had +lighted hers; sat over it, as her husband came in; +they were lunching out. +</P> + +<P> +He hung over her, delighting in her soft beauty, +crying out at her pale cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"You're tired, girlie; we're always out. And now +that I must leave you alone you'll do much more." +</P> + +<P> +She leant back against him, ruffling her cloud of +fair hair. +</P> + +<P> +"We're absolutely happy, aren't we, Bertie? +I'll be here when you come. I can let the flat until +the spring, and you must leave that stupid army and +live here all summer in dear London." +</P> + +<P> +He held her close, sat silent for a time. +</P> + +<P> +"I was at Evie's yesterday," he said. "Eve +Gresham's my cousin. I saw her boy." +</P> + +<P> +"Horrid little things at that age," said Esmé, +unsympathetically. +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't—it was fat and bonny; and Eve is so +proud of it. If we had a sonny, Butterfly, you and I, +I'd like him to be like Eve's." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé sat astonished. Bertie wishing for a third +in their lives. Bertie! knowing the difference it +would make. +</P> + +<P> +She jumped up, almost angrily. "If we had, we +couldn't hunt, or do half what we do," she said. +"And you've got me, Bertie. Do you want more?" +</P> + +<P> +She began to cry suddenly, broke down, overwrought +by her morning's plot, by this new idea of +Carteret's. +</P> + +<P> +Something, stronger for the moment than her +selfish love of amusement, fought with her. If she +gave up their mad scheme, told him now, he would +not go to Africa; he would stay, watching her, +guarding her. Esmé wavered. +</P> + +<P> +"I looked at those emeralds too, yesterday," +Bertie said; he was staring into the fire; had not +noticed her agitation. "You know that queer old +clasp. Fifty pounds. I couldn't manage it, girlie, +for you." +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted it," said Esmé, fretfully. +</P> + +<P> +"A note from Lady Blakeney, madame." +</P> + +<P> +Marie brought the letter up, wondering at its +plump softness, feeling the wad which the notes made. +The chauffeur had bidden her be careful; refused to +give it to the porter of the flats. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" Esmé opened it, her back to her +husband. There were bank notes, crisp, delightful; +she saw five of them; five for fifty pounds each. +Denise was beginning the payment already. +</P> + +<P> +"Milady Blakeney also wishes to know if Madame +will use the car to drive to luncheon. It is at +Madame's service until five," Marie said. +</P> + +<P> +"Denise is very good to you," Carteret turned +round. "You have a lot of friends, my Butterfly." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé crushed the notes up. The impulse to tell +was gone. She wanted money, comfort, ease; the +chance was hers, and she would take it. +</P> + +<P> +The luncheon party was a big one, given by Luke +Holbrook, the wine merchant. He paid his cook a +clerk's income, and she earned her salary elaborately. +What her dishes lacked in taste they made up for in +ornament; if a white sauce be merely smoothly +flour-like, who shall grumble if it is flecked with +truffles, cocks-combs and pistachio nuts. No +gourmet enjoyed eating at the Holbrooks', but ordinary +people who are impressed by magnificence +talked in hushed tones of the cook. +</P> + +<P> +The house was as heavily expensive as the meal; +gold plate shone on the vast sideboard; orchids +decorated the tables; one's feet sank into deep +carpeting. Mrs Holbrook, a plumply foolish little +woman who had married the big man obediently +that he might have a wife who claimed the prefix +of "honourable" on her letters, accepted the +magnificence placidly. She had a shrewd idea that +outward show helped the business, and that they +were not as rich as they seemed to be. +</P> + +<P> +The dining-room had been opened into the study +so that it ran right across the house, and to increase +the apparent size at the end wall was a huge mirror +reflecting the room. +</P> + +<P> +They lunched at small tables. Sylvia Holbrook +knew how to divide her guests. Esmé found herself +one of four with Jimmie Gore Helmsley, Sybil +Chauntsey, a soft-hued debutante, and a dark young +soldier vividly in love with the girl. +</P> + +<P> +"Going to the Bellews? Lord! I'm weary of +cream pies done up in colours." Jimmie waved a +sweet away. "Going, Mrs Carteret?" +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie has to go home." Esmé had eaten nothing; +she was feeling sick and tired. "He doesn't like +my going there." +</P> + +<P> +"To Thames Cottage? Oh, how I'd love to go," +Sybil Chauntsey broke in. "They have such fun +there." +</P> + +<P> +Her peach bloom deepened; the beauty of youth, +which is as no other beauty, sparkled in her deep +grey eyes. +</P> + +<P> +The big dark man looked at her, his own eyes +taking fire. These men delight in rosebuds, find an +unflagging zest in seeing the tender petals unfold +to their hot admiration. +</P> + +<P> +"Easily managed," he said. "If Madame the +mother permits." +</P> + +<P> +Captain Knox, a mere no one, son of a hunting +Irishman, flushed. +</P> + +<P> +"It's not a nice house," he said. "I've heard of +it. Don't go, Miss Chauntsey." +</P> + +<P> +"Lila Navotsky will be there"—Jimmie turned +to the girl, carelessly ignoring the man—"she'll +dance. It will be rather a bright party. Prince +Fritz of Grosse Holbein is going, Lady Deverelle, +and Loftus Laking, the actor. We'll have a moonlight +dance, all costumes home made." +</P> + +<P> +Fresh from the country, doing her first season, the +great names dazzled the child. Mother's friends +were so dull; the peach-bloom flush deepened, the +sweet eyes flashed for Jimmie, who had watched so +many flushes, seen so many bright eyes flash into his. +Sybil was very pretty, soft and fresh as fruit just +ripe; sun-kissed, unpowdered, roundly contoured. +</P> + +<P> +With a smile Esmé saw that the conqueror's +glances were no longer for her. He was growing +fascinated by Sybil. Even the best of women hate +to lose an admirer; no one knew better than Gore +Helmsley how they will suddenly put good resolves +aside to keep the slipping fancy. How many are +morally lost because they fear to lose. +</P> + +<P> +Young Knox turned to talk to Esmé, his handsome +face troubled. A mere ordinary young fellow, +capable of ordinary love, cleanly bred, cleanly +minded, with nothing to offer the girl but the life of +a marching soldier's wife, and some day a house on +the shores of a lake far away in the west. +</P> + +<P> +"It's—it's <i>very</i> rowdy, isn't it?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +But Esmé was not thinking of him. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, sometimes not," she said absently, eating a +forced nectarine; "depends on the party there. +Now they're moving." +</P> + +<P> +Up to a drawing-room of oppressive luxury; the +Staffordshire groups, the Dresden shepherdesses +seemed larger than other people's; the brocades +gleamed in their richness, the flowers stood in +Venetian glasses; the whole room seemed to shake +its wealth in your face, and to glitter and shine with +colour. Coffee came in Dresden cups set in gold +holders; sugar candy peeped from a gilt basin +studded with dull stones. The cigarettes had their +name blazoned over them in diamonds. +</P> + +<P> +Luke Holbrook came among his guests, big, kind, +frankly vulgar, redeemed by his good-natured eyes. +Openly proud of seeing a Duchess in his drawing-room, +pointing out to her a pair of historical figures +which stood on the mantel-shelf. +</P> + +<P> +"Wonderful they tell me," he said. "I don't +know, but I like size when I buy." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said the Duchess, blandly, looking round +the room. "Yes. If you must pay thousands +better pay them for two feet of glaze and colour than +for two inches, no doubt." +</P> + +<P> +"That's it," he said gaily, "that's it. Of course, +you've such heaps of the stuff at Blenkalle. But +my boy's collection has to be gathered now." +</P> + +<P> +Holbrook's pure wines gained many orders in his +own house. He had stored away, kept for customers +with palates, a few casks of port which was not +branded and flavoured for the English taste, some +good hock and claret. But the pure wines he made +his millions off did not deserve their title. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, sipping Turkish coffee, saw Sybil Chauntsey +come hurrying to her mother. The girl was fresh +and sweet, heads turned as she passed. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Mumsie, Captain Gore Helmsley has telephoned. +Oh, Mumsie, they've asked me to the +Bellews for Saturday to Monday. Oh, may I go?" +</P> + +<P> +"But alone, Sybil," said her mother. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs Carteret will take me. I'll ask her. Oh, +Mumsie. Prince Fritz of Grosse Holbein will be +there, and Madame Navotsky, Lord Ralph Crellton, +Lady Deverelle. Mumsie, I might be asked to +Deverelle if I meet her." +</P> + +<P> +Princes, countesses, dancers. Might not Sybil +attract the attention of Lord Ralph, who would one +day be a Marquis. "But, aren't there stories?" +Mrs Chauntsey wavered. +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie strolled across. "Mrs Bellew is so anxious +for your daughter to go to her," he said. "It's +rather an honour, they are generally full up, and +there's a dance this time." +</P> + +<P> +He omitted to remark that his reply down the +telephone had been: "Who? I don't know the +brat. Oh, send her along; I'll invite. Suppose +you'd sulk and wouldn't manage the cotillon if I +refused. Can't you let girls alone, Jimmie? Yes, +I've got the address—I'll invite—bother her!" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Chauntsey wavered, gave way, turned to a +stout lady who was anxiously waiting for the +brougham she still clung to, and told her. +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't let my girls walk past the garden +wall," said Lady Adderley, grimly. "Sybil's a +child, too." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Chauntsey grew doubtful again. This stout +and dowdy woman held the keys of the dullest and +most exclusive houses. And Sybil had once been +asked to luncheon there on Sunday; but a Prince, and +a future Marquis—one must give a girl her chance. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé was going on to a tea-party. She sat down +by the open window, looking out at the Park, a dull +place now, its afternoon hour not yet upon it. +</P> + +<P> +"Rather full here." Jimmie Gore Helmsley's dark +face appeared close to her; he pulled up a chair and sat +down. "Feel as if we're all Aunt Sallies being pelted +with gold; the riches jump out and hit you in the face." +</P> + +<P> +"He's kind," said Esmé, remembering her hock. +</P> + +<P> +"Kind? Oh, yes! he can be! Appreciate," he +muttered, "what I've done coming here—to meet +you, eh? I've talked to Lady Susan and Lady Hebe +Ploddy for ten minutes, and I've only just escaped +from the horns of Lady Hebe's jersey cattle. They +have been going out for ten years," said Jimmie, +"and Mamma, her grace, still calls them 'my baby +girls.' They are coming this way," he added, "with +the pigs and cows in the leash of their minds. Are you +off it—hipped?" he whispered softly, "you look pale." +</P> + +<P> +Whispers had gained him many things in life; a +sudden drop of voice, a change of tone, an intimacy +as it were of sympathy. But Esmé scarcely noticed +it. She was too carelessly selfish to dream of the +inconveniences of a lover, even if she had not been +fond of Bertie. +</P> + +<P> +"Coming Saturday," he asked, "to the Bungalow?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I suppose so. I've promised that child. +Where am I going to? To buy a toy which has +taken my fancy. Yes, you may come with me." +</P> + +<P> +Half an hour later one of the new crisp notes had +gone for the emerald clasp, and the Ladies Susan +and Hebe Ploddy, coming by chance into the shop, +told all their friends that Captain Gore Helmsley +had given it to that Mrs Carteret. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III +</H3> + +<P> +Esmé Carteret had chosen her own picture in the +<i>tableaux vivants</i> at the Leigh-Dilneys. It was called +Joy. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm so happy," she had said merrily, "it will +suit me." +</P> + +<P> +The Leigh-Dilneys gave entertainments in the +name of charity, and since charity is all-powerful, +and the pheasants at Leigh Grange were as flies in +summer, everyone who was anyone in London gasped +for air in the big drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +Faint breaths of summer breeze eddying over +scarlet geraniums and white marguerites were +powerless to stir the heat generated by the crowd +which packed itself in resignation on hired chairs and +dreamt of getting away. Lady Delilah Leigh-Dilney +looked as though she spent life trying to live down +her name. A high-nosed, earnest woman, with an +insatiable appetite for organized entertainment. +Her bridge winnings went to support missions in +distant China; an invitation to tea was certain to +plunge the accepter into the dusty uncertainty of +a bran pie at five shillings a dip, proceeds for something; +or the obligatory buying of tickets for a vase +or cushion which was too ugly ever to be used. +</P> + +<P> +Electric fans, Lady Delilah said, were noisy, useless +and merely fashionable. Her guests sweltered +on hard chairs as an overheated stage manager +scrabbled the blue curtains of the miniature stage +to and fro and wished he had never seen a tableaux. +</P> + +<P> +And Esmé was Joy. Merely herself, dressed in a +cloud of rosy pink, her setting an ordinary room; +her hands outstretched to, as it were, meet Life; her +radiant face lighted by smiles; her burnished hair +fluffed out softly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet not so much Joy as self-satisfaction," murmured +a panting cynic as he finished applauding. +"For true Joy is a simple thing—its smile of the eyes +and not of the teeth." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had chosen the scene because she was really +so happy. She seemed to have everything she +wanted. Popular, young, helped by a dozen kindly +friends, with Bertie as lover and husband satisfying +every whim. +</P> + +<P> +The audience fled from sandwiches and thin coffee +to amuse themselves after self-sacrifice. Esmé, in +her pink gown, had danced the night away at two +balls. +</P> + +<P> +She had not felt ill again; she put her secret fear +away, hoping eagerly that she was mistaken. Went +out next morning to shop. Was there not always +something one wanted? +</P> + +<P> +Joy! She had acted her part yesterday, flashed +her dazzling smile at the world. To-day discontent +walked with her on the hot pavement. +</P> + +<P> +She had been contented, happy, in her little flat, +childishly pleased with her new life, her pretty clothes, +her gaieties. And now she wanted more. Electric +motors glided by, silent, powerful; wealth which +would not have missed the Carterets' yearly income +for a day passed her on all sides. +</P> + +<P> +A fat woman got out of a car; the Pekingese dog +she carried had cost two hundred pounds. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Mrs Carteret!" Mrs Holbrook held out a +fat hand. "Hot, isn't it? I'm just going in to +Benhusan's here. This necklace Luke gave me +yesterday has a bad clasp. So dangerous! I want +a pendant for it too. Come in and advise me—<i>do</i>!" +</P> + +<P> +Into the shop with its sombre splendour. Background +to pearl and ruby, to diamond and opal and +sapphire and emerald. +</P> + +<P> +These spread before this merchant's wife, dazzling +toys of pink and blue and sparkling white. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé wanted them. Mere youth ceased to content +her. She could not buy even one of these things. +She must look and long. +</P> + +<P> +"This one is two hundred guineas, madam." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Luke said I might go to that. Mrs Carteret, +do advise me. This pearl, the pear shaped; or the +circle of opals—or what do you think of the sapphires? +I am so stupid." +</P> + +<P> +Sapphires would not go with the pearl and diamond +necklace. Esmé's slim fingers picked up the pearl +pendant, held it longingly. +</P> + +<P> +It was the only possible thing, and even then not +quite right, but it would do, she said. +</P> + +<P> +"You've such perfect taste, child. Luke always +says so. So <i>glad</i> I met you. Well, see you soon +again—to-morrow. We've a large party." +</P> + +<P> +Men and women buying lovely—perhaps unneeded—jewels, +spending hundreds, thousands, that they +might see someone turn to look at their adornments. +A millionaire American grumbled over the merits of +pearls spread on purple velvet. +</P> + +<P> +He wanted something extra. "Get these anywhere. +Mrs Cyrus J. Markly was going to Court. +He'd promised she should have a string to knock +creation. No, these wouldn't do." +</P> + +<P> +Hurried calling on heads of departments, rooting +into hidden safes. Fresh glistening treasures laid out. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Markly might trust Benhusan's. The rope with +its diamond links and clasps should be magnificent. +He might leave it in their hands. They would ransack +London for perfect pearls. +</P> + +<P> +With a little gasp of impatience Esmé Carteret +went out. +</P> + +<P> +She wanted money. Mere comfort was nothing +to her to-day. +</P> + +<P> +Furs are neglected in summer, but Esmé strolled +into the great Bond Street store. She was sending +a coat for alteration and storage. +</P> + +<P> +Denise Blakeney was there, a stole of black fox +spread before her. +</P> + +<P> +"Summer prices, my lady. See, a rare bargain." +</P> + +<P> +"And out of fashion by September or October; +but it <i>is</i> good." Denise held up the soft fur. "Oh! +you, Esmé! See, shall I have it? These things are +always useful." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé stroked the supple softness of the furs, held +the wrap longingly. +</P> + +<P> +"Twenty pounds off our winter prices, madam. +And perfection. Skins such as one seldom sees. +The price a mere bagatelle—seventy guineas." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! put it with my other things then. Store +it. Are you bargain-hunting, Es?" +</P> + +<P> +"No—<i>I</i> have no money." Esmé looked almost +sullenly at the stole which Denise did not want and +bought so carelessly. "No, I cannot bargain-hunt. +I came to see about my one coat." +</P> + +<P> +"What is it, my Joy? You are out of spirits to-day. +You looked so lovely yesterday, dear." +</P> + +<P> +Lady Blakeney touched Esmé's arm affectionately. +</P> + +<P> +"Tired of genteel poverty, Denise. I paddle on +the edge of the world's sea, where you people swim. +Yes—we'll meet at the Holbrooks' lunch. Will their +new gold plate have diamond crests on it? Good-bye." +</P> + +<P> +Left alone again in the fur shop, envying, longing +for the treasures there. +</P> + +<P> +Out into the crowded streets. A flower-shop +caught her eyes. One sheaf of roses and orchids, +pale cream and scarlet and mauve, made her stop +and long. Denise could take these home if she +wanted them. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé went in, paid five shillings for a spray of +carnations. +</P> + +<P> +"Those orchids and roses? Oh! they were ten +guineas. Mr Benhusan had just bought them for +his table that evening." +</P> + +<P> +So on again with this new discontent hurting her. +She went on to another shop; saw a painted, loud-voiced +girl buying silk lingerie, taking models carelessly, +without thought of price. Her dog, a pathetic-looking +white poodle, had on a gold collar set with +jewels. The girl struck him once, roughly, across +the nose, making him howl. +</P> + +<P> +"Straighten him up," she said carelessly. "There, +that's all. You know the address. Enter the lot; +send 'em with the other things." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé knew the girl by sight; had seen her dancing +at the Olympic. She knew, too, who would pay for +those cobwebby things of silk and real lace. +</P> + +<P> +The spirit of discontent held Esmé Carteret with +his cruel claws, rending her, hurting her mentally. +</P> + +<P> +She was Joy no longer. Her little flat, her merry, +careless life, could not content her. +</P> + +<P> +Her mood led her to her dressmaker's to look at +model gowns, and on to Jay's and Fenwick's. Discontent +urging her to look at rich things which she +could not buy; the blended beauty of Venetian glass, +jewels, laces, silks, all seemed to come before her with +a new meaning. +</P> + +<P> +And then the sudden fear; stopping as if a blow +had been struck at her. She was not safe; hope +was not realization. The flat and the life she +grumbled at might—would—pass to something +smaller. To a house in a cheaper district, to money +spent on cabs and dinners going to keep the child +she dreaded. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé hurried on, faster and faster, as if she would +escape the fears which followed her. She wheeled, +panting, into Oxford Street; turned from its crush +and flurry, and went again down Bond Street, her +colour high as she raced on. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear lady, is it a walking race or a wager?" +Esmé cannoned into Gore Helmsley. He stopped +her, holding her hand impressively. +</P> + +<P> +A handsome man, if sloe-black eyes and high +colour constituted good looks. Women admired +him. Men shrugged their shoulders impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +"Neither. I was running away from my own +thoughts." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" He drew a soft breath. When women +hurried to escape their thoughts Gore Helmsley +thought he could guess at the meaning. +</P> + +<P> +"I feel lost to-day." Esmé was glad to find a +friend to speak to. "Poor, an outcast amid the +wealth of London." +</P> + +<P> +"Joy," he said caressingly, "looked yesterday as +though the world denied her nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"A week ago she would have said so. To-day—" +Esmé frowned. +</P> + +<P> +The dark man used his own dictionary. He had +grown to admire this dazzling woman. Discontent +on married lips generally meant the fruit grew weary +of its tree and would come lightly to the hand +stretched to pick it. +</P> + +<P> +"Lunch with me," he said. "I can break a dull +engagement. To-morrow we shall endeavour to +assail eight courses at the Holbrooks. To-day we +might try the Berkeley, or the Carlton, or the +Ritz." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had promised to meet Bertie at his club; +the club was dull; she wanted to play at being rich +to-day, to look enviously at the people who spent +money. +</P> + +<P> +"The Ritz," she said. "If you'll tempt me with +quails and asparagus. And if you can get a table." +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie was not given to extravagance, but this +was worth it. +</P> + +<P> +They strolled across seething Piccadilly, with its +riot of noise and traffic; they went into the big +hotel. +</P> + +<P> +An ordered luncheon takes time. They sat in +the hall waiting, watching the tide of wealth sweep +in. The glass doors swung and flashed as motors +and taxis brought the luncheon-goers to their +destination. +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie knew everyone. +</P> + +<P> +"Coraline de Vine." He nodded at the girl whom +Esmé had seen buying. "And Trent. He says he +does not know what his income is. People say he +may marry her—he's infatuated. Did you see her +new car? It cost two thousand. I saw him buying +it for her. That emerald she's wearing is the celebrated +Cenci stone. He got it at Christie's for her +last week—outbid everyone." +</P> + +<P> +Thousands—thousands. Esmé's eyes glittered +hungrily. She opened her pretty mouth as if she +were thirsty for all this gold, as if she would bathe +herself in it, drink it if she could. +</P> + +<P> +"And see Lord Ellis and the bride. She was no +one—his parson's daughter. She has probably spent +more on that frock than papa has for half a year's +income." +</P> + +<P> +A big, rather cunning-looking girl, healthy and +young. +</P> + +<P> +"Mamma wanted to send the two children up to me +this week," she said, as she paused near Esmé. "I +said it was absurd, in the season. They can slip up +in July before we shut up the house. Doris wants +to see a dentist, mamma says; they <i>are</i> so expensive +up here. I have discouraged her; the man at home +is much cheaper." +</P> + +<P> +Already anxious to keep her prize money to herself. +Not to share it with her sisters. Later, when they +grew up, she would give them a chance, not now. +Already a <i>grande dame</i>, spending only where it +pleased her. +</P> + +<P> +Wealth everywhere, and with Esmé this new discontent. +</P> + +<P> +The table next to theirs was half smothered in +orchids. The American millionaire was giving a +luncheon party. A duchess honoured him, a slender, +dark little lady, shrugging mental shoulders at the +ostentation. Lady Lila Gore, heavily beautiful, was +one of the party. The sallow master of millions +devoured her with his shrewd, sunken eyes. This +splendid pink-and-white piece of true English beauty +made his own thin, vivacious wife nothing to +him. +</P> + +<P> +He had bought Mrs Markly a rope of pearls that +she might shine at the Court, but he was prepared +to pay ten times their price for a smile from the big +blonde Englishwoman, who knew it, and considered +the question. +</P> + +<P> +The quails were tasteless to Esmé. She could not +eat. The fear returned as she felt a distaste for her +food, as she refused the ice which she had specially +ordered. +</P> + +<P> +She grew restless, tired of Jimmie Helmsley's +caressing manner, of the undercurrent of meaning in +his voice. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall see you to-morrow at Luke's," he said. +"You are looking pale, fair lady. What is it? +Can I help? You know I'd do anything for +you." +</P> + +<P> +"I've not been well," she said irritably. "We're +so far out. The flat's so poky and stuffy. Oh! I +shall be all right in a day or two." +</P> + +<P> +She would be. Hope spread his wings again. +</P> + +<P> +She telephoned to Bertie and met him for +tea. +</P> + +<P> +For a few hours she was content again. The flat +looked its prettiest. Her flowers were lovely. +Denise Blakeney had sent her a sheaf of roses; their +fragrance filled the air. Marie had put them in the +vases. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé tried to love it all, to realize that in her way +she wanted nothing. She had been so happy with +Bertie in their careless life. +</P> + +<P> +She sat on the arm of his chair. He was allowed +one big one in the flat. She laughed as he did +accounts. +</P> + +<P> +"Butterfly, we spend every penny we have got, +and a little more besides." He looked up into her +radiant face. "We seem—we seem to buy a lot of +things, Es." +</P> + +<P> +"Not half as many things as we ought to." She +put her cheek to his. "We want <i>all</i> new chair coverings, +Bert, and I got the old ones cleaned." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! model of economy," he said gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"And I bought a new hat instead. I should have +to have got the hat in any case, you see. And if I +do spend a little, am I not worth it, boy?" +</P> + +<P> +With the fragrance of her hair so close to him, +with her soft cheek against his own, could he say or +think so? He was losing time up there, rusting when +he ought to have been with his regiment, all for +Esmé's sake, because she loved London. But if it +made her happy it was enough. +</P> + +<P> +He told her so, holding her closely. Told her how +everyone loved her; poured out the flattery she was +never tired of. +</P> + +<P> +"We can't do anything for these people; they are +content to see you. Your face is repayment," he +said. "No one would bother about me without you, +sweetheart. You were born for society." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." Esmé's voice grew strained. If Fate had +sent her Arthur Ellis and his coal mines! How she +would have loved to act hostess in the big town +house, in Ellis Court, and Dungredy Lodge; she put +the thought away, almost angrily, for she loved +Bertie. +</P> + +<P> +Yet, clinging to him, his arms about her, his lips +on hers, she missed something. Was she growing +older that kisses failed to thrill? +</P> + +<P> +"I am so tired, Bertie," she said suddenly. "I +have not been well all day." +</P> + +<P> +Fear and discontent swept love aside. In a +moment she was querulous, irritable, all the evening's +happiness gone again. +</P> + +<P> +It was time to dress. People were coming to +dine; there would be new salad; iced rice cunningly +flavoured. But the thought of food made Esmé +wretched. +</P> + +<P> +"I <i>want</i> to be happy. Why cannot the Fates let +me be?" she almost whimpered to her glass. +</P> + +<P> +Brilliantly pretty, slim, young, she wanted to lose +nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"If I were happy again I would not fret for all the +impossible things as I did to-day," she said aloud, +with the idea—too common with humanity—that +one may strike a bargain with Fate. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV +</H3> + +<P> +Once a mere cottage, now a long ornate bungalow +jutting into angles, full of unexpected rooms, the +Bellews' river-side house is more luxurious than +many big structures of brick and mortar. +</P> + +<P> +"We run down to picnic here," but Belle Bellew +knew that picnicking without everything out of +season, and a <i>chef</i> of quality, could not appeal to +the people she gathered about her. The picnic +element was kept up by breakfast-tables laid under +trees, things deserted and unused—man likes his +breakfast free from fly and midge. The ideal, talked +of in the gleam of electric light, is fresh air, the plash +of old Father Thames, morning sunshine; the real +is that we prefer tempered light, copper heaters, and +a roof. +</P> + +<P> +The long low house jutted out in two wings, all +the windows opening onto a covered veranda. +</P> + +<P> +Dull people turned their heads aside when they +rowed past on Sunday evenings, for the flash of +lights, the sound of raised voices, could be seen and +heard from the river. +</P> + +<P> +The chairs were wicker, but the rugs on the stained +floors Persian. It was wealth, less ostentatious +than the Holbrooks'; light, frothy, merry, careless +wealth, with pleasure for its high priest. +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie Gore Helmsley motored Denise and Sybil +down; the place seemed empty when they came, but +looking closer one could see groups here and there, +see flutter of light dresses; hear tinkle of light +laughter, bass of man's deeper note. +</P> + +<P> +A thin, svelte woman, green-eyed, ferret-faced, +came out of the open door. Mousie Cavendish said +she found her ugliness more powerful than other +women's beauty. A bitter-tongued little creature, +stirring every surface maliciously to point out something +foul below it. But clever, moderately rich, +perfectly gowned; gaining what income she lacked +through her too keen power of observation. +</P> + +<P> +You sat with her, sweetly pulling some reputation +to pieces; you left full-fed with evil spice; and then +you shivered. Were not the same thin fingers pulling +out your secrets now, those secrets you foolishly +hinted at? +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! pretty Esmé!" Mousie blew a kiss from +her reddened lips. "You here! Where's Mrs +Bellew, Miss Chauntsey? We may see her at dinner-time; +we may not, if she has taken a tea-basket to +the backwater close by." Mousie laughed at Sybil. +"Does your young mind run upon hostesses who +wait to receive their guests? You will not find them +here, my child. Tell the men to get tea, Jimmie; +we'll have it here." +</P> + +<P> +The veranda was a series of outdoor rooms, +wooden partitions, rose-grown, dividing it. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil's grey eyes were sparkling; this was so different +from tea in decorous drawing-rooms, from +a stately week-end spent at Ascot with her mother. +</P> + +<P> +"Tea?" Mousie turned to the footman. "Cream +sandwiches and fruit. This riverside hotel," said +Mrs Cavendish, "is an excellent one. Why, fair +Esmé, you look pallid. And what pretty emeralds, +chérie. Oh! the rewards of beauty!" +</P> + +<P> +The keen little eyes were frankly malicious, frankly +open as to what they meant. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé flushed a little; she saw the green eyes +flash on at Gore Helmsley. Esmé was almost +crudely virtuous; the hint offended. +</P> + +<P> +Servants were preparing the lawn for the night's +revel. Temporary lights were being hung on strings, +the turf swept and rolled; a great mirror was set up. +</P> + +<P> +"For the cotillon?" Esmé asked. +</P> + +<P> +"For the cotillon. We begin at nine. So that at +twelve the cock shall crow and we shall all—not go +to bed." +</P> + +<P> +"More people coming. Mrs Bellew," said Sybil, +"was not out; she is coming into the garden now." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! tiens, my child! it was my kindness to say +that she was out, knowing it was the hour of electricity. +Once the knell of forty sounds we must +have our faces recharged daily. The Prince is +coming—look ye!" +</P> + +<P> +Prince Fritz—young, fat, extremely volatile, a +thorn in the side of his august mother and his wife—came +tripping across the grass. He talked English +with a strong accent, and he bemoaned the future +when he must go home. +</P> + +<P> +Yet, though Belle Bellew might box his ears later +in a romp, she must bob to him now discreetly as she +greeted him. +</P> + +<P> +Prince Fritz boomed out content and delight. +"There is no place such as this river house," he said, +"none, fair lady." Then he looked round for the +dancer, who was his special attraction. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be alarmed, sir—she arrives," mocked +Mousie from her balcony, "she arrives. The +revenues can continue to be squandered, and a nice +little woman's heart torn by the snapshots she sees +of you in the picture papers." +</P> + +<P> +Prince Fritz grinned equably; he was not dignified. +</P> + +<P> +"Like to see the river?" Gore Helmsley asked +Sybil. +</P> + +<P> +The girl was charming in her simple dress. Fresh +and sweet and unspoiled, eagerly delighted with +everything. +</P> + +<P> +But down by gliding, stately Thames, Jimmie was +fatherly. She must be careful here, keep quiet; a +good deal of romping went on—and girls could not +behave as married women could. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm your godfather here, you see." His dark +face came close to hers, showing the crinkles round +his eyes, the hard lines near his mouth; but he was +at the age girls delight to worship. Someone who +knows the mysteries they only dream of; someone +so different to honest, pleasant boys, who thought +more of sport than their companions. +</P> + +<P> +Friendship! It was Jimmie Gore Helmsley's +deadly weapon; there was nothing to frighten the +maid—he was only a pal—a pal to win her confidences, +to tell her how sweet she looked, to point +out the perfect smoothness of her fresh young skin, +to find beauty in the lights in her hair, the curves of +her dimpled neck; to take her about discreetly in +town, to walk and talk with her at country houses; +to listen, with a face set a little wistfully, about some +boy who adored her. Frank or Tom was a good +sort, a brick; youth went to youth; heaven send +she would be happy, and—appreciated—that the +blind boy would see plainly the perfection of the +treasure he was winning. Ah! if someone who could +see could win it! +</P> + +<P> +After this, next day, meeting her young lover, +mademoiselle the debutante would fret and sulk +because Frank or Tom talked of his last score at +cricket, or his great day with the Team, instead of +worshipping her beauty. +</P> + +<P> +And, later, the confidences would grow fewer; +would come a day when the boy's image faded; +when a fool's heart beat for the world-worn man who +set her up as goddess, and then.... There were +broken hearts and lives in high society which could +tell the rest. There were women, married now, +who shivered angrily at one hidden corner in their +lives. +</P> + +<P> +This nut-brown maid, with her grey eyes and cloud +of dusky hair, appealed to Jimmie. He came with a +careless zest to each new conquest. But first there +was bright, flashing Esmé, paid court to now for half +a year. The girl attracted vaguely as yet. Esmé's +careless coldness had made him the more determined, +but to-day he felt more confident. +</P> + +<P> +Dinner was in two rooms, divided by an arch; the +clatter of voices, the flash of lights at the little tables, +made it like a restaurant. +</P> + +<P> +Belle Bellew, slim and tall, perfectly preserved, +sorted her more important guests, took scant trouble +with the others. +</P> + +<P> +The drawing-room almost dazzled Sybil. Lights +glowed through rose petals; jewels flashed on +women's dresses and necks and arms; silks shimmered; +chiffons floated round cleverly-outlined +forms. +</P> + +<P> +The finger-bowls at dinner all held stephanotis +flowers; the cloying, heavy scent floated through +the hot air. +</P> + +<P> +Navotsky, the dancer, was in black, dead and +unrelieved, clinging to her sensuous limbs, outlining +her white skin, and when she moved the sombre +draperies parted, with flash of orange and silver +underneath, sheath fitting, brilliantly gorgeous. A +great band of diamonds outlined her small, sleek +head. +</P> + +<P> +"More taxes on Grosse Holbein," murmured +Mousie Cavendish. "Oh, what a joy to dine where +there is a cook and not a preparer of defunct meats." +</P> + +<P> +There was no ostentation here, but a cunning +which reached perfection. +</P> + +<P> +"Laying up for ourselves water-drinking in Homburg," +remarked Jimmie, as he finished fish +smothered in a sauce compound of many things, +and went on with a soufflet of asparagus. "Well, +it's worth it. Look at our Fritz, he's longing for +stewed pork and plums; the butler tells me he has +cold galantine and bread and pickles left in his room +at night to assuage his hunger." +</P> + +<P> +As the blue smoke haze drifted, and black coffee +and liqueurs came to interfere with digestion, Jimmie +had dropped his voice to the note <i>intime</i> which women +recognize. He half whispered to Esmé; his admiration +for her was more open than usual. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil talked to a clean-shaven youth who found +her very dull, and almost showed it. Who stared +when she chattered and admired, and seemed to +think it provincial not to take all the world for +granted. +</P> + +<P> +"Think her lovely, that dancer woman. All right +in her way, I imagine. What a lovely ice, did +you say? S'pose it's all right. Nevah eat 'em +myself." +</P> + +<P> +Lord Francis Lennon got up with a sigh of relief +to confide to the fair lady of forty who amused him +that he hated "dinin' in the nursery." +</P> + +<P> +Outside a new moon lay silver on her azure, star-spangled +bed. The lights in the garden were making +a glittering circle. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Bellew, a sleek, dark man, who was occasionally +recognized by his own guests as their host, rang a +bell and read out some rules. +</P> + +<P> +Twenty minutes were given, and then every guest +must have assumed a character, and only used what +materials they could find in the heap prepared in +the hall. Prizes to be given. +</P> + +<P> +"Think us fools," said Mousie, pulling a green +overdress from under a cushion and becoming +Undine. +</P> + +<P> +But the picnic had begun. Men pinned on newspapers, +rushed for cardboard to cut out armour, +rifled the linen cupboards for tablecloths. Journals, +sandwich men, knights, ghosts, came laughing to +the garden, odd ends fluttering, pins proving unstable +friends. +</P> + +<P> +Women got at the heap of odds and ends—gauzes, +tinsel crowns, veils and lace, tying great sashes over +their evening dresses, shrieking for inspiration. +</P> + +<P> +With a ripple of laughter, Lady Deverelle, wife of +the tenth earl, flung off her long green skirt, and +stood forth audaciously in a froth of green silk reaching +not far below her knees; put a paper crown on +her head, and called herself a fairy. +</P> + +<P> +Echo of their laughter drifted to the river. Boats +massed outside as people peered through the +shrubs. +</P> + +<P> +"Those dreadful people at the Bungalow," said +Lady Susan Ploddy to her sister; they were on a +houseboat a short way off. +</P> + +<P> +Into the circle of light ran a crowd of laughing +people, snatching at enjoyment. Out on the velvet +turf, dancing to the music of hidden musicians. +</P> + +<P> +"Idyllic but exhausting," said Undine to her +partner. "There will be more fun to-night in looking +on." +</P> + +<P> +The dance would not last long; it was only an +excuse for a romp. +</P> + +<P> +Prince Fritz, his stout person hung about with +dusters, calling himself a cheque, held the dancer in +his arms, whirling her round. Navotsky shrugged +her shoulders. "She was Night," she said, and +merely put on a black veil, floating from her crown +of diamond stars. +</P> + +<P> +The great mirror reflected them all; they danced +the cotillon, taking up handsome presents carelessly; +scarfs, pins, studs, a hundred pounds' worth of toys +which no one wanted. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil Chauntsey had picked up roses, pinned them +in her hair and in her dress, wrote on her card +"Summer." She was left alone as they danced, +until some man, seeing her, whirled her noisily round +and laughed and dropped her. The girl felt that she +was not one of this romping crowd; her pleasure +began to taste bitterly to her. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, forgetting her troubles, had tied a sash +round her dress, twisted some stuff into a head-dress, +and called herself a Spaniard. The yellow gown and +scarlet sash suited her. +</P> + +<P> +She only did one figure in the cotillon; she liked +looking on. Then they formed up for the prize before +the judges. +</P> + +<P> +Lady Deverelle, in her green underskirt, took first +easily. They gave the Prince the next. +</P> + +<P> +The musicians thrummed, but the dancers were +weary of fooling; shadow-like, they melted away +into nooks and summer-houses, until from every +corner echoed the hushed treble of women's voices, +the hushed depth of men's. +</P> + +<P> +"See, I have marked down my corner." Captain +Gore Helmsley tore off a shield of paper off his arm +and took Esmé's arm. She felt his fingers press on +her warm, soft flesh. "See here." He had the +key of a small outdoor room, a glorified summer-house +hung about with fragrant roses, furnished with +lounge chairs and soft cushions. Darkness wrapped +it, but with a click Esmé turned on a shaded light, +giving a faint glimmer through the gloom. +</P> + +<P> +Gore Helmsley pulled the chairs to one side, so +that to curious passers-by they were in shade. The +dim glow fell on Esmé, on her shining hair, her +brilliantly pretty face. +</P> + +<P> +"So, it was good of you to come down," Jimmie +said. "I was afraid you wouldn't. And once +here—" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"And here," Esmé's voice, interrupting, was not +lowered. "Here we can be amused for two days—no +more." +</P> + +<P> +"No more," he whispered. +</P> + +<P> +His hands pressing hers, his voice was more +eloquent than words. +</P> + +<P> +"No more? After all these months, Esmé," he +said. "Here, where no one watches, where it is so +easy to arrange—where—" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé Carteret sat up in her chair, impatient, +annoyed; she interrupted again sharply. +</P> + +<P> +"Where people make awful fools of themselves," +she said. +</P> + +<P> +Gore Helmsley moved nearer to her. "Sweet +fools," he muttered, and stooping suddenly, he +kissed her. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé got up; she neither started nor showed emotion. +"My husband said no woman could trust +you," she said coldly. "Come—I am going in." +</P> + +<P> +Captain Gore Helmsley stammered as he realized +that Esmé would never be pieced into the puzzle +of his loves. Then, being extremely offended, he +endeavoured to hide it, and Esmé's faint malicious +smile made him her enemy for life. +</P> + +<P> +Except for the kiss he had not committed himself +in any way, and except for her one sharp speech +Esmé had said nothing to show resentment; they +talked carelessly going in. He knew that he had +thrown and lost. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil Chauntsey, overlooked in the prize-giving, +while she had been involved in a romping dance, +came towards the veranda. The partitions each +held its Jack and Jill; she could hear rustles, +whispers, low-toned laughter. +</P> + +<P> +From one Prince Fritz's guttural was unmistakable, +as indiscreetly he muttered his adoration. +</P> + +<P> +"Mein angel," said Prince Fritz, as Sybil passed. +"You shall haf the pearl—so that I clasp it on your +neck." +</P> + +<P> +A big, squarely-built man stood at the lighted +doorway; Sybil had met him in London—Lord +Innistenne. He whistled as he saw her. +</P> + +<P> +"What the—why are you here, Miss Chauntsey?" +he said slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"I came to see it all." Sybil's voice brightened. +"It was fun, wasn't it? I made mother let me +come." +</P> + +<P> +She was panting, her rose crown crooked, one of +her chiffon sleeves torn. +</P> + +<P> +"Fun, for grown-ups," he said shortly. "I +thought your mother"—he paused—"did not know +the Bellews." +</P> + +<P> +"Captain Gore Helmsley got them to ask me. +He wanted me to come down to see it all." +</P> + +<P> +Innistenne frowned. "Look here," he said. +"Let me motor you up to town to-morrow. Leave +this place." +</P> + +<P> +Sybil shook her head, doubtfully. She was not +enjoying herself. +</P> + +<P> +There was no solemn meeting at breakfast at the +Bellews. People who liked to come down strolled +in to a meal which was kept hot until twelve. Others +breakfasted outside their bedrooms; pretty women +in silken wrappers might send invitations to a friend +to join them in the rose-covered partitions outside +their windows. +</P> + +<P> +The fresh air of a June day came whispering +across the water and the shaven lawns. Later it +would be very hot, but as yet the coolness of the +dew was on the grass; the sun beamed softly gold +through fresh green leaves. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé smiled a little, for, coming into the breakfast-room, +she saw that Jimmie Gore Helmsley meant to +have no more to do with her. He did not come to +her table, get her fruit, hang over her lovingly. +Sybil, fresh as the day itself, was listening to his +caressing voice, tasting her first plate of delicately-flavoured +flattery. +</P> + +<P> +Feminine eighteen comes gaily to its breakfast. +It has had no weary thoughts to trouble it, no fading +skin to cream and powder. +</P> + +<P> +What was she going to do to-day? Oh! anything +and everything; boat, play tennis, idle, watch the +people. +</P> + +<P> +The silver sweetness of the morning called to Sybil. +She would have breakfast out, under the trees. She +saw tables ready there. Cool damp of dew, a gentle +cloud of midges and flies did not deter Sybil. Cold +tea and a narrow choice of breakfast, brought by a +languid footman, were enough for her. Gore +Helmsley, with the morning peevishness which comes +when we are forty, brushed mosquitoes from his hair, +stabbed irritably at congealing bacon and leathery +egg, listened with tempered enthusiasm to Sybil's +picture of ideal life. +</P> + +<P> +Out in the woods somewhere, breakfast and lunch +and dinner with the lovely trees overhead, and the +lovely grass at one's feet, and no stuffy rooms and +cold roast beef, but eggs and fish and tea, she +chattered. +</P> + +<P> +Captain Gore Helmsley said, "With pneumonia +sauce," and said it irritably. He sat watching the +girl's fresh face, the sparkle of her grey eyes, +and presently deemed her worth even outdoor +breakfast. +</P> + +<P> +As cigarettes banished midges his voice grew soft +again; he knew how to listen, how to make youth +talk of itself. He planned the day out; he bought +a box of sweets for Sybil to crunch. +</P> + +<P> +The girl was excited, pleased by her conquest. +She had seen Jimmie in attendance on well-known +beauties; had never dreamt the black eyes would +look at her with open admiration; or that the man +would talk of lunches together, of a drive somewhere +in his car, of singling her out. +</P> + +<P> +She thanked him warmly, with flushed cheeks +which made her lovely. "Take her to Brighton +some day, down to the sea, for a picnic! Oh, how +lovely, and how good of him; he had so much to do, +so many friends." +</P> + +<P> +Lord Innistenne, strolling across the gardens, saw +the two under the big beech tree—saw Esmé reading +alone on the veranda. +</P> + +<P> +He walked down to the river, where two long chairs +were hidden in a nook of shrubs, a slight, brown-eyed +woman sitting in one, sitting palpably waiting. +</P> + +<P> +"Joan, would you do good works?" he said. +"Let this day slip for it." +</P> + +<P> +She looked up at him quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Come with me, use persuasion, get the Chauntsey +child back to London to her mother. I'll drive her +up." +</P> + +<P> +Joan Blacker looked at the river, seen dimly +through the trees, at the wall of shrubs about the +hidden nook. They had not many days like this. +Then wistfully she looked at Innistenne's strong, +rugged face—a look with a shade of fear in it, the +fear which must haunt each woman who has sold her +birthright, purity, that what is so much to her may +be mere pastime to the man she loves. Joan +Blacker might have been moderately unhappy, +moderately lonely all her life, if Innistenne had not +come across her path. +</P> + +<P> +"The dark Adonis is fitting arrows to his bow," +said Innistenne. "He delights in the bringing to +earth of foolish, half-fledged birdlings. We shall be +back early, Joan. Come—help me." +</P> + +<P> +She had counted on her morning; on a few hours +of the talking women delight in, of tender memories +referred to, of future plans discussed. But without +a word she got up. +</P> + +<P> +"She is very pretty, Fred." Joan Blacker stopped +once, looked up at Innistenne. +</P> + +<P> +"She may be," he said carelessly. "There is a +brick wall named Joan built across my vision, you see." +</P> + +<P> +It was her reward—she was satisfied. +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie Gore Helmsley's black eyes did not smile +at a pair of intruders. He was taking Sybil out in a +punt after lunch, with a tea-basket for a picnic. He +strolled off now with a last low word to Sybil. "Come +to the rose garden. I'll wait there. Bother these +people!" +</P> + +<P> +Joan Blacker did not fail in her good deed. She +said some simple things to Sybil—told her quietly +that the Bungalow was not fit for her; that if her +mother realized, or heard, it might stop liberty for +evermore. +</P> + +<P> +"To go back to London," cried Sybil, "to the +house in Lancaster Gate, to the dreariness of a dull +dinner there. Navotsky was to dance to-night. +Besides—Mrs Bellew—" +</P> + +<P> +"The servants may tell her that there is a vacant +room," said Joan, equably, "otherwise she will not +know. And for to-night—we'll take you out somewhere +if you like, in London. I warn you your +mother does not understand." +</P> + +<P> +When Gore Helmsley, attractive to those who +admired him in his flannels, strolled back to look +for a Sybil who came not, he only saw the dust of a +motor on the road at the back of the house. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Chauntsey has gone back to London," said +Esmé. "Her mother, I think, telephoned." +</P> + +<P> +Gore Helmsley nodded carelessly. But Esmé, +looking drearily out across the gardens, trying hard +not to think, had made a bitter enemy. +</P> + +<P> +She was rung up by Denise Blakeney later. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Cyril leaves next week. I tell you, Esmé, +I am afraid—afraid of when he comes back. Be +careful of cross lines. No one will know. Dismiss +your maid at once. Come to me here and write to +her if you think it best." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé hung up the receiver with a sigh. The great +scheme was becoming greater, looming before her. +But money and liberty and an allowance made it all +feasible. +</P> + +<P> +A week later Bertie Carteret sailed for South +Africa, and on the same day a broad, quiet man left +London for a year's shooting. Both thought of +their wives as the big steamers began to churn up +the water. But one with wistful longing, looking +back at a figure on the quay which waved and waved +until it was lost, a blur among other figures; and one +whose mouth set grimly as he recalled a good-bye +in a luxurious dining-room, arms which he had put +away from his neck, and an unsteady voice which +had hinted of some confession which he would not +hear. +</P> + +<P> +"Later," said Cyril Blakeney, "later." But his +eyes were full of bitter hatred for the thing which, +for his name's sake, he meant to do. +</P> + +<P> +Some hours after the steamer had left port Marie +Leroy was rung up on the telephone. +</P> + +<P> +She stood listening, a curious expression on her +dark face, her lips murmuring, "Oui, madame. +Oui, certainement, madame." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé was dismissing her, was going away with +Lady Blakeney, wanted no maid. Marie was to +receive extra wages, a superfine character; to pack +Madame's things. +</P> + +<P> +Marie walked away, her slim brown fingers pressed +together. +</P> + +<P> +"And—what means it?" said the Frenchwoman, +softly. "That would I like to know. What +means it?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V +</H3> + +<P> +Winter came softly across Italy. There were hours +of sunlight, breaths of wind which carried no chill +dampness. Here on a sheltered slope, its back to +the hills, its windows overlooking stretches of olive +groves, a villa had been built. Once a country home +for a prince, now patched and painted when a strange +tenant took it. +</P> + +<P> +The <i>Morning Post</i> had announced that "Lady +Blakeney and Mrs Carteret had left London together +for the Continent. Lady Blakeney, having found +the strain of the season too much this year, was going +to rest by the sea in some quiet part of France." +Later, a rumour crept out; there was a reason for +the delicacy. After all these years! Denise had +just whispered a hint before she left. She was +coming home in the spring. +</P> + +<P> +The difficulty of losing oneself was soon forced +upon the two wanderers. They had gone without +maids; they packed abominably; they were helpless +without the attendance they had been used to. +</P> + +<P> +Denise remarked tearfully that she had never put +on her own stockings except once, when she was +paddling. Esmé, less helpless, helped her, but was +querulous, full of fancies, ill-pleased with life. +</P> + +<P> +After a time Denise changed her trim dresses for +loose coats and skirts. The two moved to Dinard, +met a few friends there. Observant people looked +shrewdly significant. +</P> + +<P> +It was time then! When? they asked. Oh! +some time in the spring. March, Denise said. Yes, +it was quite true. +</P> + +<P> +They wrote to friends at home. +</P> + +<P> +Then came a time when they tried to vanish, went +to small towns and fretted in dull hotels. +</P> + +<P> +Denise had made inquiries, found out where there +was a good doctor. One day the two came to +Riccione, a little Italian town, built on a gentle +slope, spying at the distant mountains, able, with +powerful glasses, to catch a shimmer of the distant +sea. +</P> + +<P> +Luigi Frascatelle, slight and dark, a man immersed +in his art of curing, was startled by the visit of two +English ladies. +</P> + +<P> +They were taking the Villa Picciani, ten miles +out; they were coming in December. One asked +for advice, for attendance if necessary. +</P> + +<P> +Frascatelle's dark eyes read the sign words of +wealth; the woman who did spokeswoman was +brown, slender, distinguished, but wrapped in a long +cloak; the other dazzlingly fair, younger, black +circles under her brilliant blue eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Would the signor tell them where to procure +servants—men and women? They would hire a +motor. Was there a nurse, a trained one, available +for some time? Lady Blakeney was nervous." +</P> + +<P> +"Lady Blakeney!" Luigi looked at the fair girl +curiously. "But, Madame," he spoke French, +"will not Madame return for the event to England—to +the great physicians there—to her own +home?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sir Cyril is away; her ladyship is lonely in +England; has a fancy for sunshine and for solitude." +</P> + +<P> +The doctor bowed. "Ah! at such times there +are ever fancies, better indulged. Ah! si, always +better indulged." +</P> + +<P> +The ladies were coming in December. He would +call as required; there were worthy servants to be +found. There was one, English. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But, sapristi! a strange amusement," said the +doctor to himself. +</P> + +<P> +"You will get us reliable servants, signor?" +Denise asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Che lo sa," said Luigi, absently. "Ah! yes, +Madame, certainly." +</P> + +<P> +"It is so kind of you," Denise went on graciously, +"so very kind and good, signor." +</P> + +<P> +He kept her back, he pressed his slim, strong +fingers together. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame, is it wise for your friend to be out here +alone? She does not look strong; she is surely +hysterical, nervous." +</P> + +<P> +"It is her fancy, signor. I have left England to +be with her and indulge it." +</P> + +<P> +"The devotion of a friend," said Luigi. "And—Monsieur +Sir Blakenee—is he satisfied?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"That's all over," said Denise, coming out. +"Why, child, don't look so white." +</P> + +<P> +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 Esmé 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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +His man, one he had had for years, was making a +stew with skill. +</P> + +<P> +"Reynolds," he shot out, "Reynolds! We trek +for the coast to-morrow. Her ladyship wants me, +Reynolds. There's an heir coming." +</P> + +<P> +Reynolds gave polite congratulation. +</P> + +<P> +"Comin' just in time," muttered the valet to the +stew. "Just in time, milady." +</P> + +<P> +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 sturdy 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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"If we catch that weekly boat we could get to +England by February, Reynolds." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Sir Cyril; just about the second or first +week of February." +</P> + +<P> +"I can cable from the coast. Tell her ladyship +to meet me." +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril was boyish as he sat dreaming. Big +people have the power to put the past behind them, +to see sunshine in the future. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall miss my bambino, signora," she said +sadly. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé 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. +</P> + +<P> +"Is he not a pride—a joy? Ah, signora. Old +Beatrice has nursed many bambinos, but none such +as this." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé turned away impatiently. She looked out +across the Italian landscape, fair even in winter. +</P> + +<P> +It was January. There would be time to hunt still +in England, to enjoy herself. To taste the reward +of her scheme. But.... +</P> + +<P> +"None such as this." The mite cooed at nothing, +smiling and stretching his hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé! I mean Denise!" +</P> + +<P> +Lady Blakeney ran into the room, calling excitedly: +"My dear, the post is in." +</P> + +<P> +"Well! Carefully, Esmé." Esmé flung accent +on the name. "Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"The post! Cyril has written; oh, it's splendid." +</P> + +<P> +The nurse bent over her charge, crooning to it, but +there was a curious look on her face. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, carefully!" said Esmé, 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." +</P> + +<P> +"I had to, Esmé. 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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"There was a strain," he said. "Madame was not +well—no, not well at all." +</P> + +<P> +His dark eyes looked at Esmé's drawn face; he +grunted thoughtfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame is not so strong," he said. "It is +but three weeks—but three, and she is up and +about." +</P> + +<P> +"And we leave to-morrow," she said. "My +husband is coming home, signor. I must fly to meet +him." +</P> + +<P> +"He could come here," said Luigi Frascatelle. +"You are not fit to travel." +</P> + +<P> +"He hates Italy. This was my fancy—this +coming here." +</P> + +<P> +Her fancy! The big, bare rooms had made Esmé +nervous and irritable; she had chafed during the +dullness of waiting; had grown fretful and afraid. +She hated the big room she had lain sick in, with its +ornate bed, its bare, polished boards; the fire of +chestnut wood. How often she had woken in terror, +dreading what must come to her in it. Then there +was constant need of caution; the strain of remembering +had told on the woman who ought to have been +with her own people, with her hours full, her time +taken up. +</P> + +<P> +She could have played bridge, grumbled to her +friends, learnt comfort, been with her husband. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Madame is nervous; not well," said the +little Italian, "run down. Better if Sir Blakeney +came here to take Madame the journey. Madame +does not know that there were difficulties which have +weakened her." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé went away irritably. Denise, laughing, +excited, came in. +</P> + +<P> +"She will be all right," she said impatiently. "It +is nothing, surely, mere natural strain." +</P> + +<P> +"Che lo sa?" said Frascatelle, half to himself. +"There is a nervousness, Madame, as if from +mental strain—and there were complications at the +birth." +</P> + +<P> +"It's this Italy," Denise said carelessly, "so +depressing." +</P> + +<P> +"But I thought," Luigi looked up in astonishment, +"that Italy was Miladi's whim—" +</P> + +<P> +"But of course," Denise flushed, "but whims, +signor, are not always wise. The place was lonely." +</P> + +<P> +When Luigi Frascatelle came next day to the villa +it was empty. The Italian men and maids had been +paid off liberally. Beatrice, weeping for her charge, +had come in the motor to the station and seen the +ladies off. They were both thickly veiled, both +muffled up. +</P> + +<P> +The little doctor drove back to the town and on +to the station, to meet the old woman returning +from the station. +</P> + +<P> +"From here to Paris, without maids, without a +nurse," he cried, "and with a baby of four weeks. +They are strange, these English." +</P> + +<P> +"They who know not how to feed it," groaned +Beatrice. "All is not right, signor." +</P> + +<P> +He drove back to his house; he piled fragrant +chestnut wood upon the fire; he applied himself +thoughtfully to a dish of golden risotto. +</P> + +<P> +"There is something strange about this miladi," +he said to his favourite almond pudding. "No, +all is not right." +</P> + +<P> +It was a weary journey. Little Cyril learnt to +weep upon it, torn from kindly arms who knew how +to hold him; he learnt the meaning of pain and +hunger. He voiced his protest as best he could. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! stop him, Esmé. Stop the brat!" +</P> + +<P> +Denise woke at the fretful wailing. "Make a bed +for him there, a bed on the seat," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"He might fall off." Esmé held the whimpering +bundle in her arms, sat wearily, afraid she might drop +off to sleep. +</P> + +<P> +"Feed him then; he wants milk. Oh, what a +terrible journey!" +</P> + +<P> +Yet she did nothing on it; for Esmé, curiously +silent, saw to the child. +</P> + +<P> +A tall woman, kindly-faced, hurried through the +crowd at the Gare; cried out as she saw the baby +in Esmé's arms. +</P> + +<P> +"Lady Blakeney, is it not? I am the nurse, Mrs +Stanson, engaged for your ladyship. Oh, milady, +have you come alone—without a nurse?" +</P> + +<P> +"The nurse was useless, insolent, neglecting +baby," said Lady Blakeney, carelessly. "Take him +now. He is so naughty. The woman neglected him." +</P> + +<P> +"As those foreigners would do; yet he looks +splendid. One moment, milady, while I gather these +things." +</P> + +<P> +She put the baby into Denise's arms, turning to +pick up some of the tiny traveller's luggage. "Oh, +not like that, milady," she cried, for the small head +flopped on a stiffly-held arm and the boy wailed +fretfully. +</P> + +<P> +"H'm!" Esmé swept the mite out of Denise's +hold. "Here! give him to me. H'sh, baby, hush!" +</P> + +<P> +The nurse looked puzzled. She had seen Lady +Blakeney once in London, but she blinked now, +afraid her memory had played her false. +</P> + +<P> +"Excuse me," she began, "I understood that this +was her ladyship." She looked at Denise. +</P> + +<P> +"<i>I</i> am Lady Blakeney," said Denise, angrily. +"Oh! two taxis, please. I am tired of crying babies. +Take him in one." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Stanson looked grave. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's eyes followed the tall woman who carried +a little bundle down the platform. A sudden fierce +ache of regret came to her—regret and anger. This +little, white-limbed thing was hers. She would not +have sent it off alone. +</P> + +<P> +"Her ladyship," said Mrs Stanson, later, as she +put her charge to sleep, "does not seem to care for +children, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"Some people do not." Esmé looked at the +sleeping face. "He is happier now that you have +him, nurse." +</P> + +<P> +Downstairs the God of Chance was working +wonders. +</P> + +<P> +Denise, coming into the hall of the Bristol, cried +out in astonishment. +</P> + +<P> +A big man was registering at the bureau. Her +name was written before his. He swung round with +a cry as he looked at it. +</P> + +<P> +"Denise!" his hands were on hers. He held them +hard. "Denise, I got a paper at Marseilles. My +poor child, out away there in Italy. Were you ill? +It was two months too soon." +</P> + +<P> +With a little sob Denise held to the big strong +hands, knew then what she had so nearly lost; this +man's protection, his name; his kind eyes looked +into hers. +</P> + +<P> +The past was past; she knew that. Some women +make resolutions and keep them. Denise did then. +For the future, the future she had made by fraud, +Sir Cyril Blakeney's wife should be above suspicion. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Denny, why didn't you tell me—keep me +here?" +</P> + +<P> +"I was afraid," she faltered. "You were cross +then. And I was not sure." +</P> + +<P> +"I was cross then." He took her away to a quiet +corner. "That's over, my wife. And the boy? +Come up to see him. Our boy! He's not delicate, +I hope?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, not yet—he'll be asleep now." Denise was +gay, radiant, her colour bright. "I'm hungry, +Cyrrie. Let's have dinner now—and talk—talk!" +</P> + +<P> +"Talk," he laughed. "Why didn't you wire for +Sir Herman to go out? Were you bad? I never +saw you looking stronger." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, I was not bad. I'm very strong," she +said, a little uneasily. +</P> + +<P> +"And you came on so soon. There's nothing +wrong with him, is there? Oh, Denise, tell me." +</P> + +<P> +"Wrong with him? No!" she said, laughing +carelessly. "He's a great baby." +</P> + +<P> +Denise was looking through a door of life which +she had never tried to open, that of love and trust. +She was too shallow to regret the use of the false key +which she had forced it open with. She was safe; +Cyril would never bring up the past to the boy's +mother. +</P> + +<P> +"Come then, and see a sleeping bundle of flannels," +she said. +</P> + +<P> +The boy had just gone to sleep. Sir Cyril's first +view of him was with Esmé stooping over the cot, +looking wistfully down at the tiny face. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs Carteret has quite a way with a child," said +the nurse, graciously. "He's a splendid boy, Sir +Cyril." +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril had had shy ideas of a something whispered +across the new hope in his life, of a promise for the +future or regrets for the past. As it was, he could +only stand almost awkwardly, afraid that a clumsy +movement might wake the child. +</P> + +<P> +"Great fellow, isn't he?" he said sheepishly. +</P> + +<P> +"A splendid boy, Sir Cyril—really splendid; fair, +sir, as you are; he has a curious mark, a regular small +plum, on his shoulder." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé started. Just on her shoulder she had a +round, purple mark, shaped as a plum; she had +never dreamt of the baby inheriting it. +</P> + +<P> +A true Blakeney, big and strong, cleanly made, +Sir Cyril stood by the cot, with the pride of this heir +to his big in him. +</P> + +<P> +"He's just wonderful, Den," he said simply. "I +thought that, coming too soon, he might be puny, +delicate—but he's fine." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé turned away. It was her boy they praised, +and she knew the bitterness of jealousy. +</P> + +<P> +If gold could have been fried for dinner, and +diamonds used for sauce, Sir Cyril would have ordered +them that night. He was too big and quiet to be +openly hilarious, but its very quiet made it more +marked. He ordered a special dinner, special wines, +fruit, boxes of sweets. The table was littered as if +it were one at Maxim's. To-morrow they would +search Paris for a memento, for something to mark +this meeting. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, listening, felt as some mortal who, standing +in the cold, looks through clear glass at a blazing +fire yet cannot warm himself. They shut a door +on her; she had no boy lying upstairs; no husband +to rejoice in his heir. +</P> + +<P> +The cold stung bitterly; it loosed dull pangs of +envy, of futile wrath. For what had brought these +two together was hers, and she had sold it. Sometimes +they turned to her vaguely, bringing her into +their plans. Esmé would come shopping in the +morning, of course, help to choose jewels; Esmé +had been such a friend—so devoted. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll never forget it, Mrs Carteret," Sir Cyril said +once. "You lost half a year to keep my wife company. +Lord! you're a real friend!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." Esmé crunched a silvered bonbon, a +cunning mixture of almonds and fruit and sugar. +She picked another up, looking at it. Had she not +looked on life as a bonbon, to crunch prettily and +enjoy, a painted, flavoured piece of sugar? +</P> + +<P> +She had money; she could go to the hidden shops +on the second storeys, and buy the dainty fripperies +that Paris knows how to produce; she wanted a fur +coat, new frocks, hats, a dozen things. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril was bending close to his wife, holding +her out a glass of Chartreuse, clinking it against hers. +</P> + +<P> +"Den," his voice was stirred by deep emotion, +"some day we'll go, you and I, and take that villa +for a month, and I can see where my boy was born." +</P> + +<P> +The glassful of amber syrup fell on the table, the +glass splinters dulled by the oily liquid. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, some day," said Denise, trembling. "How +stupid of me! But it was a dull spot, Cyrrie. It +was only fancy, nerves, which took me there. Wasn't +it dull, Den"—she stopped—"Esmé?" +</P> + +<P> +"I never hated any place so much in my life," +said Esmé, dully. +</P> + +<P> +That night she crept along the corridor, stood +listening at a door. +</P> + +<P> +Primitive instinct was stronger than the power +of money. Her boy lay sleeping in that quiet room. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Esmé!"—Denise called her into her room +next day—"Esmé! Come here! You can go, +Summers." +</P> + +<P> +Her new maid, sent from England with the nurse, +went quietly out. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé!" Denise lowered her voice. "About +that money. I owe you some now. I can't write +cheques, you see, every half-year; but this time I +can explain." She threw a slip of paper across to +Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you. And the boy?" said Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! he's all right. I saw Mrs Stanson. He +slept well. Don't mess about him, Esmé! It would +only look silly—better not. Will you meet us at +the Ritz for <i>déjeuner</i>?" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé excused herself. She might be late. She +would come back to the hotel. +</P> + +<P> +She went out into the crisp, stinging cold of early +February. Touch of frost on Paris, drift of hot air +from shop doors, clear sunlight overhead, people +hurrying along the dry pavements. Furs everywhere, +outlining piquant French faces; from solid +sombre imitation to the sheen of Russian sable +and the coarse richness of silver fox. +</P> + +<P> +A fur coat—Esmé wanted one—went restlessly +into a shop, tried on, priced, gloried in their soft +richness, their linings of mauve and white; saw +her fair beauty framed by dark sable, by light-hued +mink, by rich fox skin, and knew again +disappointment. +</P> + +<P> +The three coats she wanted were splendid things; +each one would take almost all her money, leave +nothing for frocks and hats. +</P> + +<P> +Impatiently, almost angrily, she stood frowning +at the glass. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! yes, the coat was lovely; but the price! +Four hundred pounds of English money; and this +other was five!" There was the little coat of mink +priced at a mere bagatelle. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but Madame must see that it was coarse +beside the others." +</P> + +<P> +Cunningly the shopman put the two together; +showed the rare sheen of the sable, the cravat of +real lace, the exquisite tinting of the blue and silver +brocade lining, and laid against it a coat which would +have looked rich alone, but here, against this, was a +mere outcast. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame sees; the coat is cheap—a bargain. +We sold one to-day, almost like it. Ah! here it +is!" +</P> + +<P> +"I must take the cheap one," Esmé muttered. +"I—" +</P> + +<P> +"See, this one was sold to Milady Blakeney. +And this which we wish Madame to have is +almost as good. Milady's has remained for slight +alteration." +</P> + +<P> +Truly a gorgeous garment this—sables black in +their splendour; clasps of jade and silver and paste; +lining such as fairy princesses might wear. A ruffle +of old Mechlin. +</P> + +<P> +"This is of English money nine hundred pounds. +Unique, exquisite. And this other looks as well." +</P> + +<P> +Sudden bitter resentment choked Esmé. Denise +could have this coat and go on to other shops to +buy jewels, laces, unneeded follies. What was five +hundred pounds? Denise might easily have taken +her out to-day, bought her furs or given her twice +the stipulated money; this time might have been +generous. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I'll take this one." Esmé touched the +sable coat. After all, she had money in the bank; +she had lived free for six months. "Yes, I'll pay +for it now." +</P> + +<P> +She had to wait while they went to the bank; +then she went out in the rich mantle. It was heavy, +a little difficult to walk in, but she could see her fair +face against the dark furs as she peered into +mirrors. +</P> + +<P> +At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why +again should all she wanted be so dear? That soft +wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere rag in the +hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded +limbs, setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's +feet; that tea-gown of opal velvet; that severe coat +and skirt of blue, were all beyond her now that the +coat was hers. Yet Esmé bought recklessly, a +sullen anger driving her. Madame Arielle would +copy and create others, these three she must have. +And this—and this blouse; another dress and +scarf. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had ordered there before, but never in this +style. Madame looked dubious. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll pay you fifty now on account." And so only +fifty left of a half-yearly price. "That brown—you'll +copy it at once?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, yes—shortly." But Madame was pressed. +"Milady Blakeney had been in ordering a dozen +frocks, but of a beauty," gushed Madame, "one all +of real lace and silver crepe. Ah, yes." +</P> + +<P> +Denise again before her, dwarfing her, Esmé's, +orders. The coat seemed heavier now. She bought +hats almost languidly; passed a jeweller's window, +saw a necklace, a thing of diamonds and emeralds +exquisite in its fine work, with one great +diamond swinging from the fret of green and +white. +</P> + +<P> +"How much?" Esmé shrugged her shoulders. +"It would have gone so well with her new gown." +She bought a tiny brooch of enamel and went +out. +</P> + +<P> +It was dull at lunch at the Café de la Paix. She +did not go back for it. It was stupid to eat alone; +the omelette tasted leathery; the little fillets tough; +the place was overheated; she would have taken +off her coat, but the dress underneath was last year's, +therefore a thing to be hidden. +</P> + +<P> +Men stared at the beautiful English woman in +her daring green hat and gorgeous furs. +</P> + +<P> +Sipping her liqueur, Esmé tried to lose her irritation +in dreams of the future. Bertie would be home; +they would take up their old happy life; but even +more happily. She would be so well off now. Able +to buy her own frocks, to help in many ways. When +she got back she would go off to hunt somewhere. +Esmé looked at her hands; they were so much +thinner. Would she be strong enough to hunt? +She had lost her rounded contours; she knew that +there were new lines on her fair skin, that she had +lost some of her youth. +</P> + +<P> +These things age one. And yet—"L'addition," +she said sharply. Yet she thought of a little soft +thing lying in the big upstairs room at the Bristol, +and something hurt her sharply again. +</P> + +<P> +She was tired of shopping, she would go back there +now. It was lonely in Paris. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Stanson, writing letters to engage a variety +of nursemaids—she considered a person of her +position must be thoroughly waited on—was surprised +by a visit from Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +The baby was splendid after all his trials and his +journey. Mrs Stanson did not hold with infants +travelling; she dreaded the cold journey back to +England. +</P> + +<P> +"Nor do I hold with the heat of these here rooms," +said the English nurse, "and with the cold a-rushing +in like a mad dog with its mouth open if one stirs +a window. Give me air for a child, Mrs Carteret, +air and warmth; but above all, air." +</P> + +<P> +An autocrat of the nursery, this Mrs Stanson, who +had nursed heirs of great houses and loved her +charges. A death now, the passing of pretty +delicate Lady de Powers and her infant son, had set +the woman free. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll love him, Mrs Stanson—be good to him?" +Esmé flung out the words in sudden impulse; she +took the smiling baby up. +</P> + +<P> +"I declare, Mrs Carteret, he might be yours +instead of her ladyship's," laughed the nurse. "She +came in for five minutes, and asked if I wanted anything, +and to order what I wanted. I made it two +nursery-maids to-day. Like many young mothers, +she's careless. It's the ladies without that would +give their eyes for one," said Mrs Stanson, softly. +</P> + +<P> +"Without." A slur on her, Esmé, whose child +was in her arms. Something hurt in her throat; +she turned red and then white. She sat for an hour +in the big bright room, listening to all the ills which +lurk in wait for infant life, related with gusto by the +nurse. A little chill, a spoon of soured food, and +poof! out goes the life; then later, chicken-pox, +measles, whooping-cough; wet feet. It seemed +wonderful to think that there were any children left +alive. Little Cyril, dribbling thoughtfully, had no +idea of what was before him. +</P> + +<P> +But at the end, comfort. "And yet they lives," +said Mrs Stanson, "lives on, on beer and dripping, +which I am informed is used as baby food by the very +poor." +</P> + +<P> +Denise came in for tea, fresh, radiant, wrapped +in a great stole of fox. Big Sir Cyril pulling little +boxes innumerable from his pockets. +</P> + +<P> +They had a sitting-room. Denise called Esmé +in to her, spread purchases on the table. +</P> + +<P> +"See, Esmé—this pendant, isn't it sweet? And +this enamel clasp—and this brooch—and that +diamond heart." The table glittered with the things. +"Oh, Cyril could not buy enough for me. He is so +good." +</P> + +<P> +Almost sullenly Esmé looked down at the stone of +green, white and red; the pendant and necklace was +the one which she had coveted. Denise might offer +to give her some of these; she might ask her if there +was nothing she wanted. +</P> + +<P> +"And I got you something, Es—just as remembrance. +Cyril wished me to. Summers! bring in +the parcels. Yes, there it is." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé knew the label—that of a huge shop close +to the Place de l'Opera; good, but bourgeois, +cheap. +</P> + +<P> +"See! I hate that musquash thing you wear. +It's too dark for you." Denise pulled out a stole of +brown fox—a huge thing, covered with tails, but +meretricious, showy; the satin of the lining crackled +as she touched it. This for all she had done for her +friend. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, Denise." Esmé took up the fur. +"How pretty. It was nice of you to think of me, +now that I am of no further use." +</P> + +<P> +Denise looked up, startled by momentary fear. +Surely Esmé was more than content with her share +of the bargain. Was glad to be rid of her unwanted +brat; to have ample allowance and be free. For a +minute she saw what it might be if Esmé failed +her. +</P> + +<P> +But Denise was shallowly optimistic; she laughed +the fears away; she kissed Esmé affectionately. +</P> + +<P> +"It was a great thought, and it's splendidly over," +she whispered—"over for us both." +</P> + +<P> +"And you? You really begin to feel that he is +yours?" whispered Esmé back, almost fiercely. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe I do. I shall have forgotten it completely +in ten years' time," laughed Lady Blakeney. +</P> + +<P> +"And—shall I?" said Esmé to herself. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI +</H3> + +<P> +"Some people," said Mousie Cavendish, "appear +to have come into a fortune." +</P> + +<P> +She touched Esmé Carteret's sable coat, stroking +the soft fur, her small greenish eyes looking up +wickedly. +</P> + +<P> +"Friends ... are nice things," said Mousie, +softly. "Hey, my pretty Esmé." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé flushed. Five minutes before she had +grumbled at her poverty, now she came down in her +splendid wrap waiting for the motor. +</P> + +<P> +Money had never seemed to go so fast. The half-year's +allowance from Denise had been spent in a day. +More new frocks, new habits had seemed necessary. +A restlessness haunted Esmé; she was not satisfied +with anything, she was nervous, lacked appetite, had +grown thin. +</P> + +<P> +She was doing the last of the hunting season at +Coombe Regis now, an old Elizabethan house taken +by the Holbrooks. +</P> + +<P> +Their only difficulty, as Mousie said sweetly, is +"that they cannot remake the bricks with gold dust, +it's so ordinary to have one's house made of clay and +straw and water, otherwise bricks." +</P> + +<P> +There were horses in the stables, sleek, shining +hunters, belonging to friends who came to stay. +Esmé hired from a local stable. She rode hard and +straight, but came in tired after her day; her old +perfect health had deserted her. +</P> + +<P> +"There," said Mousie, looking out onto the chill +March day, "is Luke, our host, seeking for something +he may spend money on. He wants to be a peer +next birthday, and his hopes are high." +</P> + +<P> +The flowers in the old-fashioned flower-garden +were a blaze of magnificence. Mr Holbrook was +looking at them, greatly interested in one patch of +pure white daffodils because he had paid ten pounds +a piece for the bulbs. The Cabinet minister who +was coming to stay was a florist. A gift of some of +these might please him greatly. +</P> + +<P> +The Holbrooks had made Coombe Regis into a +passable imitation of a Hotel de Luxe. The old +hall was now a palm court, heated by hot air, its +great open fireplace offended by a new grate which +held coals; the drawing-room was magnificent in +dull blue and gold; stiffly hideous, with great mirrors +shining everywhere. +</P> + +<P> +The dining-room was a mass of mechanical devices, +of lifts and electric heaters and telephones to everywhere, +the small tables were all polished wood spread +with slips of real lace. One dined scratchily off luke-warm +silver, one's breakfast cup was Crown Derby +set in filigree. +</P> + +<P> +"So annoying of the hens not to learn to lay +golden eggs," remarked Mrs Cavendish one morning +when she had examined half a dozen things smoking +over the electric heaters. "What's the use of this +pure gold Orpington here sitting on a silver nest +when she only hatches things which can be purchased +at a penny and twopence each. No, I refuse to eat +truffles and cream and salmon for breakfast, nor do I +require ham and champagne sauce." +</P> + +<P> +A big party had assembled for the ball of Regis +Hunt races. Dull people and smart people, who ate +their meals together with regret, and drifted apart +directly afterwards. The dull people ate the ornamented +dishes and sighed inwardly for roast mutton, +the smart people picked at them and wanted the +French cookery their greedy souls adored. +</P> + +<P> +But Mr Holbrook was content. He was getting on. +He did kind things which he concealed rigorously, +and he did generous things for his own benefit, and +his peerage loomed ahead. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear love," said Holbrook, coming into the +library. He had furnished the shelves with first +editions of various authors whom no one ever read. +Statues stood, coldly graceful in corners, gleaming +white against the brown background. The library +table carried a writing set of leather worked in gold. +Grace Holbrook was dictating letters to her secretary, +a slim girl with a pink nose and an irritated expression. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear," said Holbrook. "Do you think—?" +He paused. +</P> + +<P> +"You can go, Miss Harris," said Mrs Holbrook. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think," he said—"hum, Critennery has +a little weakness ... she dances at the Magnificent, +in some gauze ... that we could have her down. +Lady Ermyntrude is not coming." +</P> + +<P> +"We couldn't," said Mrs Holbrook, hastily. +"The Duchess is coming." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it's quite his little weakness and he can do +as he likes," said Holbrook, mournfully. "I do +want Henry to be Lord Regis, my love. It's +just to dance on Saturday. I would arrange with +Hewson of the Magnificent. And dancers are so +fashionable." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Luke, the Duchess of Dullshire will be +here," said his wife, firmly, "and the Trents, and Lord +Frensham. We couldn't. The Duchess was at the +Magnificent, I remember seeing it mentioned—she +must have seen the woman without any ... that +is dancing." +</P> + +<P> +"She is so very graceful," said Luke. "Well, my +love, of course if we cannot. But artistes do go +everywhere now. She lunches with Lady Ermyntrude, +and I thought that her presence, combined +with a present of those Angel bulb roots; but if you +object ... well, it's quite a little weakness, my +love. Critennery would have liked to talk to Mavis +Moover." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Holbrook wavered visibly. "If the Duchess +had not been in front," she said; "still, she's very +blind and won't wear glasses; she may not have +noticed the gauze. I don't want our party to be +spoilt, Luke, but—" +</P> + +<P> +"Think it over, my love," said Holbrook, going +out. "Think it over. And there's Jimmie Gore +Helmsley coming. I see his name down. I don't +like him, Gracie. He's a bad 'un, my love." +</P> + +<P> +"He goes everywhere. He's running a horse," +said Mrs Holbrook. "That long-legged bay thing +we saw galloping to-day. People say it will win. +He goes everywhere, Luke." +</P> + +<P> +"So much the worse," said Mr Holbrook, "for +everywhere." +</P> + +<P> +Something had happened to the motor Esmé was +going out in—a tyre had punctured as it was starting +and the chauffeur gave warning of an hour's delay. +Esmé yawned, waiting in the over-heated hall. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie would be home in a week; she would want +more wine at cost price from her host. Seeing him +come out she flashed a friendly smile at him. She +asked him to send her some. +</P> + +<P> +But Luke Holbrook, who had been glad to help a +pretty girl in a tiny flat, saw no reason for losing a +profit to a woman in magnificent sables. +</P> + +<P> +"Want more hock?" he said. "The same as +last, eh? Yes, I told you to ask me—but it's gone +up—gone up, and whisky too, and port.... I'll +send it on to you. Kind of me. It's my business, +pretty lady, my business. No bother at all." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé did not realize that he meant to charge her +full price. +</P> + +<P> +"We've had such a hunt, we came back early." +Sybil Chauntsey ran into the hall in her habit, +young Knox close behind her. Mrs Holbrook +approved of love. She had asked them together. +"Oh, such a run," babbled Sybil. "And my chestnut +was glorious, the dear." +</P> + +<P> +"Jimmie always said that the chestnut was his +best horse." Mousie Cavendish's thin lips curved in +a spiteful smile. +</P> + +<P> +Young Knox started, looked at Sybil. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought it was your own horse," he said +gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"Captain Gore Helmsley lent him to me for the +season. I call him mine. I thought that you +knew." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I did not." The young soldier seemed to +have forgotten his gallop; he looked tired and put +out. +</P> + +<P> +"The car, madam, is ready." A butler who bore +the mark of experience stamped upon his impassive +face came forward. Esmé fastened her coat, asked +for a companion—Mrs Cavendish would come. Her +spiteful tongue made light strokes at reputations as +the car hummed along. No one escaped. No one +was immune. She had come to drive to find out +who had given Esmé the coat, for the fair girl had +never made herself auspicious. +</P> + +<P> +"Met heaps of nice things abroad, I s'pose.... +Why didn't you order a limousine, Esmé? I hate the +wind in these open things ... heaps of princes, I +suppose, and rich potentates, didn't you, in your +travels?" +</P> + +<P> +"Heaps," said Esmé. "At least we must have +seen them sometimes." +</P> + +<P> +"Funniest thing rushing off like that for all these +months, so unlike Denise Blakeney. It didn't agree +with you, Esmé; it made you thin, and different +somehow." +</P> + +<P> +"The climate," Esmé said, flushing a little. +</P> + +<P> +"And fancy Denise not coming home for the +event, trusting herself to foreign doctors and nurses." +</P> + +<P> +"She did not intend to stay," Esmé answered. +"She meant to be back." +</P> + +<P> +"I saw the son and heir. A great fat thing, fair +like Cyril. Well, it settles all the difficulties then. +Denise doesn't play the <i>rôle</i> of devoted mother; she +says the baby bores her." +</P> + +<P> +A sudden wave of anger shook Esmé—fear for her +child—it might be neglected, grow up unloved. +Then they stopped at the toy shop at Regis. +</P> + +<P> +"A parcel for Mrs Holbrook," she said to the man. +Obsequious assistants ran out to the Coombe Regis +motors. +</P> + +<P> +A hunting man, still in his splashed pink, stopped +them. He, too, was full of the great run. +</P> + +<P> +"Coming out to-morrow to Welcombe," he said. +"We're all training down." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's face clouded. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't afford it. I owe the man twenty pounds. +I've done two days this week." +</P> + +<P> +A year ago Esmé would have almost expected a +horse offered to her. Major Jackson had fifteen of +them; she had only to look appealing then, talked of +poverty, and horses came as from the clouds. +</P> + +<P> +Now he too looked at her coat. Its owner could +not want help. +</P> + +<P> +"Other engagements," he chaffed lightly. +"You're losing your keenness, Mrs Carteret. Fact." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé turned away ill-humouredly. They drove +back to Coombe Regis, the open car humming through +the cool spring afternoon. Mousie Cavendish questioning, +surmising, as they went. +</P> + +<P> +The palm court was crowded now, partitions had +been knocked away, a room thrown in to make it +large enough; there was no gathering round for tea. +Trays were placed on the little glass-topped satinwood +tables. Hot biscuits and scones were kept +hot on electric heaters. The butler laid a species +of buffet covered with huge iced cakes, and relays of +sandwiches if the supplies on each tray were not +sufficient. +</P> + +<P> +"Only one thing required—cold roast beef and +plum pudding," Mousie said ill-naturedly, as she +looked at it. The tea-pots were all silver gilt, the +little piles of cakes and sandwiches rested on real lace. +In the drawing-room Mrs Holbrook gathered her +dullest guests at a table, where she poured out tea +herself, away from the more clouded atmosphere of +the hall. +</P> + +<P> +Several expensive toy dogs sat about on the blue +and gold brocade and ate scraps of cake merely to +oblige the guests. +</P> + +<P> +They dined off minced chicken and fillet of beef, +and breakfasted off cream and grape nuts. Mr +Holbrook liked them because he had paid three +hundred for Li Chi the pug, and two for Holboin +Santoi the pomeranian. +</P> + +<P> +"Luke," said Mrs Holbrook, taking her second +cup of chilly tea. "Luke, I think we could do it; +the Duchess may never know who she is." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you really, my love?" said Holbrook, briskly. +"Then I'll write to her manager and to her, enclosing +a note from you. She will go so well with the bulbs—Critennery +must be pleased." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had found a pile of letters waiting for +her, long envelopes containing accounts rendered. +She did not know where her money had gone to. +Nothing seemed paid for. +</P> + +<P> +She was going to her room, walking on carpets so +thick that her feet sank into them, with all the +silence of riches round her, doors which opened and +shut noiselessly, deadened footsteps, when she stopped +startled. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Madame!" Marie, her late maid, smiled +at her. "Ah, Madame." Marie was enchanted. +She had regretted so that Madame had been obliged +to part with her. +</P> + +<P> +"I am with Milady Goold, Madame, and I see +Madame has not been well; she is looking delicate, +then." +</P> + +<P> +"It was Italy." Esmé was nervous before the +Frenchwoman, whose brown eyes looked at her with +a curious shrewdness. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame had much travelling with Milady +Blakeney? I have been to Reggio, Madame; I +have a cousin there." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé turned swiftly to her door to hide her white +cheeks. She recovered in a moment. Even if +Marie did write or go there, there was nothing to +find out. "Yes—it's a dull place, Marie," she said. +"And when you're out of a place come back to me. +Watson cannot do hair, Marie." +</P> + +<P> +Marie went away smiling—a curious little smile. +"There was something curious in all that," she said +softly. "Something, but yes, strange—and one day +I, Marie, will find it out." +</P> + +<P> +The races were to be on Tuesday. Saturday saw +Coombe Regis with every room full. The Cabinet +minister felt himself over-honoured in one of the huge +state rooms, where the old carved bedstead had been +left, and all the electric lights did not seem to dispel +the shadows. +</P> + +<P> +"Kind of thing queens died in," said the minister +as he took a long walk from his bed to the dressing-table. +</P> + +<P> +The Duchess occupied another vast chamber, made +incongruously modern by a low bedstead representing +a lily, and bought for a fabulous sum from +France. "Absurd," said Her Grace, as she poked +into the down pillows and lace-edged sheets arrayed +among the inlaid petals. "Also it can't have proper +springs." +</P> + +<P> +Her Grace of Dullshire was a large lady of philanthropic +tendencies. She kept a herd of prize cows +which she sold to her friends for large sums, and prize +hens, and she knew a horse when she saw one, so had +come for the races. She also liked bridge, when she +won. The Duchess was a leader of society, one fully +aware of the fact. Her deep voice had power to +slide an ambitious clamberer back over the edge of +the cliff which she had scaled with difficulty. To be +asked to Dullengla Court, where one dined off beef +soup, boiled cod, roast mutton, cabbage or turnips, +and rice moulds, was to be marked as with an order. +The Duke never visited, and the Marquis of Boredom, +their son, had so far not been allowed to marry. +He had, greatly against his will, been included in this +house-party, it being an unfortunate fact that his +taste was for attractive ladies on the stage. "I +would allow you to marry Lady Sukey Ploddy," said +his mother when they got to the door of Coombe +Regis; "she will be here." The palm court was +brilliant to-night. Shaded lights glowed through the +artificial leaves, showing chiffons and satins, laces +and silks, and the black-and-white dinner armour of +mankind. Rare jewels flashed, faint scents made +the air fragrant. +</P> + +<P> +The Cabinet minister, coming down just before +dinner, stood on the Duchess's toe in his surprise +at catching sight of a dark moving face and a supple, +slight form. +</P> + +<P> +"Mavis," said the minister, blankly.... "Oh, +so sorry, Duchess. I hope it didn't hurt. Did +Homburg last year, y'know. Now if it had been +before that...." +</P> + +<P> +The Duchess's hop to a chair shook the palm court. +Her only son, coming down in almost painfully well-made +clothes, was confiding his woes to a friend. +"Absolutely rotten bein' caught for it. Scarcely a +girl to speak to, and if there is she'll be off with some +Johnny she knew before. Nothin' but Ploddys and +that spiteful Cavendish, and oh, hang, rot all round, +y'know. Yes, mamma." +</P> + +<P> +"Who?" said the Duchess, "who, Francis, is +that nice-looking girl in black?" +</P> + +<P> +"Gracious!" said Lord Boredom. "Lord! it +isn't," he paused ... "her name is Moover, +mother," he said blandly—"Moover." +</P> + +<P> +"American," summed up the Duchess, accepting +her host's arm. Mrs Holbrook sorted the vast +party every evening and paired them off for +dinner. +</P> + +<P> +Lord Boredom received Lady Sukey Ploddy's +substantial hand upon his coat sleeve, and intelligently +remarked, "Eh oh, Imagin," when she told +him she was looking forward to the races. +</P> + +<P> +The minister took in his hostess, and found the +dancer at their table for four. "I like this," said +Miss Moover contentedly, taking caviare. "Nice +of 'em to ask me, wasn't it? Old Luke—" +</P> + +<P> +"That's your hostess," said the minister, hurriedly. +The magnificence of dinner descended upon them and +the food. One reached for fish beneath a truffle-spangled +vest of sauce; one poked at a snowy tower +and found that upon the menu it was harmless +chicken in disguise. If the cook did not earn her +salary by spending money on elaboration she would +be speedily replaced. +</P> + +<P> +Gay voices, light laughter, rang up to the vaulted +roof. Armies of powdered footmen moved deftly +among the tables. The celebrated Holbrook wines +were poured out lavishly. +</P> + +<P> +One finished with bad coffee and took choice of +a dozen liqueurs, the blue haze of smoke floating +around the heated air. Huge golden boxes, initialled +and becrested, stood on the tables, filled with cigars +and cigarettes; the butler, faintly proud of so much +wasted money, stood for a moment before he left. +Red bars gleamed along the shining mahogany from +the rich ruby of the port. +</P> + +<P> +The dull people drifted away with their hostess to +the drawing-room to read and work and gossip, but +the Duchess lingered in the palm court waiting for +her son. +</P> + +<P> +"A very nice-looking girl," said Her Grace. +"Miss Moover, I think I have seen you somewhere." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps," said Mavis, civilly. "Perhaps, +Duchess." +</P> + +<P> +Lord Boredom, who had quite woke up, sniggered +softly; for the rest of the evening the Cabinet +minister, who was a philosopher, realized the power +of youth over mere prestige as he watched the +Marquis of Boredom devote himself to a demure-looking +girl in black, with the manifest approval of +his mother. +</P> + +<P> +A gentle feeler to Miss Moover, whose real name +was Harris, had resulted in a frank avowal from that +young lady that at present her income was several +hundreds a week. "And all my own," said Mavis, +a little sadly, for she had come to London to work +for a mother who had died before her daughter grew +famous. +</P> + +<P> +There were a dozen little dramas played out under +the high roof—comedy, tragedy, drama, to each its +caste, its players and its audience. +</P> + +<P> +Young Oliver Knox's bright face had lost its gaiety. +He was a mere everyday soldier, awkward of speech +because he loved deeply and pitted against Gore +Helmsley, who woke to the game because there was +a new chance of losing it. With his black eyes full +of the admiration he knew how to throw into them, +his words laden with subtle compliment, he followed +pretty Sybil, slipped her away from her fretting +lover, took her to play bridge, and praised her mistakes +as flashes of genius. +</P> + +<P> +The girl was flustered as she found herself playing +against Mrs Cavendish and Dolly Frensham, two +gamblers of repute. She saw the scores added and +settled, heard Jimmie say carelessly that she could +settle with him next day, and scarcely knew what +she had lost. Esmé flashed careless answer to Gore +Helmsley's cool greeting; he had done with her, and +yet his coolness hurt. Comedy was played in the +palm court, played next day after breakfast, with +Miss Mavis Moover as its heroine. The Duchess +was quite charmed with her, accepting certain little +frivolities as merely transatlantic. Mavis displayed +a worthy interest in cows, and was not averse to +philanthropy. "You'd be happy in a simple +country place," said the Duchess, referring to the +vast house with at least ten sitting-rooms, in three +of which they camped out. +</P> + +<P> +"I think so," said Mavis, quietly. "I guess so, +if I liked the people." +</P> + +<P> +"My love," said Luke Holbrook on Monday +morning. "It hasn't quite worked, my love. I +fear our hope in the Cabinet has not had the time we +intended him to. I fear that nosey boy of the +Duchess's has put his foot in the pie," said Luke, sadly. +</P> + +<P> +"Luke!" said his wife. +</P> + +<P> +"Fallen into the dish. All the same, my love. +Critennery is leaving to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"He can travel by the same train as his fancy," +said Mrs Holbrook, placidly. +</P> + +<P> +The great man, urbanely gracious, came to make +his adieux. Holbrook looked at him apologetically. +"You will travel up then with Miss Moover," said +Mrs Holbrook, brightly; "she leaves this morning." +</P> + +<P> +The Cabinet minister drew on his grey gloves carefully, +then adjusted the fingers slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"Lord Boredom," he said, "is motoring Miss +Moover to Town just in time for her performance. +Good-bye again. So many thanks for a charming +visit." He turned to his host with a smile. "Come +to me directly you come up," he said. "If you want +that baronetcy." +</P> + +<P> +"In the outside lot again," said Holbrook, lugubriously. +"But he's a good sort, he may understand, +my love." +</P> + +<P> +The races played their part. Gore Helmsley, a +splendid rider, won easily, cantering in five lengths +in front, his long figure looking its best on horseback, +his dark face glowed when he rode. Young Knox's +horse fell; the boy came in muddy, shaken, sad in +mind, because it was a jostle with his rival which had +knocked him down. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil gathered some gold gaily. Jimmy had put +a tenner on for her. With a girl's folly she feasted +her eyes on tinsel, turning away from the duller mint +of hall-marked gold. Here the curtains might fall +on a tragedy, fall hurriedly, for the chief actress +would have to smile and call it comedy to her +audience if she was ever to appear again on Society's +stage. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil came laughing to one of the smaller sitting-rooms +that evening, a room warm, softly lighted, +one ordered as one chose at Coombe Regis. She was +having tea then with Gore Helmsley. +</P> + +<P> +"No one will look for us here," he had said as he +rang the bell. "Let's have a quiet half-hour. +Talk to me, little pal, I'm tired." +</P> + +<P> +Over the indifferent tea, poured out of a gilt teapot, +Sybil smiled gaily, held out her day's winnings—twenty +pounds. +</P> + +<P> +"See, I owe you money for bridge, for two nights. +Take it. I hope there's enough to pay. I did play +stupidly." +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie pushed back the pile of gold. "My dear, +you lost eighty pounds. What does it matter—that +can stand over. I paid the Cavendish for you; +she's a cat and would talk." +</P> + +<P> +Sybil cried out, frightened and astonished. Eighty +pounds! and besides that she had played in a lady's +four and lost another ten. Her mother was not rich; +she could not pay easily. +</P> + +<P> +"Keep your pennies," he mocked in lordly tones. +"Some day you'll pay me. I am glad to help a little +pal." Jimmie meant the payment to be a high one, +with interest. He was a merciless human hawk, +poising long, swift to strike at the last. "We played +sixpennies, you see." +</P> + +<P> +"I never dreamt," Sybil faltered; "I thought it +was pennies here." +</P> + +<P> +When you owe a man eighty pounds, when he has +paid rather than have you cornered, it would be +churlish to spring aside, a prude, if he kisses you +softly before you part. If he pulls you to the arm +of his chair and keeps you there, holding two small +chill hands, it is surely all in good friendship. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil went away with some of the careless youth +wiped from her fresh face, with trouble and perplexity +in her frank eyes; the big dark man fascinated her, +knew how to make her feel a little queen, how to +bring the hot blood to her cheeks, but to-night she +was half afraid. His little pal! She'd cured his +headache—been a brick to stay with him. Instead +of playing bridge to-night they'd play piquet in a +quiet corner, he whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"You didn't come to tea." Oliver Knox came +straight to Sybil in the hall, his face ill-humoured. +"I was watching for you." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I was tired," she said, blushing a little. +</P> + +<P> +"And Gore Helmsley did not come—our black +Adonis, Miss Chauntsey—can't you see through the +man?" +</P> + +<P> +A foolish speech uttered by foolishly, honestly +loving youth. Sybil tossed her head angrily and +walked away offended. +</P> + +<P> +"Coming to play to-night?" Mousie Cavendish +asked her. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil's lips drooped. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think so. I've lost such a lot. You +play too high for me." +</P> + +<P> +"Pooh! What matter. Jimmie doesn't mind. +He's full of money now after the race." +</P> + +<P> +"I've lost such a lot," Sybil repeated, forgetting +that she was angry with Oliver Knox, turning to +him in her trouble, missing the meaning in the +woman's words. +</P> + +<P> +"You ought not to play with that crowd. Mrs +Cavendish is the best player in London—the +quickest to read a face, I'll bet. It's madness, +folly." +</P> + +<P> +Another foolish speech. Sybil went off to change. +This drama was being played quickly. The girl was +stirred, flattered; awakened nature made her a lute +too easily played on by a practised hand. She +shrank from decision, from promising to marry a +soldier of slender fortune, and she knew that decision +was near. That night, after dinner, her young lover +followed her, took her, almost against her will, away +from the others to the library, with its rows of richly-bound +volumes, its sombre magnificence. +</P> + +<P> +"Sybil"—the boy's face was white. He was too +moved for eloquence. "Sybil, you know I love you. +I can't stand by and see that other fellow follow you, +as he has followed others. Making you—you remarkable. +Sybil, I'm not rich, but I love you, marry +me—I'll make you happy." +</P> + +<P> +And—she was not sure—for a moment she felt his +arms close round her and dreamt of peace and +sheltered love, then again she was not sure, she said +so faltering. Give her time ... she muttered. +</P> + +<P> +"Sybil, I can't wait. It's life or death to me. +Give the fellow up. Give him back his horse. I'll +hire you one. Go, tell him now. It maddens me +to see you ride the brute." +</P> + +<P> +Give back the horse, and to-morrow she was to +ride the perfect chestnut at the meet. Next day +they were going back to London, they were dining +with Jimmie, motoring with him. "I'll tell you"—Sybil +faltered—"later—I don't know." +</P> + +<P> +An anxious lover is always a fool. He would +have no delay, he must know. It was a choice—a +challenge to fate. If she took him it must be altogether. +She was too young to understand. Sybil +was tortured by indecision. How, owing eighty +pounds, could she go to her friend and say, I will not +ride your horse—I will not dine with you. How +could she hurt him? +</P> + +<P> +"Sybil, I thought you cared," a hoarse voice +roused her. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe I do. Oh, Oliver, give me time." +</P> + +<P> +"No!" he was going away, leaving next morning. +"I cannot share you, Sybil. Oh, friendship. Don't +prate of that to me, but, if you want me, send for +me. If I can ever help, write or wire. I'll go on +loving you as long as I'm alive. As you don't care +enough I can go." +</P> + +<P> +He flung out bruised and hurt. +</P> + +<P> +Was it chance or design which had made Jimmie +Gore Helmsley talk that day of the worries of a +soldier's life. +</P> + +<P> +"Kicked about, never enough money, poky +houses, a rattling two-seater, or a dogcart, a dog's +life for a pretty woman," Jimmie had said lightly. +"Stuck in some wretched country town or in some +big station where the dust reeks of the army. I've +pitied so many girls who have married soldiers. +Think of your beauty now thrown away." And all +the time as young Knox pleaded Sybil had recalled +these words. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé went back to London next day, back to her +little flat. +</P> + +<P> +A bleak wind swept along the streets, dark clouds +raced across the sky. It was dreary, intensely cold, +the flat was poky, its cosiness seemed to have +deserted it, it had become a tawdry box. The +furniture looked shabby, worn, the tenants had been +careless. Esmé stood discontentedly pulling at her +cushions, petulantly moving back china to old +places. Her servants were new, inclined to be +lazy. The cook looked blankly unenthusiastic as +to lunch. +</P> + +<P> +"Couldn't possibly have all that in time to-day, +mem. They'd send round something from Harrod's, +no doubt." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé lunched ill-humouredly off galantine and +tinned peas. She thought of the big houses she had +been in; they must move, take a little house. This +place was out of the way, inconvenient. She ordered +flowers recklessly, telephoned to Denise inviting herself +to dinner. +</P> + +<P> +The butler answered. "Yes, her ladyship would +be dining in, he would ask." There was a long pause, +then an answer. "Her ladyship would be pleased +to see Mrs Carteret at eight." +</P> + +<P> +"She might have spoken herself," said Esmé, +angrily. +</P> + +<P> +The afternoon dragged wearily. Esmé drove to +one of the big shops, ordering new cushions, new +coverings, but languidly; she meant to leave the +flat and took no real interest in it. +</P> + +<P> +She went early to the Blakeneys. Denise was not +dressed. No message came asking her to go to her +friend's room. Esmé had to learn that an obligation +creates constraint, as the person we owe money +to, however generously given, is never a welcome +guest. +</P> + +<P> +But Esmé left the pretty drawing-room. Its +spaciousness made her envious, she stepped past +Denise's room to the upper landings. Here Mrs +Stanson was just coming to her supper. A little +lightly-breathing thing lay asleep in his cot. +</P> + +<P> +"But, nurse, he's pale, isn't he, thin?" Esmé +whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"He caught a cold, Mrs Carteret. Oh, nothing. I +feared croup, but it passed. It's a trying month, you +see, for tiny children." +</P> + +<P> +Lightly, so softly that the baby never stirred, +Esmé stooped to kiss him, stood looking down at +the child which ought to have been sleeping in the +spare room at the flat. +</P> + +<P> +But he would have been a nuisance there, an inconvenience, +she told herself insistently. +</P> + +<P> +Then fear tore at her heart. What if the child +should die. "Be good to him," she whispered, +slipping a sovereign into Mrs Stanson's hand. "Be +good to him, Mrs Stanson." +</P> + +<P> +She got down before Denise did. Felt the want +of warmth in her hostess's greeting. Denise was +splendidly gowned, gay, merry, looking younger, +happier. Sir Cyril's eyes followed his wife, contentment +visible in their look. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Esmé, delighted, of <i>course</i>. When you +are alone always come here. We've only a four +for bridge—Susie and her husband. You can +cut in." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll look on." Esmé felt that she was not wanted, +she was odd man out. She flushed unhappily. +</P> + +<P> +Denise was full of plans, each one including Cyril +now. She talked lightly of that boy Jerry. She +was completely the happy wife, confident in her +position. +</P> + +<P> +"And the boy. He's had a cold," Esmé said. +</P> + +<P> +"A cold has he? I think I heard him sniff?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, he's had a cold," Sir Cyril said. "He was +quite feverish. Denise is not a nursery bird, I +fear." +</P> + +<P> +"And you've been dining off gold plate at the +Holbrooks, Esmé. I wouldn't go. Cyril and I went +for a few last days with the Quorn. Cyril bought +me such a lovely mare, all quality. Ah, here is +Sue." Lady Susan Almorni was not a friend of +Esmé's. Denise seemed to be leaving her smart +friends, to be settling among the duller, greater +people. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie will be home to-morrow. I want to leave +the flat, to come more west. It's poky, horribly +stuffy. If—we could afford to." Esmé crumbled +her toast, looked almost sullenly at Denise. +</P> + +<P> +"But could you? And it's such a dear little flat. +Could you afford it, Esmé dear? You are so comfy +there." +</P> + +<P> +The butler brought in the evening papers. Before +they settled to play bridge Sir Cyril opened +them. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Mrs Carteret," he said, "this is awful +about your cousins surely. The two Carteret boys +have both been killed in a motor accident. It +makes Bertie heir, I suppose, but what a tragedy." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé caught at the paper and read it feverishly. +"To the title," she said. "It's entailed. Hugh +Carteret can leave his money as he chooses—unless +we have children." But she knew what a difference +it must make. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll have to follow my example and have an +heir now," laughed Denise. "To make it all certain. +Eh, Esmé?" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé sat with the paper in her hands and did not +answer. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII +</H3> + +<P> +Spring rioting, chill and bleak, crushing the coming +summer in its impish hands. A day when cold came +creeping under doors, sat even by the fire and would +not be denied. +</P> + +<P> +Looking into her draped glass Esmé was struck +by new lines in her face, by a loss of her dazzling +youth, by a tired look in her eyes. Discontent, +weariness, were writing their names on her skin. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie would be home early. She had been lazy +and not gone to the ship to meet him. He was +coming to breakfast, the fires were smouldering in +the sitting-room, the new housemaid reasonably +desirous of "gaus." Esmé, in her prettiest wrapper, +shivered and grew irritable. She had ordered an +elaborate breakfast, but the new cook was a failure; +the fish was sodden, the bacon half raw, the hot +bread mere heated bakers' scones. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé recalled the breakfasts at Coombe Regis, +at Harlands. She flung out at the maids. Ordered +new dishes angrily. Oh, it was hateful not to have +things right. Her old gaiety had left her. She would +have laughed a year ago and boiled eggs on a spirit +lamp. Bertie at last, running up, catching her in +his arms, holding her close. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé, my dear old butterfly. My sweetheart. +Oh, it's good to be back again here with you. +Breakfast, Es, I'm starving." +</P> + +<P> +So big and boyish and loving. She clung to him +and found discontent even there. She had cheated +her man. There was a secret to be hidden from him +for ever. And where were all the comforts she had +dreamt of with her income? Where were they? +</P> + +<P> +"Breakfast." Esmé rang the bell. +</P> + +<P> +"Cook is grilling the bacon, mem. It will take +ten minutes." So Bertie had to wait, and then eat +cold eggs and burnt bacon, and drink stewed tea. +But he was happy. +</P> + +<P> +"Extravagance," he said. "My silken-winged +butterfly, that's a new gown of fluff and laces." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't expect me to have all last year's, do +you?" Esmé almost snapped, then leant against +him. He held her closely, loving the warm suppleness +of her body, the scent of her burnished hair, +his lips were hot on the satin smoothness of her +skin. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Es sweetheart, you're thinner," he whispered, +"and looking sadly. We'll have a week +away, just you and I, in Paris. You must be +rich now with no house all this winter." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé slipped away from him and fidgeted as she +lighted a cigarette. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Bertie, you've seen about the accident. +You're heir now." +</P> + +<P> +"The place is entailed," he said. "It's worth +nothing. But the old man's money is his own. He +may leave it to me. If we had a boy he might, no +doubt he would." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé flushed scarlet, turning away. The cold day +grew colder. Try as she would, the old happy +intimacy, their careless happy youth, would not come +back. Before, she had told Bertie everything. Now +if he knew, if he knew. +</P> + +<P> +Her husband seemed to have grown older, graver, +to be less boyish. He talked of one or two things +as extravagant. They discussed Aldershot and he +spoke of lodgings. Houses were impossible there. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé grew petulant. Lodgings, she had seen +them. Chops for dinner and cold meat and salad +for lunch. They must find a house. They'd heaps +of money. +</P> + +<P> +They went out to luncheon, telephoned a table +at the Berkeley, ordered their favourite dishes recklessly. +Esmé came down in the Paris coat, open to +show the blue and silver lining. +</P> + +<P> +"Butterfly! What a coat," her husband exclaimed +at its beauty. "Where did you get it?" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé hesitated, told half the truth. +</P> + +<P> +"Denise gave it to me," she said slowly. "You +see I did a lot for her." +</P> + +<P> +Bertie was his old self then, foolishly merry. +They must go up Bond Street and order a limousine +to go with the coat. It couldn't sit in taxis. When +it was off in the restaurant he saw the cunning +beauty of a Paris frock, a black one, the old pendant +of emeralds gleaming against real lace. +</P> + +<P> +It was too cold, too bitter to walk about. They +rang up friends, played bridge. Esmé ordered +dinner at the flat, asked Dolly to come down and +bring a man, then telephoned imperiously to the +new cook. +</P> + +<P> +"Dinner for four, order what you want. It must +be nice, remember. It must be. Get some forced +things, sweets, have salmon. Use your wits." +</P> + +<P> +"It is a dear little hole. I'll be sorry to leave +it," Bertie said, as they came back to the brightly-lighted +little drawing-room. "Why do you want to, +girlie?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's so out of the way," Esmé grumbled. +</P> + +<P> +The new maid put her into a dress of clinging +black. One must mourn for first cousins. +</P> + +<P> +Dolly was full of curiosity. Bertie was heir now. +It was quite a change. "So nice, dear Esmé, to +come to one of your wonderful little dinners again." +</P> + +<P> +The only wonder of this dinner was its expense. +The new cook had gone to Harrod's stores, chosen +everything which cost money. Tinned turtle soup, +plain boiled salmon, tinned and truffled entrée, +tinned chicken, and a bought sweet. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé grew angrier as it went on. Hated the +guests' lack of appetite, their polite declaimers as +she abused her food. +</P> + +<P> +"I begin to hate this place," Esmé stormed to +Dolly. "It's too small, good servants won't come +here. Hardness was a good chance. She's gone to +Denise Blakeney now, she can afford to pay her +what she wanted, I couldn't." +</P> + +<P> +Cards too went against Esmé. She lost and lost +again, made declarations which depended on luck, +and found it desert her. They did not play for high +points, but she made side bets, and it mounted up. +She cut with Bertie, saw his eyebrows raise as she +went a reckless no trumper. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, what had you got?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, a king and ace. I expected something above +a ten from you, Bertie." +</P> + +<P> +The Midshires were coming to Aldershot at once. +Esmé had never been with the regiment. She did +not want to leave London. She coaxed Bertie next +day. Why not wait for another adjutancy, leave +her in the flat, he could come up so often. +</P> + +<P> +But the very weapons she used turned against her, +the caress of her lips, her clinging arms were not +things to leave. No, she must come to Aldershot. +They would find a house and be happy there. +</P> + +<P> +"And the bills, sweetheart?" Bertie Carteret had +always seen to them. "I suppose you paid up all +the old ones so we'll start fresh." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had forgotten her bills. She was irritable +over money, cried out that her husband had learnt +miser's thoughts in South Africa. "You fell in +love with a good housewife there, Bert," she mocked, +"who fried the cold potatoes of overnight for breakfast. +Come, confess.... We've heaps of money +to be foolish on, don't bother." +</P> + +<P> +"There was never a penny left over," he said. +"If we were sick, or if, well, anything happened we +had no margin." Esmé frowned sullenly. +</P> + +<P> +Two hours later she was rung up at her club. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé, I've seen Uncle Hugh, he wired for me. +He is going to live in London, and he wants to make +arrangements. Meet me at once. Where? Oh, +the Carlton will do." +</P> + +<P> +Erratically dreaming of riches Esmé left a game of +bridge and flew off to the big restaurant. It was +crowded for tea-time, people gathering at the little +tables. The cold air called for furs. Their rich +softness was everywhere, and among them all Esmé +felt her coat attracted admiring eyes. Over her +black dress, the blue lining brilliant over the dark, +with her hair massed against a dead black hat, Esmé +was remarkable. +</P> + +<P> +"An actress?" she heard a woman ask. What +Esmé would call a stodgy woman, expensively dressed, +a country cousin with a London friend. +</P> + +<P> +"No, a Mrs Carteret, remarkable-looking, isn't +she?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Bertie. <i>What</i> is it?" Esmé could scarcely +wait as her husband ordered tea. "What has Uncle +Hugh done?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, nothing. It is all for your approval, but +Uncle Hugh is lonely. He wants his nephew to live +near him. There is a great deal of business to see to. +The Seaford estate and the Devonshire place, he +farmed both. Uncle Hugh found the journeying +trying." Briefly, he offered to pay Bertie the same +pay as he had drawn from the Army, together +with travelling expenses, if he would stay in London +and go down to these places when necessary. No +more. +</P> + +<P> +"He hasn't promised to leave you the money +then?" Esmé asked. "Oh, it suits me splendidly, +I hated leaving town." +</P> + +<P> +"No." Bertie Carteret shook his head. "He +has promised me nothing, merely that I shall not +lose through leaving the Army, nothing more." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé grew angry then, abused the rich old man, +forgot his trouble in her annoyance. +</P> + +<P> +"He has so much. Why should we starve now +when we are young?" she flashed. +</P> + +<P> +"We have never quite starved, Es." Bertie +Carteret laughed, then looked grave. "I thought +we were so comfortable, so happy." +</P> + +<P> +"One seems to want more and more as one lives +in town." Esmé looked sullen. She too had +thought the same, less than a year ago. Been so +sure of it that she hated the thought of the third +being who would have disturbed their peace. And +now with so much more money she seemed poorer. +</P> + +<P> +"That is a wonderful coat." Bertie looked +admiringly at his wife. "You're wonderful altogether, +Esmé, this time. With the stamp of Paris +on your frocks. But of course Denise gave you +heaps of things. You did a lot for her." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé began to plan, to grow brighter. "We +must take a little house, Bertie, get away from that +box, nearer our friends." +</P> + +<P> +"But we shall be no better off," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you must get money out of the old man. +We'll save the rent on taxis. Who is it, Bertie?" +</P> + +<P> +For Bertie had jumped up and was shaking hands +with a slim girl of about twenty. Brown-haired, +grey-eyed, pretty in a quiet way. +</P> + +<P> +"It's Miss Reynolds," he said. "Miss Reynolds, +Esmé. Mrs Reynolds was so kind to me at Pretoria +when I was ill." +</P> + +<P> +"Ill!" Esmé held out a jewelled hand. "I +thought it was only repentance and indigestion." +</P> + +<P> +"It was fever." Estelle Reynolds's voice was slow +and musical, restful as her gentle face. "Captain +Carteret was very ill, and my uncle tried to cure +him." +</P> + +<P> +"No idea," said Esmé. "I'd no idea. But so +good of you.... Bertie, you should have told me." +She was honestly fond of her husband. +</P> + +<P> +"He did not want to worry you," said Estelle +Reynolds. +</P> + +<P> +Carteret was impressively glad to see Estelle. +He talked eagerly of a dinner, a theatre. +</P> + +<P> +His eagerness vexed his wife. She got up, +dazzlingly handsome in her furs, the emeralds +gleaming on her black gown. +</P> + +<P> +"So sorry, Bertie, but this week is quite full, +every day. Come to luncheon on Sunday, Miss +Reynolds. I'll have some people to meet you." +</P> + +<P> +Estelle laughed pleasantly. "My Sunday will +be a country cousin's," she said. "Church, a very +short luncheon, and the Albert Hall. You see, I've +never been to London before." The girl looked a +little hurt, a little snubbed. +</P> + +<P> +"And I said I'd show it to you." Carteret let his +wife walk on. "I'm not engaged. Let me take you +and your aunt to Daly's to-night and on to the Savoy." +</P> + +<P> +"Comic opera." Estelle shook her brown head. +"If it might be the Shakespearian piece at His +Majesty's. I should love to come." +</P> + +<P> +It did not seem to suggest itself to Estelle to ask +if Bertie Carteret's wife might wish to include him +in her engagements. Esmé was one of those women +who seem to stand alone. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well then. I'll get seats at once," he said. +</P> + +<P> +Making his way past little tables to the passage +down the centre of the restaurant, Bertie stood for +a moment looking from one woman to another. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle Reynolds had gone back to her tea. She +was not remarkable in any way, merely a rather +dowdy girl sitting alone at a little table. Esmé had +stopped to speak to friends near the door. She was +brilliantly handsome, flashing out gay smiles, the +mirthless smile of society, and splendidly dressed. +As it grew thinner her face gave promise of hardness; +she had replaced her lost colour very cunningly with +some rose bloom. Carteret followed her slowly. +He loved his wife, her touch, a look from her blue +eyes always had power to move him, but he realized +suddenly that she was too brilliant, too well-dressed +for a foot-soldier's wife. +</P> + +<P> +She was talking to Luke Holbrook, smiling at him, +but the smile had lost its girlish charm; the kindly +man who had been willing to help a young couple not +well off had no idea of losing money to this brilliant +woman. +</P> + +<P> +Holbrook was always simply open as to his trade. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't forget your bundle of wines, fairest lady, +they went on to-day." Mr Holbrook started and +put up his glasses. "My love," he said, turning +to his wife, "I see Lord Boredom taking tea with +Miss Moover, and Mr Critennery is over there alone. +My love, I fear I did not advance our interests by +that most unfortunate invitation." +</P> + +<P> +"The Duchess," said Mrs Holbrook, "will have +a stroke. No one ever broke Miss Mavis Moover's +occupation to her Grace." +</P> + +<P> +"Ready, Esmé? You want a taxi back. Very +well." Carteret went to the door. Before he had +gone away Esmé had been quite content to take the +motor 'bus which set them nearly at their door, or +to go by tube. He sighed a little as he feed the +gigantic person who hailed the cab for him. +</P> + +<P> +"They've either come into some money, my love, +or it is the Italian Prince whom Dollie Cavendish +hints at," said Luke Holbrook, thoughtfully. +</P> + +<P> +"What a dowdy little friend," yawned Esmé as +they sped down Piccadilly. "What clothes, Bertie. +I could only ask her to a frumpy luncheon." +</P> + +<P> +"They were very good to me out there," he said +quickly. "And ... I did not notice Miss Reynolds's +dowdiness." +</P> + +<P> +"No, one wouldn't. She is the kind of thing who +goes with dowdiness. All flat hair and plaintive +eyes." Esmé laughed. "Is she the good housekeeper +who made you careful, Bertie? Eh?" +</P> + +<P> +He looked out without answering. Something +was coming between him and his wife. A rift, +opening slowly in the groundwork of their love +and happiness. She had changed. +</P> + +<P> +Carteret's papers went in. They settled in London. +Esmé looked for a house, fretting because she could +not find one they could afford. Esmé often fretted +as cold March was pushed away by April. She was +restless, never quiet, unable to spend an hour at +home by herself. Everything seemed to cost more +than it had. People gave up the little kindnesses +which she had counted. She was not paid for at +theatres, nor sent flowers and fruit. +</P> + +<P> +"The Carterets must have come into money," +people said carelessly. "Esmé's simply gorgeously +clothed, and they're looking for a house. Of course +he's heir to old Hugh's place now." +</P> + +<P> +More than once Bertie included Estelle Reynolds +in their parties. She came, enjoying everything +almost childishly; never tired of looking at the +London streets with their roaring traffic. Hanging +on every word at theatres, openly delighted with the +dishes at smart restaurants. +</P> + +<P> +"Everyone is so rich here," said Estelle in wonder. +"They pay and pay and pay all round us." +</P> + +<P> +They were lunching at Jules, and Esmé had carelessly +ordered one or two things out of season. +Estelle had watched the gold coins put on the folded +bill. +</P> + +<P> +"You would not be so extravagant, I imagine," +Esmé laughed. She neither liked nor disliked the +quiet girl, even found her useful now to do forgotten +errands at the shops, to write her letters for her +while Esmé lounged back smoking, to go off in the +rain for a book which must be read immediately. +For, wanting anything, Esmé could never wait. +She snapped at her share of life, to fling it away +barely tasted. Estelle came oftener and oftener to +the flat. Settled flowers, put out sweets for dinner, +had the bridge tables ready, and then went away. +She was always useful, always willing to help. +</P> + +<P> +"Extravagant!" Estelle answered. "No, I'd +lunch at home." +</P> + +<P> +"Off chops and fried potatoes," said Esmé, taking +asparagus. +</P> + +<P> +"If you go to the Club mankind invariably lunches +off chops and steak," broke in Bertie. "Women +are the lovers of fluffy dishes; they please 'em, I suppose, +as new dresses do, because poor people can't +have them." +</P> + +<P> +"Estelle would lunch at home," laughed Esmé, +"and go in a 'bus to see the shops in Regent Street, +or perhaps to the National Gallery or the White City, +and come home to make a new savoury which she +had seen in <i>Home Instructions</i>, and do her accounts +after dinner. Eh, little home bird?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Estelle, simply. "Only I wouldn't +live in London at all. I would make the country +my stable meal, my chops and fried potatoes, and +London my occasional savoury <i>bonne bouche</i>. I +should choke in a town." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé laughed. "How absurd," she flashed out. +"Now, be good children. I go to sell pieces of cloth +at completely ruinous prices to aid something in +distress. I know not what." +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I take you home, Estelle?" Carteret +stood looking out into the sunshine. "Lord, what +I'd give to live in the country. To see green fields +all round and have a horse or two in the winter, and +laze over a big log fire when the day was done. But +somehow, here, there is never an hour to laze in." +</P> + +<P> +Hugh Carteret, grief stricken, had so far not seen +his nephew's wife. Bertie was doing his work, +going down occasionally to see the big places and +look over the accounts with the stewards. +</P> + +<P> +About a month after he had come back from South +Africa, Esmé's first reckoning for extravagance was +upon her. Unpaid accounts littered the table. +Harrod's deposit was overdrawn. She sat frowning +and petulant, as Bertie jotted down totals. +</P> + +<P> +"We can't do it, Esmé; there are all the old bills +left unpaid. We managed so well before." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé smoked furiously, flung the thin papers +about. People were robbers, her cook a fool. +</P> + +<P> +"But we are not often in. You weren't even at +home. It's beyond one, Butterfly; debt won't do. +And then your frocks and frills." +</P> + +<P> +"I can pay for those," Esmé was going to say, +then stopped. How much of her five hundred, her +scant allowance, had she anticipated. Then there +would be a visit to Scotland, and she wanted to hunt. +She could not spare much of it; fifty of it must go +to the French dressmaker, another fifty to a jeweller. +"Oh, it's sickening," she flung out in sudden petulant +anger. "Sickening. Poverty is too hateful." +</P> + +<P> +Bertie had to listen to an outburst of grumbling, of +fretful wrath, because their income was not double its +size. To be pinched, cramped when one was young, +to be worried by bills, bothered by meannesses. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie Carteret's face grew pale. He stood up, +gathering the bills. "I had no idea that you were +unhappy, Es," he said slowly. "We used to manage +so well before I left. It was all sunshine then. I +have some money I can dig out; we'll pay the bills +and start again. Give me all yours to see." +</P> + +<P> +Indulgence made Esmé penitent, almost grateful. +That was right. Now Bertie was a dear, a sweet +old boy. And they'd have a lovely summer, just +as last year's had been. +</P> + +<P> +She came over and sat on Bertie's knee, her face +pressed against his, the perfume of her golden hair +in his nostrils. +</P> + +<P> +But with her soft arm about his neck, her supple +body in his arms, Bertie Carteret did not hold her +closer; she missed his quick sigh at her contact, the +hotness of his kisses on her neck. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie, dear old Bert." +</P> + +<P> +But as she moved her face a little he could see +between him and the light the skilfully-applied red +on her cheeks, the coating of powder round it. It +was not love for him which brought her to him, but +selfish relief at being released from worry. "Poor +Butterfly," he said, kissing her gently. "It shall +flutter through its summer. But spent capital +means less income, Esmé, remember that." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, here's the wine account." He sighed again, +looking at it. Esmé ran her finger down the items, +there were no wholesale prices now. The hock was +at its full value, the bill a heavy one. Jumping up, +she railed at Luke Holbrook, called him traitor and +mean and treacherous. Swore that if she could +help it he would not get his peerage. +</P> + +<P> +"The lilies and carnations, madam," said the tall +maid, coming in with a bundle of flowers. +</P> + +<P> +"Leave them there, Miss Reynolds will settle +them for me, she is coming to lunch. And your +Uncle Hugh, Bertie, I had forgotten." +</P> + +<P> +"You'll have to take to cheaper flowers," said +Carteret; "after all, they wither just as soon." +</P> + +<P> +"I <i>cannot</i> skimp over flowers, Bert, I cannot." +Esmé went off to dress. +</P> + +<P> +"What could she skimp over?" Bertie wondered. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle Reynolds came in quietly, smiled good +morning, began quite naturally to get the vases +ready. "How glorious they are," she said, as she +put the long-stemmed forced carnations into slender +silver vases. "They must cost a fortune now." +</P> + +<P> +"They do." Bertie was writing to his broker. +"They do, Estelle. Everything costs a fortune here +just now. But we must come to the humble sweet +peas next week, or something of its class. What +a housekeeper you would make, Estelle." +</P> + +<P> +"Would I?" She hid the pain in her soft grey +eyes, turned suddenly away. One of the foolish +women whose joy lies in sacrifice, who find stupid +satisfaction in balanced accounts, in saving for the +man who works for them, who in some mysterious +way stretches the weekly allowance when the children +come, and finds only happiness in the giving +up to do it. A homely little brown thrush, looking, +wondering at a world of gay-plumaged songless birds. +</P> + +<P> +"I." Estelle's eyes were under her control again. +She smiled bravely. "I am one of the dowdy people +who like to mess in the kitchen and dust, value a +pleasure for what it costs ... it's childish." +</P> + +<P> +"The fault of the world's inhabitants is that they +are stamping out childishness," he said slowly. +"They have forgotten to take joy in blue skies and +green fields because it costs them nothing to look at +them; they are forgetting how to enjoy themselves +except in herds. If we have Irish stew at a shooting +lunch it must be spoilt by half a dozen expensive +flavourings lest my Lady Sue or Madame Sally +should say we are so poor that we can only afford +mutton and potatoes and onions. Even the children +must have tea at Charbonel's and sweets from +Buzzard or Fuller, though possibly a packet of butterscotch +or home-made toffee would be much more +to their taste...." +</P> + +<P> +Estelle laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"I took the Handelle children out last week," she +said. "Their mother asked me to—you remember +you took me once there to sing and she's been kind +to me—and we went on the top of a 'bus, and had +tea at Lyon's, bought flowers at Piccadilly Circus, and +oh, they did enjoy themselves, but Lady Eva was +quite shocked." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Estelle, thank you." Esmé came back, +radiant in clinging black, the emeralds shining at +her bare throat, a big hat framing her face. +</P> + +<P> +Hugh Carteret came just then. An old man, deep +lines of sorrow drawn on his face, shrinking visibly +from any allusion to his loss, suffering from the +grief which finds no relief in words. He was cold +before Esmé's gush of greeting, looked at her critically +and made scant response to her smiles. +</P> + +<P> +"It was so good of him to come, they were hidden +away down here. And oh, they did want to change +and get a house farther west." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not then?" Hugh Carteret asked. +</P> + +<P> +"The dreadful rents," Esmé answered. "We +can't afford it. And we <i>do</i> want to move. The flat +is so stuffy, so small." +</P> + +<P> +"It seems big enough for two," Colonel Carteret +answered, looking hard at Esmé. "Of course, if you +had children I could understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, we couldn't afford children," she said, flinging +a wistful note in her voice. And one not altogether +feigned, for as she spoke she remembered the +boy who was growing strong in the nursery at +Grosvenor Square. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs Gresham," announced the maid. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd no idea it was a party." Colonel Carteret +looked at his black clothes and spoke reproachfully. +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't. Dollie Gresham was not asked, +uncle." +</P> + +<P> +Dollie made it plain in a minute. She knew Esmé +was at home; she'd asked the maid and she came +along. +</P> + +<P> +"It's about a bazaar, Esmé. I want someone to +help me to get one up for that new little hospital. +Denise Blakeney would help Susie Handelle. We'd +run it, you and I." +</P> + +<P> +Through an elaborate, expensive lunch old Colonel +Carteret was almost silent. The <i>vol au vent</i> of +truffled chicken had given way for forced fruit before +Estelle got him to talk to her. He thawed before +her gentle voice, a shy, troubled old man, numbed +still by his loss. His boys had been his all. He could +not realize that they had left him. He had saved, +planned, improved for Cyril and George; now +mechanically, because the places were there, he carried +it on. He had seen very little of Esmé; until his +boys' deaths he had been wrapped up in them, never +mixing in Society. Now he looked at the expensive +flowers in Venetian glasses; he tasted elaborate +made dishes, forced fruits, ices, and once or twice he +shook his head as if at some inward thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +Dollie Gresham chattered of her bazaar. It was +just the time for one, they would start it at once. +Restlessly energetic, she went to the telephone after +luncheon, rang up Denise Blakeney. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Denise will help sell. Only think, Esmé"—this +after a long pause—"Sir Cyril's given her +another car, and that diamond pendant of old Lady +Gilby's, you know, the one he was selling. Since +that boy came"—Dollie hung up the receiver—"Denise +gets all she wants, and a great deal more. +She is simply, tiresomely happy, adores dear Cyril, +and has a convenient memory for the past. <i>Tiens</i>, +such is life." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's face was set, sullen, as she listened. Denise +had everything. Denise was not generous; there +were so many things which she could have given, +yet the very tie between the two women seemed +to destroy their old friendship. +</P> + +<P> +In the flower-decked, richly-furnished little drawing-room +old Hugh Carteret talked to Estelle. He +looked bewildered, puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie told me they were not rich," he said. +"Yet the place seems to me to be almost too +luxurious, that they lack nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"I think"—Estelle fidgeted a little, her grey +eyes distressed—"that Esmé is very young, that she +perhaps grasps at things, so to speak, perhaps spends +a little more than she ought to." +</P> + +<P> +"I am a judge of wines." Hugh Carteret nodded. +"The hock was one of the best, the old brandy cost +fourteen or fifteen shillings a bottle, the port was +vintage. I tasted them all." He shook his head again. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, coming in, sat by him, tried every trick she +knew of winning glance and smile. But her childish +charm had left her; she could only hark back to +her poverty, to her want of money, and each half-veiled +appeal left the old man silent. +</P> + +<P> +"You present-day women want too much," he +said quietly. "You won't be content. You live +too much for yourselves; if you had children now"—he +stopped, his voice breaking. "I tell you what," +he said, "if you are really hard up you can have +Cliff End rent free. It's lovely there, close to the +sea, and the staghounds to hunt with." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé knew where it was, an old house croaking +on the cliffs of Devon, near a country town, a place +without society, without amusements. She shivered. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be too big for us," she said, trying to +speak gratefully. "Far too large to keep up; but +thank you greatly, dear uncle." +</P> + +<P> +"And too far from shopland," he said in his shy, +shrewd way. "Yes, well, my dear, it was a mere +idea." +</P> + +<P> +"He'll do nothing for us, old miser," Esmé flung +out in anger almost before the old man had left. +"He is hateful, Bertie, your old uncle." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps, looking round him, he does not think +there is much to be done," said Bertie, drily. "I +am very fond of old Uncle Hugh." +</P> + +<P> +They drove up to Grosvenor Gate, strolled into the +Park—the April day had tempted people out there; +the beds were a glory of wall-flowers and spring +bulbs. A green limousine, purring silently, pulled +up close to them. Esmé turned swiftly; it held +Lady Blakeney and the nurse, who carried an elaborately-dressed +bundle of babyhood. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait here." Denise, jumping out lightly, ran +across to speak to friends. She was radiant, brilliant +in her happiness, a woman without sufficient brain +to feel remorse. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Mrs Stanson, let me see him." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé went to the side of the car; she had not +dared lately to go up to the nursery at Grosvenor +Square. Denise had forbidden it. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Stanson got down, holding the rosy, healthy +boy; he chuckled, his blue eyes blinking, a picture +of contented, soft-fleshed, mindless life. His mittened +fingers closed round Esmé's as she looked into +his face. Hers this healthy atom—hers, and Denise +was rich, happy, contented because of him, while +she, his mother, wanted everything. +</P> + +<P> +"What a lovely mite." Bertie Carteret bent over +the smiling baby. "He's got eyes of your colour, +Esmé, true forget-me-nots." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. You do mind him well, nurse. Her +ladyship—" +</P> + +<P> +"It was great coaxing to get her ladyship to bring +him out to-day," the woman said carelessly. "She's +not like you, Mrs Carteret; she doesn't like these +small things." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, Esmé"—Denise came back—"looking +at the Baa. He's a fine specimen, isn't he? Cyril +gives him this car for himself, and a new one to me. +Come and see me soon, won't you? Lancaster Gate, +Hillyard—Lady Mary Graves's house. Bundle in +that infant, Mrs Stanson, and if he cries I get out." +</P> + +<P> +The car glided on. Esmé watched it going, with a +sullen anger at her heart; she had to clench her +hands to keep quiet. Did Denise never think? +Had she no gratitude—no conscience—no regret +for her successful fraud? None, it would seem. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé, you look quite white." Dollie Gresham's +spiteful little giggle rang out close by. "Are you +coming on to play bridge with me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not to-day, Dollie. I've a shocking headache. +I'll go home and rest." +</P> + +<P> +"It must be bad," said Dollie, "to take you to +your fireside. Was the sight of that wonderful son +and heir too much for you?—that Bayard among +babies? <i>Sans peur et sans reproche.</i>" +</P> + +<P> +"You do look seedy, child." Bertie took Esmé +to the gate and drove her back. +</P> + +<P> +She lighted the gas stove—the flat teemed in +labour-saving annoyances—and sat by it, the heat +making the perfume of the flowers almost overpowering. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie got her hot tea, sat with her, some of +the old loving comradeship springing up between +them. +</P> + +<P> +"That little chap made me envious, Es," he said, +after a long silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie—surely you wouldn't like a child?" +Esmé's voice rang shrilly. "Surely you wouldn't. +Coming to disturb us, crippling us!" +</P> + +<P> +"People manage," he said slowly. "They +manage. We could have gone out of London, lived +more quietly. Every man wants his son, Butterfly; +they are selfish people, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"You'd like one?" The shrillness died out of +Esmé's voice, it grew strained. +</P> + +<P> +"And after all better spend money on a little chap +than waste it on Holbrook's wines and old brandies," +he said. "Yes, it's the one thing I've wanted, Es—just +to make our lives perfect. Monsieur, Madame, +et Bebe; marriage is never quite right until the third +comes to show a selfish pair what their fathers and +mothers gave up for them." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought two people were so much happier +alone." Esmé stared into the glowing, companionless +fire, with no crackle of coal or hiss of wood, but +the modern maid objects to blacking grates. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, sweetheart, some day you'll know better," +he said, "perhaps." The maid brought in the +evening paper, laying it on the table. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé!" Bertie Carteret jumped up. "Young +De Vinci is dead—dead of pneumonia." +</P> + +<P> +Death of the Earl of De Vinci on the eve of his +marriage. Then Esmé caught the paper. "Is +Uncle Hugh next heir—didn't you tell me so?" +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle Hugh is Lord De Vinci, and if he does +not marry again, a remote contingency, I'm the next +heir. A son, Esmé, is a necessity now." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé put the paper down. Her son, heir to a title, +was at Sir Cyril Blakeney's house and she could not +claim him. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie"—she walked restlessly about the room—"I +heard such a strange story the other day, a woman +who did something hideously dreadful and—was +afraid to tell." +</P> + +<P> +"Deceit is the one thing I could never forgive," +said Carteret, firmly. "I'd put a woman away, +even if it broke my heart, if I found out that she had +done anything mean or had deceived me." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé grew white, for hers was a plot which no +man could forgive. She had sold her son for a paltry +allowance, for the right to amuse herself in peace. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if old Uncle Hugh will do anything for +us now," she said in a strained, bitter voice. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII +</H3> + +<P> +"This bazaar," said Dollie Gresham, cheerily, "is +humming. I have not been asked about as much as +I should like to be lately; people forget poor little +nobodies. The Duchess is giving her patronage, +<i>entre nous</i>. Mavis Moover will dance for me—joy +for her Grace of Boredom! Oh, I've got heaps and +heaps of people! We are secretaries, and cashiers, +and so forth, and we shall all wear flower dresses. +Our stall shall be forget-me-nots. The Duchess +chose tulips; she said she had a black silk gown +and she knew there was a tulip of that colour. +We shall be audaciously beautiful in sky blue, +rather short." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had rushed into this new scheme. +</P> + +<P> +"It won't cost much, will it?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Secretaries, workers, <i>chérie</i>," prattled Dollie, +"have all expenses paid. All frocks, frills, etc.; +they give their valuable time. Come with me to +Claire's. She is at least original." +</P> + +<P> +Dollie's maid brought in two cards. Mrs Gresham +frowned over them. +</P> + +<P> +"The tiresome secretary of the hospital," she said, +"and Canon Bright, one of the founders. Look +charitable, Esmé." +</P> + +<P> +Next moment, all smiles, she greeted a kindly-looking, +middle-aged man and a grey-haired +clergyman; a stern-faced, clear-eyed man, who +made this hospital for little suffering children his +hobby. +</P> + +<P> +They overwhelmed Dollie with thanks. +</P> + +<P> +"This debt"—Canon Bright took out some notes +of figures—"was weighing us down. Now, with your +help, it will be paid off, and we shall have something +besides to go on with, to buy sorely-needed appliances." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, of course," said Dollie, vaguely. +</P> + +<P> +"We were looking for some kind lady or society +to take it up; fortunately you met Mr Lucy at +luncheon." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; that put it into my head," said Dollie, +brightly. "Bazaars are so paying; this is my friend +and sister secretary, Mrs Carteret. I've got every +big name in London, Canon, or half of them. Oh, +it will be a great success. We've taken the hall. +We're all going to be summer flowers. 'The Summer +Flower Bazaar,' such a good name, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +Mr Lucy nursed his hat. "You won't let the +expenses mount, Mrs Gresham," he said, "will you? +Once they begin to swell our cripples would lose. +You'll let me help you with the accounts. It's my +<i>métier</i>, you see, and I could help you." +</P> + +<P> +Dollie chilled visibly. She preferred to do it all +herself, she said. "We really want to <i>work</i>," she +went on, smiling again. "After all, it's quite simple. +We have all our cheques paid in and we pay the exes +and hand you the balance. We'll work it up like +anything. You get all your people to come, Canon—all +your charitable friends. The dear little cripples," +cooed Dolly—"so nice to help them." +</P> + +<P> +"Tiresome, muddling pair," she snapped when the +two men had left. "Come to Claire's, Esmé. I +owe her two hundred, but these flower dresses will +cool her rage, and she'll know we'll pay for this lot +all right." +</P> + +<P> +Claire received them dubiously, then thawed to +the order for the bazaar. If Mrs Gresham could +get her the carnation order also, Lady Louisa's stall, +and the roses. Forget-me-nots, by the way, were +spring flowers. +</P> + +<P> +Oh, it didn't matter. Clouds of gauze, blue satin, +wreaths of flowers stiffened with turquoises, shoes, +stockings. Dollie ordered lavishly. +</P> + +<P> +"That Estelle girl shall help," Esmé said. "She +is the kind of person who'll open boxes and get dusty +and save us trouble. By the way, what shall we +sell? Not tea. One has to run about. Sweets, +I should think, and buttonholes." +</P> + +<P> +"We are not distinguished enough for buttonholes," +said Dollie, decidedly. "When Adolfus or +Gargie buys a white pink for five shillings he likes +to tell mamma and his lady friend that the Countess +of 'Ighlife pinned it in with her own fingers, Vilet, +her very own. Dolfus does not seem to realize that +the use of other people's would be confusing. No, +let it be sweets. Chocolates will show off our blue +frocks." +</P> + +<P> +Bertie Carteret found himself left more and more +alone. Esmé was always feverishly busy, always +just going on somewhere, chasing pleasure, growing +thinner in the pursuit, using just a little more rose +bloom, a little extra powder to hide jaded lines and +fading colour. +</P> + +<P> +At the end of May Bertie paid his household bills +again and knew that they were far too large. No +extravagance seemed to have been curtailed; if they +had not lunched or dined so often at home, he had +paid for a score of meals at fashionable restaurants. +Esmé's careless demands for a few pounds for cabs +were endless. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't do it," he muttered, writing his cheques. +"I can't get on." +</P> + +<P> +A plea to Esmé would only make her sullen, irritable, +railing at her poverty, muttering against poor +marriages. +</P> + +<P> +"I—oh, you are alone. I've brought the book +which Esmé asked me for." Estelle Reynolds came +on Bertie as he sighed over his bills. "And the +pearls she left to be mended." +</P> + +<P> +She put down a new novel on the table, one barred +by libraries. Esmé would look at it, probably forget +to finish it, unless she thought she found any of her +friends were pilloried between the flaring green +covers. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle put down a receipt with the pearls, one for +two pounds. Bertie looked at the amount. +</P> + +<P> +"Has Esmé paid you?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, it does not matter—any time." Estelle +blushed. "I can ask her." +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder"—he turned—"how much she has +let you pay, this careless wife of mine. For the +future, Estelle, bring anything to me." +</P> + +<P> +"You seem to have enough to pay for." Estelle +pointed to a pile of books and cheques. +</P> + +<P> +"Too much! More than I can manage. Estelle, +is nothing of value unless it costs money? Must one +always lunch and dine and sup with people whose +daily income equals our half-yearly one? Can a +woman ever look well in a frock which costs less than +twenty pounds? Oh, one must go to so-and-so—everyone +does. Is there nothing simple left in life?" +said Bertie, drearily. "No pleasure in a corner of the +country where a man could pay his way honestly, +and eat strawberries in June and peaches in +August?" +</P> + +<P> +"Is it as bad as that?" Estelle came to the table, +glanced at some of the books. +</P> + +<P> +She was a slight girl, with nothing but her grey +eyes redeeming her from mediocrity. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie Carteret sat opposite a full-length portrait +of his wife. It was tinted, showing her dazzling +colouring, her rounded figure. It stared at him with +Esmé's careless, joyous smile. Never yet, when he +had touched her, had the softness of her ivory neck, +the warmth of her white skin, failed to wake passion +in him, make him wax to the heat of love, melting +and desiring. So she had won his heart when he +met her in the country, the beauty of a small military +station, a doctor's daughter, well born, but dowerless, +bringing beauty alone as her marriage portion. Her +beauty, her joyous love of life, had won her a niche +in London Society. Friends had given her introductions, +and Esmé had grown into the life as a graft +grows to the parent stem. +</P> + +<P> +What poet has written that each woman is a flower +with its characteristics, its scent, or beauty? +</P> + +<P> +Was not this wife of his a gorgeous sunflower, +turning her head to the light and warmth of amusement, +standing out among her fellows, dazzling as +she caught the light, a thing to look at and admire, +but not to bend one's face over drinking in a rare +sweet perfume. +</P> + +<P> +Now that he sat thinking he knew there had been +none of the intimacy of married lovers; no scheming +for their dual interests, no planning of some little +trip to be taken together, none of the talks which +wed man and woman more surely than the service +ordained by law. Nothing but love and laughter. +Together, with the world shut out, Bertie must not +talk of ordinary things, but of Esmé. She would +lean against him, exquisite, perfect, silken draperies +merely veiling her long, rounded limbs, and he +must talk of her alone. Tell her again and again +how beautiful she was; find new perfection in her +golden hair, her bright cheeks, the curves of her +beauty. +</P> + +<P> +Then in the mornings, when there was an hour +before they need get up, when Esmé had put on a +lace cap and got into some soft-hued wrapper, she +would chatter gaily, but never of their future, of the +home which Bertie, man-like, dreamt of; but of the +day's doings, of luncheon and tea and dinner and +theatre, of flying from place to place, from friend to +friend. +</P> + +<P> +"The Holbrooks are sending their small car for +me to do my shopping in; aren't they kind, Bert? +Lady Sue sent us a big basket of fruit yesterday for +my little dinner. We've such heaps to do, Bertie, +to-day—such heaps!" +</P> + +<P> +She would stretch her warm limbs in the luxurious +joy of being alive, the joy of youth and strength and +happiness. +</P> + +<P> +There were no kisses in the morning. Marie had +already laved Madame's face in scented water, and +rubbed in Madame's face cream to prepare her skin +for its light dust of powder. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes, half shyly, Bertie would try to talk of +the future, say they could not always live in the +army. +</P> + +<P> +"There are such dear little places to be found, +Es"—he used to study advertisements—"just big +enough. We could keep a horse or two, a garden—be +so happy!" +</P> + +<P> +"And become cabbages ourselves. Play bridge +with the parson and his wife, and go to summer +tennis-parties with two men and forty maids. +London, my Bertie, it's the only place for poor +people. The country is all very well if you need +never stay there, but to grow rooted to garden soil! +Boo! I'll get you on! You shall be a General and +inspect armies." +</P> + +<P> +Bertie gave up his dream of a little house in the +country; he got used to the careless, ever-moving +life. And now he sickened of it. +</P> + +<P> +If women were flowers, this woman standing near +him was a violet, a simple thing, only beautiful +to those who love sweetness better than flaring +beauty. +</P> + +<P> +"You're worried," she said. "Where is Esmé?" +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé is out for the day," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you've often promised me an outing. +Come and be a cheap tripper with me; let it be +my treat. I got a cheque from mother yesterday. +I'm rich. Let's pretend we're very poor, and enjoy +ourselves. You mustn't sit there brooding." +</P> + +<P> +Bertie put away the books, laughed up at the +gentle face. He would, but he must pay half. +</P> + +<P> +The May day was theirs; they would enjoy it as +two children. +</P> + +<P> +They would take a 'bus, lunch, go to the White +City, see how economy can be practised. +</P> + +<P> +They lunched at a little restaurant in Germain +Street, studying the menu with puckered brows, +taking omelette and a grill which they could share, +and biscuits and cheese, and light white wine. +</P> + +<P> +The amount of a bill which would not have +covered tips at the Berkeley or the Ritz was gaily +paid. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie saw a new side to Estelle's character; the +childish power of enjoyment. Take a taxi? No! +Taxis were for the rich. They sat on the top of a +motor 'bus, going down roaring Piccadilly. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, coming to the door of the Berkeley, happened +to look up at the packed mass of humanity +seated on the monster's head. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie!" she flashed out, mockingly, "and the +South African girl. Bertie happily saving his +pennies and seeing London. Oh! how funny." +</P> + +<P> +She forgot that a year ago she had often gone in a +'bus with him. +</P> + +<P> +There were only taxis in the world for her now, or +motors. The little electric carriages were so cheap +to hire. Esmé's bill at the nearest garage was running +up rapidly. "It was such a 'bore' to look for +a taxi in the evenings; this was ready and took one +on to supper or ball, and back again, and cost very +little more," she would say. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie had not seen his wife. He sat enjoying the +sunshine, looking down at the packed streets, as the +'bus slipped through the traffic—past Grosvenor +Gate, on to the London which is not London to +Society, but merely "down in Kensington," into the +vast grounds of the Exhibition, to play as children +might have played. To rock on switchbacks, taking +the front seat for the heart-sinking glides and dips; +to come foolishly down watershutes; to slide on +mats round perilous curves; to go and laugh at +themselves in ridiculous mirrors. And then with an +aftermath of seriousness to look at the quaint buildings +of Shakespeare's time, and talk of the dead +master of the drama. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle had read every play; she could quote aptly, +talk of those which she had seen. +</P> + +<P> +"He had one fault," she said. "His good women +were mawkish fools; his villainesses splendidly +lovable. It was the spirit of the age, no doubt, that +to be good one must be a mere loving nonentity, that +brains led the feminine world to destruction." +</P> + +<P> +If the world would but hang out warnings to the +blind mortals who scurry through its maze, seeking +for openings, or shouting, laughing, as they go; if +we knew that an hour hence our life's history would +change, and that a refusal to go to lunch, a turning +up one corner instead of another, would leave it as +it was, would it be better for us? +</P> + +<P> +If Bertie Carteret, talking eagerly, almost boyishly, +with a new interest in words, had realized that the +turnstile of the Exhibition was taking him into a +land of pain and regret, would he have seen the warning, +laughed, or turned back? He had passed through +it now; his feet were set on the path. +</P> + +<P> +They drank tea out of blue-and-white Japanese +cups, with sight-seers all round them. Esmé would +have shuddered at the place, absolutely refused to +take tea with milk in it, and with such impossible +people about her. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle enjoyed it; the day was still theirs as they +dined at the same little restaurant with the same +waiter, his memory sharpened by Bertie's surreptitiously +large tip, rushing to find a table for them. +</P> + +<P> +Weariness made economy less rigid; the little +dinner they picked out was simple, but not for poor +people. Since men in morning coats may not appear +in respectably expensive seats, they climbed high at +a theatre, looking down at the stage far below them; +the brilliant mass of colour in the stalls; the rows of +perfectly-dressed women's heads; of men's—sleek +and generally thin of hair. Parties strolled into +boxes, late for half an act, carelessly looking at the +play on the stage. +</P> + +<P> +"There's Esmé! See!" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé came into one of the larger boxes with Dollie +Gresham, Jimmie Gore Helmsley; a couple of soldiers; +and then at the last, pretty Sybil Chauntsey, +gesticulating as she ran in, everyone laughing at +something she said. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish"—Bertie looked gravely at the group—"that +Sybil Chauntsey would keep away from that +Helmsley man. He's no child's guide." +</P> + +<P> +It was Jimmie's party. He had telephoned to +Esmé to chaperone it. They were supping at the +Ritz afterwards. Little Sybil had been engaged; +she had run in telling them of her many difficulties +before she could get away. At a small dance to-night +one man would look for a partner who would +never come. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle was tired when the theatre was over; it +was hot up there above the dress circle. She pointed +to her morning dress and refused supper. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll have some at home then. Esmé may be +back. The economy must end at twelve. I'll drive +you home in a taxi." +</P> + +<P> +They came to the flat to find it silent, shut up. +Esmé was not coming home until three or four. A +few sandwiches stood ready for her, but Bertie would +have none of them. He could cook; there were +chafing dishes downstairs. Together they raided +the trim larder, to find nothing but cold beef and +eggs and butter. But how they laughed as Bertie +scrambled the eggs, and did it skilfully, if he had not +put in pepper twice, and Estelle grilled slices of beef +in boiling butter, and dusted them with curry +powder; then they heated cold potatoes and carried +up their hot dishes, with bread and butter and plates. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle said she adored pepper, as she burnt her +throat with scrambled eggs. Bertie concealed the +fact that the beef was corned; the potatoes, hot by +the time the eggs and beef were finished, were excellent. +Estelle made coffee. +</P> + +<P> +They cleared up at last, washing dishes, putting +things away, going home together on a cool summer's +night in a crawling growler. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's new maid, looking in once, had slipped +away unseen. +</P> + +<P> +A foolish, childish day; a glimpse of how two +people may enjoy themselves in the vast mother city +of the world, away from where the golden shower of +wealth rains so heedlessly, where cost is the hallmark +of excellence, and a restaurant which is not the +fashion of the moment is impossible. +</P> + +<P> +As they said good-bye on the doorstep—Estelle +had her key—Bertie held her cool, slender hands in +his; asked her if she would spend a day out of +London with him. "Down in Devonshire," he said, +"at Cliff End. I have to go there soon. We can +go early. Your aunt will not mind." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, not with you," said Estelle, simply. "She +knows it is all right." +</P> + +<P> +He felt a little pang at the words—a pang he could +not understand. It was right that she should trust +herself with him; he was married and a mere friend; +yet the little vexed feeling in his heart was the warning +held up by the gods. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie walked back—a long walk along quiet +streets with great London brooding in her silent +might. Sometimes he passed a house lighted up, +red carpeting on its steps, rows of carriages and +motors waiting; women in rich cloaks coming out, +their faces weary behind their smiles. Sometimes +strange birds of the night flitted past. Other +women, painted, weary as their rich sisters behind +their set smile of invitation, going home alone, +abandoning search for foolish prey. Men, evil-faced, +furtive, glanced at him, standing to watch +if the "toff" would turn into some unfrequented +narrow street. Gleams of white shirt front as men +of his class strolled to their rooms or lodging, their +black cloaks flapping back to show the evening dress +underneath. A few tipsy, foolish boys, lurching +along looking for trouble. The big clubs were still +lighted, their warm wealth behind their great windows. +On to "down at Kensington," to the great +pile of the flats towering to the soft blue sky. +</P> + +<P> +A little electric carriage rolled noiselessly past him. +Esmé got out. A man's voice said "Good-bye." +It was one of the soldiers whom he had seen in the +box. He heard some words of parting, then Esmé's +careless, heart-whole laugh. They were on the second +floor; he heard her exclaim as she saw the lights all +up: +</P> + +<P> +"How careless of someone." +</P> + +<P> +She was brilliantly dressed; something of black +and silver, clinging, graceful, billowing out round +her feet; there were diamonds in her fair hair, a +new necklace on her soft white throat. She shivered +a little, turning on the fire, filling herself a glass of +brandy from the decanter, pouring in a little +Perrier. +</P> + +<P> +"I was the careless one, Esmé. I forgot +them." +</P> + +<P> +"But you have only just come in," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"I was in and went out again. You look tired, +Esmé." +</P> + +<P> +The morning light, stealing in through the drawn +curtains, was blue and searching. It showed the +powder on her cheeks, the line of the deftly-applied +carnation bloom; it made her a little haggard, older +than her twenty-five years. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I'm tired," she yawned. "I thought you +would be asleep." She lighted a strong cigarette. +"I'm tired. We had supper at the Ritz and went +on to Sue's ball. She had a new necklace, a beauty! +She's just got an electric landaulette. Heigho! +I'm tired of being poor—of pinching." +</P> + +<P> +"You came home in an electric landaulette, +Butterfly," Bertie smiled at her, but it was a mirthless +smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I'll pay for them myself," she flashed out +ill-humouredly. "I can't hunt for taxis. I—" +she stopped. Bertie allowed her a hundred a year +for small things, pocket-money; she must make him +think she saved out of that. +</P> + +<P> +"And new diamonds." He touched the necklace +glittering on the soft white flesh. +</P> + +<P> +"Paste," she said, "paste. The thing only cost +ten pounds. I had nothing decent to wear." +</P> + +<P> +Until one took up the necklace one could not guess—see +the solid backing. It was a brilliant thing; +the workmanship perfect; but it had cost five times +ten pounds. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie bent to kiss the soft, warm flesh; slipped +his arm round the supple shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Come! I'll put you to bed," he whispered; "be +your obedient maid, Butterfly." +</P> + +<P> +"Susan will come, I told her to. Go to the little +room, Bertie. I sleep so badly and anything disturbs +me. I've heaps to do to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +He took his arm away, his ardour chilling, and +went out without a word. Susan, sleepy but attentive, +came in; put Madame to bed; washed the soft +skin free of powder and paint; brought a little glass +to the bedside. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame's drops. Madame might not sleep." +</P> + +<P> +Crystal clear, tasteless, soothing, bringing dreamless, +heavy sleep; a slide of treachery down which +women slip to ill-health and worse. Already, at +five-and-twenty, Esmé was taking chloral. +</P> + +<P> +The Society Bazaar began to take shape, to +approach the days of its holding. Gorgeous gowns +of satin and gauze and lace were fashioned for fair +débutantes and pretty matrons. +</P> + +<P> +Sweets, china, baskets; the hundred and one +things which no one wants and which they must buy +at three times the value when ordered. +</P> + +<P> +The Duchess of Boredom would sell baskets. +Dollie suggested an idea of diamond-like brilliancy: +"Tie a card to every one: +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-variant: small-caps"> + 'The Duchess of Boredom,<BR> + Boredom Court,'<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +with just a letter 's' and 'stall' in the corner. +Everyone suburban in the room will rush for those +baskets, and shop with them for months to come, +forgetting, of course, to take off the card. It's +perfect," said Dollie, "if she'll do it." +</P> + +<P> +"Or you might have some made in the shape of +strawberry leaves," said Bertie, gravely. +</P> + +<P> +The Duchess did not object to her card being used. +She was willing to order some hundreds of cards for +the sake of charity. +</P> + +<P> +"The Bazaar, of course, paying my stationers," +said the Duchess, severely. +</P> + +<P> +There were sweet stalls, where pretty notabilities, +for five shillings extra, would sign their names on +the boxes. +</P> + +<P> +There was a stall kept by great actresses, who sold +their autographs and their photographs, and buttonholes +of rosebuds and carnations. +</P> + +<P> +There were side shows, café chantants, everything +to take money from the public. +</P> + +<P> +"For the tiny crippled children. Help them." +Children selling flowers and sweets, dressed all in +pale pink, crowned with rosebuds, carried little cards +on their heads, with these words printed. +</P> + +<P> +"Let us be nothing if not sentimental," said Dollie, +looking round the hall. Dull green gave background +to the flower dresses; dull green on stalls and against +the walls. Royalty had promised to be present. +It was a great affair. +</P> + +<P> +"It will buy tweeds," said Dollie. "It always +does. And baskets, and sweets for the hospitals. +And it—the male part of it—won't be allowed +any of the photographs it wants from the stage +stall." +</P> + +<P> +A great bazaar, which a minor Royalty graciously +declared open, and then remembered an engagement; +its royal purse was sparsely supplied. +</P> + +<P> +All Society seemed to be assisting, but Suburbia +flocked to it, and in the evening Shopland would +render gallant support. +</P> + +<P> +"For the tiny crippled children; see the lovely +dears," said Mrs Harris to Mrs Smith of Clapham. +"What's your name, little love, now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Pollie Laverdean," a small mite of eight raised +dark liquid eyes. "Buy somefin', p'ease." +</P> + +<P> +"Lady Marrianne," whispered a better-informed +friend. "The Countess of Gardenia's eldest—ain't +she sweet?" +</P> + +<P> +"An' to call her plain Pollie. My! my!" murmured +the friend. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Smith and Mrs Harris bought two small china +dogs at five shillings each, and a box of shilling +chocolates at the same price. +</P> + +<P> +The Duchess's baskets went as snow before the sun. +</P> + +<P> +Lady Lila Blyth and her lovely daughters sold +flowers freely. The names of the assistants were +written plainly over each stall—another idea of +Dollie's. +</P> + +<P> +Lady Lila Blyth, Miss Eva Blyth, Miss Lulu +Blyth; Lady Eliza O'Neill; Mrs Holmes; the Marquess +of Tweesdale; Lord Rupert Scot; the Earl +of Domomere. +</P> + +<P> +Brilliantly handsome in her blue gown, Esmé sold +chocolate and dragées and crystallized fruits. +</P> + +<P> +Canon Bright had worked hard to help; got flowers +and fruit sent in great quantities. He and the little +secretary came now through the stalls. +</P> + +<P> +"It's splendid," he said to Dollie; "the stores +near us sent a box of stuff to your stall." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, thanks awfully! Is it there, Esmé? +We haven't opened it yet. When these shop things +are sold we will." +</P> + +<P> +"But," the Canon picked up a huge guinea box +of fruits, stickily alluring, "you've had to buy all +these, haven't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and you see it wouldn't be fair if we didn't +sell quite a lot of these things as we get them at a +reduction. But we'll open the box; the children +can sell the things." +</P> + +<P> +Going on to Lady Lila's stall, a mass of carnations +and roses and sweet peas, the secretary asked for +the gifts of flowers. The Canon had begged from +half his county. +</P> + +<P> +The same vague look. "Oh, all these hampers +and boxes. You see, these were in and the florist's +people arrange and settle them for us. We'd have +to bunch all these others, wouldn't we? Oh, of +course, they'd be clear profit, but one cannot wait +for chance gifts, can one? One must be ready." +</P> + +<P> +Baskets of dewy rosebuds, of white pinks, sweet +peas, of carnations lay withering behind the stalls. +The florists had decked the tables, would do the same +to-morrow. One could not bother with piles of +things loose in baskets. +</P> + +<P> +Canon Bright, used to humble county bazaars, +where every gift was welcomed, could not understand +it. +</P> + +<P> +He bought lavishly. He looked with a smile +which was almost wistful at the mites who fluttered +about the thronged hall, their notices held up by +wires above the crowns of roses. +</P> + +<P> +"For the tiny crippled children." They rattled +their little bags of money as they sold their +goods. +</P> + +<P> +"Fink there are any crippled children?" said +Lady Pollie to her friend the Honourable Anne +Buller. +</P> + +<P> +"No fear! They's all kept in big places in beds. +It's just fun for us an' Mumsie. She loves her yellow +dress; she's a rose too, Mumsie is. Who gave you +the gold piece, Pollie?" +</P> + +<P> +"The fat man there; he said I was a sufferin' +angel, or perhaps it was 'nother long word. Let's +go an' eat ices or strawberries." +</P> + +<P> +Money pouring into cash boxes; sovereigns for +buttonholes; notes for foolish trumpery. +</P> + +<P> +Royalty, gracious, really charitable, came in the +afternoon, made its way through the crush which +thronged to watch it, bought lavishly but sensibly, +spoke kindly to stall-holders, honoured Dollie and +Esmé with special notice. +</P> + +<P> +"I hear you got it all up. So good of you. It is +one of the hospitals most needed. We went there +last week." +</P> + +<P> +Small Royalty carries off a box of sweets with the +glee of extremely natural childhood; a merry mite; +far more simply brought up than shrewd little Lady +Pollie. <i>She</i> knew that there were real crippled +children, wan, stunted products of the slums, tended +and made happy, perhaps cured, in that struggling +hospital. She had seen them in their little blue +jackets, looking eagerly at her kindly mother and +at her as they went from bed to bed. They passed +through a curtseying crowd, bought, went on to tea, +gracious, kindly people. +</P> + +<P> +"They've simply made it," Esmé said. "What a +crowd we have. A charming box of sweets. Yes. +Souvenir of the Bazaar—boxes specially made—one +guinea. Too much? There's a small one for +ten shillings; but the Princess took one of the others. +Thank you! The big one? Oh, Captain Gore +Helmsley—buy sweets?" +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie, darkly handsome, his years disguised by +careful grooming, strolled by. He stopped to say, +laughing, that his digestion could not assimilate +chocolates and dragées. Sybil Chauntsey, a glowing +little nasturtium, her brown beauty set off by +brilliant yellow, came hurrying up, young Knox +with her; he had come up to try again. She was +selling buttonholes, helping at one of the flower +stalls. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll buy a flower though," Jimmie turned +quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"I've only one left," Sybil said, "this yellow +carnation. Captain Knox wants it. I was just +coming for a pin. Mine have all dropped. It's five +shillings." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll give you ten," Helmsley said. "Touch it +with your lips it shall be a pound." +</P> + +<P> +"Two," said Knox, sharply. +</P> + +<P> +"An auctioneer!" Esmé clapped her hands. +"Well done, Sybil. Come, Captain Helmsley." +</P> + +<P> +"Four!" said Helmsley, carelessly. +</P> + +<P> +"Five!" +</P> + +<P> +A little crowd gathered. Sybil, glowing, laughing, +her childish vanity touched by this piece of vulgar +advertisement. In her gay yellow and red-striped +gown she stood holding up the flower; the nasturtium's +head-dress was a hood of vivid green, +opening over mock flower petals. +</P> + +<P> +"Six!" +</P> + +<P> +"Seven!" +</P> + +<P> +"Ten!" said Jimmie, carelessly. "Come, that's +a fair price for a flower—but I'll go on." +</P> + +<P> +Young Knox stopped bidding suddenly, his face +growing white. He watched Sybil, laughing brightly, +kiss the flower, saw Jimmie Helmsley touch it +covertly with his lips where her soft red ones had +lain, and hold out the yellow bud to be fastened +on. +</P> + +<P> +"I win the flower," he said mockingly. +</P> + +<P> +"One moment." Young Knox bent close to +Sybil. "I'll say good-bye. It's not quite my game—this. +But if you ever want me, remember I'm +there, as I told you before. Good-bye." +</P> + +<P> +The glow died out of Sybil Chauntsey's face; her +fingers trembled as she fastened in the flower and +took her five pound notes. +</P> + +<P> +Helmsley walked on with her. Would she come +to tea? He had a big box of sweets for her. +Wouldn't she have them? +</P> + +<P> +Sybil woke up after a minute or two, grew feverishly +gay with the gaiety which cloaks sorrow; was +almost noisy, her cheeks glowing, her eyes glittering; +took a dozen presents from Gore Helmsley: +Venetian beads, sweets, charms, bought at fabulous +prices. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor chap, not to think your flower worth more +than a tenner," Helmsley had said in his mocking +voice. +</P> + +<P> +The Great Charity Bazaar ran on wheels oiled +by golden oil; the cash-boxes filled. Kindly Canon +Bright walked round it dreaming of the debt which +would be paid off his beloved hospital. Of instruments, +of comforts for the tiny sufferers, of the increased +room which they could make. +</P> + +<P> +Lord Boredom, very immaculately dressed, was +helping his mother, but he preferred taking a basket +at a time round the hall than attending the stall. +Once he came back with a demure-looking young +lady whom the Duchess welcomed cordially as "My +dear Miss Moover," making Sukey Ploddy sniff +loudly. +</P> + +<P> +But the sensation of the evening was when +the Duchess was taken to the Café Chantant +to see on the white curtain the words: "Miss +Moover, by kind permission of the Magnificent +Theatre." +</P> + +<P> +The Duchess went in. Miss Moover's dance was +audacious, her draperies shadow-like; she squirmed +and twisted and bounded across the stage, displaying +the exquisitely-formed limbs which made London +flock to see her. She was agile, graceful, never +exaggerated, full of the joy of youth. +</P> + +<P> +From the Magnificent Theatre! The Duchess, +breathing heavily, staggered out, her black dress +rustling. "A dancer! A <i>creature</i>!" +</P> + +<P> +"I shall never," she said, "countenance those +Holbrooks again," and with stony eyes she cut Luke +deliberately and sent for her son. +</P> + +<P> +"It was unfortunate, my love," said Mr Holbrook, +mildly, "the whole idea." +</P> + +<P> +The big bazaar day died to change to a blaze of +electric lights, to a kaleidoscope of colour, of flower +dresses, blue and yellow and pink and white, +blending and moving; of diners in the miniature +Ritz Hotel and other restaurants, eating luxurious +meals. +</P> + +<P> +It began again next day, a cheaper, less select +affair, with half the assistants far too tired to +come, and it ran through another day; a huge +spider sucking golden blood from innumerable +flies. +</P> + +<P> +It was over at last; the stall-holders ate a merry +supper; assistants from the shops cleared away +their goods; no one bothered much about it all +now. +</P> + +<P> +The Society papers would publish accounts and +photographs, with Dollie and Esmé, charitable +ladies, always in the most prominent place. +</P> + +<P> +Canon Bright and the secretary were jubilant at +supper, thanking everyone; they would call in a day +or two. If Mrs Gresham would let them, they +would help her with the accounts. +</P> + +<P> +But Dollie told them pleasantly that she wanted +no help as yet. +</P> + +<P> +A few days later she sat with Esmé over piles of +papers, totting carelessly. +</P> + +<P> +"They've charged horribly for those sweets. +Oh! and Claire's bill is exorbitant!" She held +it up. +</P> + +<P> +"It's double what it ought to be," said Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +"H'm!" Dollie totted. "I want to pay her off. +Just a little on to the hall account, and to odd +nothings, and there are a few extra gowns in the +price of the blue; that will make it right. One can't +slave for nothing," said Dollie. "You can get a +couple of gowns, too. I arranged that with her. It +was worth it," said Dollie, "to stop the woman's +mouth." +</P> + +<P> +When cheques came in other people seemed to +have found their expenses equally high. London +tradesmen charge highly for decorating, for assistance. +The golden coins paid out for charity went +for glitter and show, for gowns and waste. The +Ritz had not paid its way. All stall-holders lunched +and dined free there. Hunt & Mason sent in a bill +of some size. +</P> + +<P> +In a month's time Dollie wanted it all to be forgotten; +she sent a cheque to the hospital with all +her accounts carefully copied out. +</P> + +<P> +The secretary turned pale as he read the amount. +"That!" he said, "that—after it all! And now, +for a year's time, if we appeal for funds, people will +say, 'But you've just had that bazaar; we went +there, bought lavishly, we cannot help again so +soon.' +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Harnett," he said heavily to the matron, +"we must give up all idea of that west ward; we +cannot afford it; or those new reclining chairs and +instruments." +</P> + +<P> +He wrote drearily, for his heart was in his work, +to Canon Bright. +</P> + +<P> +"All such a splendid success," Dollie's friends had +said to her, and kindly Royalty, with its love of true +charity, asked her to a select garden-party. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX +</H3> + +<P> +"I am going to Cliff End on Friday, Estelle. Will +you come? We'll start at eight, and get back about +ten." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd love to. London is baking me." +</P> + +<P> +June heat glowed through the huge city; the +pavements were hot under the fierce sun; the air +felt used up, heavy; the packed streets vibrated +under their load of wheeled monsters, of swooping, +gliding taxis. Everyone was going somewhere; +busy, smiling, full of the business of pleasure. Old +faces were lined under powder and face cream; +young ones had lost their colour a little. +</P> + +<P> +Perfectly gowned, with hair in the order of the +moment, faintly scented, smiling, woman, hawk-like, +swooped on her natural prey, man. Soft +debutantes, white-robed, hopeful, fluttered as they +dreamt of the matches which they might make. +Anxious, youthful mothers spent their all, and more, +to give their girls a chance. Older girls smiled more +confidently, yet were less hopeful of drawing some +great prize. +</P> + +<P> +There, walking along quietly in morning coat, +a slouching, keen-eyed young fellow; a flutter as he +passes. +</P> + +<P> +"See, Audrey! Lord Golderly. Evie, bow; did +you not see Lord Golderly?" +</P> + +<P> +Or from more intimate friends: "Sukey! There's +Joss. Call him over! He's thinner than ever! +Mum! there's Jossy! Ask him to our little dinner—he +might come." +</P> + +<P> +The Marquis of Golderly, with eighty thousand a +year, with a panelled house in Yorkshire, a castle +in Scotland, with Golderly House in Piccadilly—let +now to rich Americans—had strolled by. A +pleasant-looking, well-made boy, with his mind full +of his new polo pony, and not in the least interested +in the Ladies Evie and Audrey, or in his cousin +Sukey. Some day he must marry, but not yet. +</P> + +<P> +Another flutter: a girl runs laughing to catch her +toy pom, showing her lithe, active limbs as she slips +along. +</P> + +<P> +"There comes Sir Edward Castleknock," a little +elderly man, his income lately depleted by a white +marble tombstone to his second wife, but he has no +heir; he must marry again, and he is a rich man. +The youthful mothers signal to him, stopping him +carelessly, calling to their girls as he stops. +</P> + +<P> +"Here's my little Evie, grown up, Sir Edward; +you used to give her sugared almonds. Makes one +so ancient, doesn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +Evie musters a smile for the memory of sugared +almonds. She says something conventional with a +show of excellent teeth. Sir Edward is musical. +Milady invites him to hear the dear child sing; to +lunch on Sunday—one-thirty—the old address. +</P> + +<P> +One mamma has got a start of her competitors; +captured the widower as he emerges from the sombre +draped doors of his mourning. +</P> + +<P> +"To sing?" Lady Evie wrinkles a pretty nose. +"Well, Mumsie, don't let it get past 'Violets' and +that French song; they are the only two dear old +Monsieur could ever get me to sing in tune." +</P> + +<P> +They work hard, these mothers, for their daughters, +for what is life without riches and places, and a niche +in Society's walls? What waste of bringing up, of +French and German governesses, of dancing lessons +and swimming lessons, and dull classes, if Evie or +Audrey merely married some ordinary youngster, +to disappear with him upon a couple of thousand a +year! +</P> + +<P> +So many competitors, so few prizes. The race is +to the swift, and the strong, and the astute; to the +matron who knows not only how to seize opportunity, +but not to release it again until it puts a ring upon her +daughter's massaged hand. +</P> + +<P> +So Evie and Sue and Audrey must stifle the natural +folly which nature has placed in their fresh young +hearts, and help "Mum" to the proud hour when +her daughter will count her wedding presents by the +hundred, and smile sweetly on the bevy of maidens +who are still running in the race. +</P> + +<P> +Some, without kindly, clever mothers, must fight +for themselves, and in the fight use strange methods +to attain their prize. Crooked ways, cut-off corners, +wrong side of posts; yet they too smile quite as +contentedly if they win at the last. +</P> + +<P> +Young Golderly has been stopped a dozen times; +he has seen sweet smiles, caught flashing glances. +Evie has called attention to her lovely feet by knocking +one against a chair. Audrey has whispered to +him that she <i>adores</i> polo; will be at Hurlingham +to-day. +</P> + +<P> +"To see you hit a goal," she coos; "oh! how I +shall clap!" +</P> + +<P> +"She may be a little wild—my new pony," he +says, his mind still full of that piece of bay symmetry, +a race-horse in miniature, and slips away. Golderly +had come to meet a friend who would have talked of +nothing but polo ponies; he has missed him, and the +pretty runners of the race strive and jostle until +they bore him sadly. +</P> + +<P> +He turns to slip away, to get back to his club by +a round across the Park, and then gasps, smitten +roughly, his hat bumping on to the path. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I'm so sorry. Blow these hobble skirts. +Blow the things!" says a girl's voice. +</P> + +<P> +Kitty Harrington, a big, clumsy maiden, freckles +powdering her clear skin. "A badly-dressed +touzled young woman," is the verdict passed on her. +</P> + +<P> +Kitty is having her season without any clever, +youthful mother; she is under the charge of her +aunt, Lady Harrington, who does not take much +notice of her, and thinks the girl a foolish tomboy. +</P> + +<P> +"Snap was running out to where the motors are," +says Kitty, guilelessly, "and he might get hurt. +We were doing a scamper on the grass." +</P> + +<P> +Snap is a rough terrier of uncertain pedigree, +unwillingly confined in London. +</P> + +<P> +"He ties his lead round people's legs if I drag him +through the crowd," Kitty goes on. "So we keep +away and make believe it's country. Oh! if it was! +And then this skirt tripped me." +</P> + +<P> +Young Golderly looks at her. A big, rather clumsy +girl, but open-eyed, fresh from eighteen years of +country life; a girl who has learnt to swim in the +open sea; whose gymnastics have been practised +up trees. +</P> + +<P> +"They are rotten things to try to run in," he says, +smiling boyishly, "those skirts. Haven't I met you +somewhere? I'm Lord Golderly." Here he pursues +his hat, which Snap is treating as if it were a rat. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! goodness! Oh! I have been clumsy." +Kitty is all pink cheeks and tearful eyes; she dabs +them surreptitiously. "Oh! your poor best hat—all +torn! Oh! I am a clumsy girl—never meant for +London. No, I haven't met you. I'm Miss Harrington—Lady +Harrington's niece." +</P> + +<P> +"I know her!" Jossy, master of eighty thousand +a year, grins as he examines his hat brim. "Are +you going to the match to-day—to Hurlingham?" +</P> + +<P> +"N—no," Kitty's lips droop. "Auntie's made +up her party! And oh! I do love polo. We play +at home, the boys and I. I've such a pony! Have +you got a nice one?" +</P> + +<P> +"A nice one!" Young Golderly grins again; +this girl is like a breath of fresh country air blowing +across the moorlands. Evidently his name conveys +nothing to her. +</P> + +<P> +"I've twenty," he says, laughing. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, then you're rich! How jolly! If I were +rich—" +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" he asks. +</P> + +<P> +Kitty puts her head on one side. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd have hunters; three of them, all my own. +Not the boys', which I borrow. And I'd have a +motor and drive it; and give Mumsie a new fur +coat—hers is old. And I'd have otter hounds." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you like that too? Otter hunting," he says +eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes!" Kitty shows a set of strong even +teeth. "It's so jolly up in the early mornings when +all the grass is washing in dew; and hunting up the +rivers; and the dogs working. And then isn't +breakfast good?" says Kitty, prosaically. "I'd +cook mine on the river bank. I make fine +scrambled eggs, and I can toast bacon till it's just +sumptuous." +</P> + +<P> +Of course Kitty can have no idea that Golderly +has hunted a pack of otter hounds for some years. +</P> + +<P> +The boy looks at her again. She is so fresh and +natural and friendly. The skin under her freckles +is singularly fine; her eyes are bright, her active +figure at its worst in a ridiculous hobble skirt. +</P> + +<P> +"Say! I can't go back there," he nods towards +the strolling crowd, "in Snap's handiwork. Let's +walk across the grass." +</P> + +<P> +"I want to get to Lancaster Gate. Right!" says +Kitty, "we live there, you know." +</P> + +<P> +As they go they talk of ponies and horses and +terriers and otters and tennis, and when they part +young Golderly takes a brown, shapely, gloveless +hand in his and shakes it warmly. +</P> + +<P> +"Come to the match; come to see me play," he +says. "I'll take you over to the ponies and show +you my beauties. You ought to come." +</P> + +<P> +Kitty rushes in to her aunt. "Auntie! get +Hurlingham tickets somewhere. You must!" And +Kitty tells of her adventure. +</P> + +<P> +When a year later big Kitty marches sedately +down the aisle of a country church on the arm of +her husband, a Marquis, she manages her trailing +skirts cleverly enough. +</P> + +<P> +A rank outsider, a creature not even mentioned in +the betting; but a letter from Kitty's dearest friend +might prove that she need not have tripped so +grievously over her hobble skirt; while further +experience proved that she was lazy about otter +hunting, and that behind the ingenuous face lay a +shrewd and far-seeing brain. The letter was to +"Dearest Kit." +</P> + +<P> +"Shame of Auntie May not to bother about you," +it ran. "I met young Lord Golderly at Marches +Hall last week-end. He's just your sort—all sport. +Get to meet him somehow and talk horses—<i>polo +ponies</i> and <i>otter hunting</i>; he's sick of Society." +</P> + +<P> +The future Lady Golderly carefully tore up that +letter. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle Reynolds turned from watching the flow +of life stream past her to speak to Bertie +Carteret. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle was a mere outsider there, knowing very +few people—just a few of Esmé's friends. She +liked to see them flutter up and down, meeting, +parting, always going on somewhere, always chattering +of the hundred things which they had got +to do. +</P> + +<P> +"I should like to go to Cliff End," repeated +Estelle. "The love of London is not with me, +though for two years, perhaps three, I must stay +here, until my mother comes from her travels, in fact." +</P> + +<P> +"Unless—you marry," Bertie said slowly. +</P> + +<P> +In some vague way the thought vexed him. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle laughed. "There is the curate," she said, +"but I am not High Church enough to please him. +Yes, there is the curate. I am far too ordinary and +stupid for Esmé's friends to look at me, and I meet +no others. My marriage must be deferred until we +take up the house in Northamptonshire, and then +some country squire will suit me and not notice my +last year's frocks." +</P> + +<P> +"Not notice you," Bertie snorted. "Stupid +young tailor's blocks, always going on. You don't +notice them." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, they're not all stupid," Estelle said. "Mr +Turner told me three hands which he had played at +bridge the night before, and had crushin' luck in +them all. He couldn't be stupid with that memory. +How is Esmé?" +</P> + +<P> +"Frightfully busy," Bertie laughed. "Her latest +evening gown was not a success. She is weighed +down between the choice of pure white or pure black +for a new opera cloak. Someone is coming to lunch, +and the new cook's soufflets are weary things, given +to sitting down. Also her ices melt; and she cannot +<i>sauté</i> potatoes; it is French for frying, isn't it? +Look here! come in old clothes, and we'll be babies +and help to make hay. This day is taken up by a +luncheon, by tea at the Carlton, dinner at the Holbrooks', +an evening party. I have struck at two +dances, as I have to get up early." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had gone to Madame Claire's to storm over +this new gown of golden soft chiffon and silk. It +dragged; it did not fit. She found Madame Claire +inaccessible. Mrs Carteret bought a few gowns, but +my Lady Blakeney was choosing six—two models, +two copies, two emanating from Madame Jane +Claire's slightly torpid English brains. She had her +country's desire for buttons and for trimmings. +</P> + +<P> +But Denise's order was lavish; it meant petticoats, +wraps to match; it meant items of real lace. +How then to spare sorrow because one golden yellow +evening gown ordered by a Mrs Carteret had been +too hurriedly finished. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell Madame that I am really pressed for time. +Can she not spare me five minutes?" +</P> + +<P> +Madame was with Lady Blakeney, very busy with +an order, the forewoman was also engaged. A +slender young woman in black satin glided back with +the message. Would Madame call again later, make +an appointment? Had Madame seen one of the +latest scarves? Quite charming, only five guineas. +Black satin dexterously whisked out a wisp of +chiffon. "No! Madame did not want a scarf." +</P> + +<P> +Denise was behind the strawberry silk curtains +hiding in Madame's sanctum. Esmé felt hurt, sore. +It was always Denise—always Denise. She, Esmé, +was no one. +</P> + +<P> +She got up, looking at her tall, slight figure in one +of the long glasses; she grew flushed, angry. +</P> + +<P> +"I have not time to call again. Please tell +Madame that the evening gown is impossible, a +strait-waistcoat. I was to have worn it to-night +at a dance. Now I must wear an old gown of +Lucille's—which at least fits." Esmé flounced out, +wiping the dust of the strawberry-hued <i>salon</i> from +her tightly-shod feet. +</P> + +<P> +Half an hour later Madame Claire heard the +message. +</P> + +<P> +"Alter it," she said carelessly. "Let it out. I +expect she'll give me up now. Send her her bill at +once." +</P> + +<P> +The heat beat down in quivering waves. All +London shopped, buying, buying, since freshness +lasted but for a few days, and one must not be seen +in a gown more than three or four times. +</P> + +<P> +Tinsels and chiffons and laces; feather ruffles; +silks and crepes and muslins; gloves and silken +stockings piled up on the mahogany counters for +Society to buy. Subtle-tongued assistants lauded +their wares; there was always something which +Madame had not dreamt of buying, but which she +suddenly discovered to be an absolute necessity. +</P> + +<P> +The flower-shops showed their sheaves of cut +blossoms, long-stemmed roses, carnations, lilies, +pinks, monster sweet peas. Things out of season +nestled in baskets in the fruiterers. Wealth everywhere, +gold or promise of gold; electric motors +gliding noiselessly. Slim youngsters taking their +morning stroll; brown-skinned soldiers up for a few +days, spending in shops behind windows which +Madame and Mademoiselle passed without a glance. +The richest city in the world gathered its summer +harvest; and white-faced poverty, sometimes straying +from their poor country, looking on, dully, +resentfully envious. Sewing-machines flew in the +sweltering heat, needles darted, rows of girls sat +working breathlessly, that great ladies might not be +disappointed. +</P> + +<P> +"I must have that embroidered gown for the +Duchess's party, Madame." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, milady, without fail." +</P> + +<P> +Then a visit to the workroom—a whisper to two +pale girls. +</P> + +<P> +"You two must stay overtime to-night, get that +dress finished. It mustn't get out, either—be +careful!" +</P> + +<P> +So, when their breath of air might be snatched, +the two would stitch on under the dazzle of electric +light, drink strong tea and eat bread and butter, and +never dare to grumble, for there were fifty other +girls who could be taken instead of them. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé strolled up Bond Street. She bought a +ruffle which caught her fancy; she stopped to talk +to half a dozen people; but she strolled on, her goal +a soot-smirched square where a baby would be taking +its airing. +</P> + +<P> +He was there, under his white awning, looking a +little pale, a little peaked, wilting in the heat. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Stanson knew her visitor, smiled at her, never +quite understood why Esmé came to the square so +often. Esmé asked for Denise first; she was always +careful to know that she was out before she came, +then went into the gardens. +</P> + +<P> +There was no air in it; the trees had no freshness; +the grass looked dull and unwholesome. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't he very white, Mrs Stanson—peaky?" +</P> + +<P> +"He should be in the country," Mrs Stanson said. +"Down where his windows'd let in air at night and +not the smuts from the chimneys. But her ladyship—she +thinks different; she hates the country. I +saw little Lord Helmington go in a hot summer because +they wouldn't open Helmington Hall to send +him down there with me." +</P> + +<P> +"But he—Cyrrie—he won't go?" Esmé caught +at the small soft fingers, moist with heat. A sudden +fear gripped her heart. +</P> + +<P> +"Was Denise going to kill the boy? Of course she +did not care." +</P> + +<P> +"Take care of him, Mrs Stanson. Oh! take care +of him. I was there when he was born, you know. +I used to act nurse for him. Aren't there those +ozone things you hang up in bedrooms? Or, can't +you get him away?" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé hung over the baby, jealous of his little life, +panting, afraid. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Stanson had taken several gold pieces from +the child's visitor. She shrugged her plump +shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Her ladyship doesn't care for children, Mrs +Carteret, and that's the truth. She says I fuss, talk +nonsense. He don't even get a drive every day, +and Sir Cyril, he comes in, but he's her ladyship's +husband. Hssh! baby, hssh!" +</P> + +<P> +For little Cyril began to cry querulously, wrinkling +his peaky face. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé bent over him, crooning to him, her motherhood +awake. Now she knew her madness. For +this was hers, and she would have sent him away to +breathe fresh air and grow into a big, strong man +like Bertie. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a pity, mem, you haven't got one." The +nurse lifted up the fretful child. +</P> + +<P> +"It is—a pity." Esmé's face was white and +strained, the two patches of rouge standing out; +she looked grey, old. "Oh, it is a pity, nurse," she +swayed. +</P> + +<P> +"Laws! Mrs Carteret, you're ill. It's this cruel +heat. Sit you there, and I'll run in for salts or a +little sal volatile." +</P> + +<P> +"No." Esmé recovered herself. "No, nurse, +thank you. It's only the heat. Well, take care of +him; and better not tell her ladyship that I came +over. She never likes my looking at the boy." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé knew now—she knew what a fool she had +been. How, snatching at her ease, her comfort, her +enjoyment, she had lost the boy who brought love +with him. There was nothing to be done, nothing +to be said; she dared not tell at this stage. Bertie +would never forgive her. She might even be denied, +disproved, by some jugglery. +</P> + +<P> +She went heavily homewards, walking on the hot +pavement. +</P> + +<P> +An electric limousine flashed by her; a smiling +face bowed, a white-gloved hand was waved. Denise +was going home to luncheon. Bond Street again, +less crowded now. Esmé saw a girl jump lightly from +a taxi, turn to smile at someone inside. It was +Sybil Chauntsey; the taxi passed Esmé and pulled +up; she saw Jimmie Gore Helmsley get out. +</P> + +<P> +Where had these two been so early? They had +got out separately, as if concealment were necessary. +What a fool the girl was! What a fool! +</P> + +<P> +Esmé hailed a taxi; she was lunching at the Ritz, +had asked three friends there. Bah! it would cost +so much, and be over and forgotten in an hour. +</P> + +<P> +With a smile set on a weary face, Esmé drove on. +She would snatch at amusement more greedily than +ever! +</P> + +<P> +At eight in the morning a great London station is +fully awake, but not yet stifling and noisy; the cool +air of the night still lurks about the platforms; the +glass has not got hot; the early people are cool themselves. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie was up early so as to call for Estelle; his +taxi sped to the quiet square where her aunt lived. +A gloomy place, with tall houses standing in formidable +respectability, where grave old butlers opened +doors, and broughams and victorias still came round +to take their owners for an airing. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle was on the doorstep, cool and fresh, one +of the few people who can get up early without looking +sleepy. +</P> + +<P> +They flew to Devonshire. +</P> + +<P> +"First class!" Estelle frowned as she saw her +ticket. "Oh, Captain Carteret!" +</P> + +<P> +"This is my day," he pleaded. "To be economical +travelling one must be economical in company. +Come along." +</P> + +<P> +They had an empty carriage; going down to the +restaurant for breakfast—a little gritty as train +breakfasts are, but excellent. +</P> + +<P> +London slipped away; they ran past lush meadows, +past placid streams, old farmhouses sheltered by +trees. The countryside was alive with busy workers. +Steel knives cut the grass and laid it in fragrant +swathes. Steel teeth tossed it up through the hot, +dry air. It was perfect weather for saving hay, for +gathering the early harvest. The earth gives to us +living, takes our clay to its heart when our spirits +have left it. +</P> + +<P> +The heat mists swept up slowly from the world; +fairy vapours floating heavenwards until the summer's +day was clear in its sunlit beauty; and they +tore into far Devon with the salt breath of the sea +in the faint wind. +</P> + +<P> +A dogcart met them at the station; a short drive, +with the sea pulsing far below them, brought them +to Cliff End. An old house standing amid a blaze of +flowers, it was its owner's whim to have it kept up +as if he were living there. There were quaintly-shaped +rooms, with windows flung wide. Estelle +ran through them, getting her first glimpse of a true +English home, while Bertie went over accounts and +did his business. +</P> + +<P> +The housekeeper, a smiling dame, appeared +breathlessly just as he came in. +</P> + +<P> +She was ashamed not to be there to meet them, +but old bones moved slowly; she had been down to +the Home Farm to see a sick child there. +</P> + +<P> +"We'm right glad to see your good lady at +last," she smiled at Estelle, holding out a wrinkled +hand. Mrs Corydon was a privileged friend of the +family. +</P> + +<P> +"Not my good lady," Bertie said hurriedly, "a +friend, Mrs Corydon." But his face changed suddenly; +he grew red. +</P> + +<P> +Man is a being dependent on his dinner; their late +luncheon was perfect of its kind. Grilled trout, +chicken, Devonshire cream, and strawberries. +</P> + +<P> +"It's such a glorious old place." Estelle looked +round the panelled room. "If one could live here +one could be happy simply being alive." +</P> + +<P> +"Some people could," he said quietly. "Esmé +would die of boredom in a week." +</P> + +<P> +"Of boredom, with those flowers outside, with the +sea crooning so close," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"But in winter," he answered, "there are no +flowers, and the sea would roar." +</P> + +<P> +"Then there would be fires," said Estelle, "and +hunting, and books; and always fresh air. I stifle +in London." +</P> + +<P> +The day was a long joy to her, so deep it might +have made her pause to think. +</P> + +<P> +They went to the hayfields, breathing in the scent +of the fragrant grass; tossing it themselves, foolish, +as children might have done; wandering off to the +river where it whispered between rocky banks. A +stretch of golden brown and silver clear, of dark +shadow and plashing ripple, green-hued where the +long weeds stretched their plumes beneath the +water, eddying, swirling, gliding, until it spread out +upon Trelawney Bay, and wandered lost amongst +the sands, looking for the sea. Great ferns grew +among the rocks; dog roses tangled in the hedges; +sometimes a feeding trout would break a flat with +his soft ploop-ploop as he sucked down the fly; or +smaller fish would fling and plash in shallow places, +making believe that they were great creatures as +they fed. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie had asked for the tea to be sent out to +them. It came in a basket, and they lighted a spirit +lamp, laying it out close to the shimmering sea. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Corydon had sent down wonderful cakes, +splits and nun's puffs, and a jar of the inevitable +cream. It was a feast eaten by two fools who forgot +human nature. +</P> + +<P> +They gave the basket to the boy, wandered on to +the cliffs. Here, with a meadow rippling in waves +of green behind them, they sat down. It was cooler +now. They sat in the shade of a high bank with the +blue, diamond-spangled water far below, emerald-hued +and indigo, where it lapped in shadow by the +cliff. With the salt scent of it mingling with the +scent of grass and flowers and hot sun-baked turf. +Gulls wheeled screaming softly. They were quite +alone in the glory of the country. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle, a little tired, lay back against the bank, +dropped suddenly asleep; her slender browned +hands lay close to Bertie; as she moved her head +came almost against his shoulder, so that to make +her more comfortable he moved a little to support +it. +</P> + +<P> +A sudden thrill ran through him; her nearness, the +touch of her cheek against his arm; her childish +trust and abandon. The thrill was one of content +followed by fear. What was he learning to feel for +this girl from South Africa, this mere friend and +companion? +</P> + +<P> +"Companion? Had Esmé ever been one?" +Looking back he realized that there are two sorts of +love; one when man is ruled by man alone, and one +when passion and friendship can walk hand in +hand; a pair, once mated, whom death alone can +part. +</P> + +<P> +He recalled his first meeting with his wife, and how +her brilliant beauty had allured him. +</P> + +<P> +How she had taken his worship carelessly, as a +thing of every day; and how always she had relied +on her beauty as the natural power of woman without +dreaming of any other. A touch of her round +arms about his neck, a hot kiss—these were her +arguments—arguments which, until lately, had +never failed. If he talked of outside things she would +pout and yawn, and bring him back to the centre of +the world—her beauty. +</P> + +<P> +"There were other girls; tell me about them; +were they as pretty as I am, Bert?" +</P> + +<P> +"Never—never!" he had to assure her. If he +talked of the sunshine she would laugh and ask if it +did not make her hair look red. Her hands, her feet, +her fingers—she was never weary of having them +praised. And yet she lacked the joy of losing herself +in love; she had a merciless power of analysing +emotion, because she did not feel it deeply herself. +In all his transports, Bertie knew there had been +something missing; he had been the lover, she content +to be loved. +</P> + +<P> +The true companionship which can keep silence +was never theirs. +</P> + +<P> +Now, with the sea of grass waving behind them, +and the sea crooning, crooning, so far below, the man +was afraid. Was there a second sort of love, and had +he missed the best thing in life? +</P> + +<P> +He loved the clean airs of the country, sport of all +kinds, a home to go to. Yet he must spend his days +in close streets, in an eternal rush of entertainment +and entertaining; to go home to a little portion of a +great building, where he was merely one of the +tenants of a flat. +</P> + +<P> +If no one was coming, the little drawing-room was +left bare of flowers, neglected. Esmé said she could +not afford them every day. If he came home +to tea, an injured maid brought him a cup of +cold stuff, probably warmed from the morning's +teapot, with two slices of bread and butter on a +plate. +</P> + +<P> +This woman, sleeping so quietly, her long dark +lashes lying on a sun-kissed cheek, would create a +home, live in the quiet country, find companionship +without eternal rushing about to her fellow-mortals; +enjoy her month or two away, and then enjoy doubly +the coming to her own home. +</P> + +<P> +Man, with his pipe in his mouth and sitting +in silence, dreams foolishly as some growing +girl. +</P> + +<P> +In Bertie's dream he saw Cliff End inhabited; he +went round his farms, came back to the gardens to +walk in them with a slender figure by his side, with +a hundred things to think of, a hundred things to do. +The simpler things which weld home life together. +He saw toddling mites running to meet him, crying +to their dada; a boy who must learn to swim and +shoot and ride; a bonnie girl who would learn too, +but less strenuously. He saw cold winter shut out, +and two people who sat before a great fire, contented +to sit still and talk or read. So thinking, the dream +passed from waking; his eyes closed, and he, too, +fell asleep. +</P> + +<P> +A man strolling along the cliffs paused suddenly, +whistled and paused, looking down at the two. +</P> + +<P> +A sly-eyed, freckled youth, who whistled again, +drew back, clicked the shutter of the camera he +carried, and went on, laughing. +</P> + +<P> +"A pretty picture," he said contemptuously. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie awoke with the faint whistle in his ears—woke +to find Estelle's ruffled head close against his +own. He sat up, wondering how long he had been +asleep. +</P> + +<P> +The freckled stranger was visible just dipping +down to the steep path which led to the sea. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope he did not see us. Good Lord! I hope +he did not see us!" +</P> + +<P> +Estelle woke too, coming from sleep as a child +does, rose-flushed, blinking, rubbing her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I have been asleep," she cried, "wasting our +day." +</P> + +<P> +"Our day," he said, as if the words hurt +him. +</P> + +<P> +He pulled her to her feet. Estelle was not beautiful, +but in her sweet, clear eyes, in the curve of her +mouth, the soft brownness of her skin was something +more dangerous than mere beauty. It was soul +shining through her grey eyes, the power of love, +the possibility of passion. It was intelligence, +sympathy. Who wisely said some women make +nets and others cages? +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, Denise, Dollie, women of their type, could +hold their cages out, catch a bird and watch it flutter, +but, wearying of him, forget his sugar and his bird-seed, +and leave the door open with the careless +certainty of finding another capture. +</P> + +<P> +But with a net woven about him, a strong net +made of such soft stuff that it did not hurt, the +captive bird was caught for life, meshed, ensnared for +ever. +</P> + +<P> +"Come—it is late," Bertie said. +</P> + +<P> +As his hands closed on hers, Estelle felt the flush +on her cheeks deepen, her hands grow cold. There is +a wonder to all in the dawn of love; with some it +leaps from the cold night into a sudden glow, not so +much dawn as a glorious revealing of the sun. It +was so with Estelle; there was no trembling opal in +her mental sky, no gradual melting of the mists +of twilight. She knew. She loved this man. He +was another woman's husband, but she loved him—would +love him to her life's end. He must never +know, and yet, being intensely human as he helped +her up the bank, there was a sick longing that he +might care too, even if it meant their instant +parting. +</P> + +<P> +She fought it back; she was loyal and simple; +her love must be her own; her joy and her +despair. +</P> + +<P> +"Hurry, Estelle; we shall miss the train," he +said. "It's very late." +</P> + +<P> +They were further away than they thought. The +path by the river was rough; they ran panting up +to the old house to see the man driving the dog-cart +away from the door. +</P> + +<P> +"It bain't no use, sir," he said; "she'm near +station now, and it's two mile an' more." +</P> + +<P> +"There's another?" Bertie said. +</P> + +<P> +There was one more, getting them into London +at four next morning. Estelle was put out, half +frightened. Her aunt would be annoyed. +</P> + +<P> +"But she will know it is an accident," she said. +"And we can see the sea by moonshine now." +</P> + +<P> +They saw it as they drove to the slow train, a wide +shimmer of mystery, silver and grey and opal, +frostily chill, wondrously limitless; the hoarse +whisper of its waves booming through the still +night. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé! Will Esmé mind?" Estelle asked as +they steamed into London. +</P> + +<P> +"She has gone to several balls; she will never +know," he said a little bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +He did not see Esmé again until next evening. +The knowledge of this new thing in his life made him +penitent, anxious to find again the charm of the +golden hair, of the brilliantly-tinted skin. He came +from a long interview with his uncle, whipping himself +with a mental switch; determined to be so strong +that his friendship with Estelle might continue as +it was—reasoning out that he had been mad upon the +cliffs, half asleep and dreaming. +</P> + +<P> +He came in to find Esmé in one of her restless +moods, reading over letters, peevishly crumpling +bills, grumbling at poverty. He did not know that +the memory of a pinched baby face was always before +her eyes—that she feared for the life of the son she +had sold. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Es," he said, and kissed her. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't rumple my hair," she answered; "it's +done for dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"Worrying over bills?" he asked gently. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé pulled away one letter which he had taken +up. "I can pay them," she flashed peevishly. +"Don't worry." Denise's allowance was due again—overdue—and +Esmé did not like to write or +telephone, and had not seen Lady Blakeney for +a week. +</P> + +<P> +It was due to her, and overdue to others. Claire's +bill ran in for four pungent pages, and ran to three +figures, which did not commence with a unit. There +were jewels, the motor hire. Oh! of what use was +five hundred pounds? +</P> + +<P> +If she had had the boy here she would +have gone to the country, been content for his +sake. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't worry." Bertie put his hand on hers. +"Es—I've been talking to Uncle Hugh." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" She woke up, suddenly hopeful. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'm his nephew. He will make me a big +allowance, leave me all he has—if—" +</P> + +<P> +"If what?" cried Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +"If we have a son before he dies," said Bertie. +"That is the only stipulation. If not, I remain as +I am. He has some craze about another Hugh +Carteret. Of course there will be the title later +on." +</P> + +<P> +"If we have a son." Esmé stood up and laughed. +"A son!" she said, "a son! I—" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Esmé!" Bertie ran to her. "Oh, don't +cry like that. My dear, don't cry like that." +</P> + +<P> +The wild outburst of a woman in hysterics filled +the little room. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X +</H3> + +<P> +"OH, of course, I'd forgotten." Denise had been +reminded of her promise—looked vaguely annoyed. +"H'm! I'm short now. Can't ask Cyrrie, can I? +I'll bring you two hundred, Esmé! Give you some +more in August, my quarter day." +</P> + +<P> +"But I want it. I've run into debt counting on +it," said Esmé, sullenly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you've got old Hugh to fall back on now +Bertie's the heir. If I could ask Cyrrie—but I +can't! Two hundred's a lot, Esmé. You must +make it do." +</P> + +<P> +"You'll be away in August," Esmé said. "You +can't send me so much in a cheque." +</P> + +<P> +"No. I'll get notes. I'll be sure to. I shall be +at home. Wonders will never cease. I've got to +keep very quiet just now," said Denise. "It's +wonderful—and I'm not afraid." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" Esmé sat up. "And—if it's a son, +Denise, your own son—you—what will you do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yet must the alien remain the heir." Denise +shrugged her shoulders. "I should never dare to +tell. You don't know Cyrrie. He'd send me away +somewhere with three hundred a year, and never +see or speak to me again. For Heaven's sake, Es, +remember that. Besides, it would all take some +proving now." +</P> + +<P> +"Be good to my boy or I'll claim him," said +Esmé, stormily. +</P> + +<P> +"Hush! Es. Don't!" Denise looked terrified. +"And you dare not, either. Your Bertie would not +forgive. Look here! I've got a pendant I don't +want; take it and sell it. It's worth two hundred. +And I'll scrape out three for you somehow. Oh, +here's Cyrrie." +</P> + +<P> +The big man came in. There was a sense of +power about him and of relentless purpose. His +under jaw, his deeply-set eyes, were those of a +man who, once roused, could be cruel, and even +merciless. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello! Mrs Carteret." He was always cordial +to Esmé. "We've missed you lately. Den, the +boy's peaky—wants fresh air, his nurse says." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé turned white, clenched her hands until her +gloves split and burst. +</P> + +<P> +"Send him to the sea," said Denise, carelessly. +"Broadstairs, Cromer, anywhere, Cyrrie." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I think we'll go home. It's better for you +too." Sir Cyril's big jaw shot out. "We'll go +home, Den. I've wired, and the boy can go on to-morrow. +Drive down, it will do him good, in the +big car." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" Esmé saw that Denise objected, hated +going, yet was afraid to object once her husband had +decided. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I'm glad you're sending him out of London," +Esmé burst out. "He looks wretched. I am +glad." +</P> + +<P> +"He's your godson, isn't he?" laughed Blakeney. +"You were good then, Mrs Carteret. Seen to-day's +paper? That little fool of a Cantilupe woman has +made a mess of it, and Cantilupe was right to take +it to court. Seen the evidence? She forged his +name to a cheque for five hundred to give to this +wretched man. Trusted to Canty's absolute carelessness. +He never looked at accounts. But the +bank grew uneasy, 'phoned to Canty, and he said +it was his signature all right and paid. Then he +found out where the money had gone to, and all the +rest, and she defended like a fool. The kindest +fellow in the world, but he's merciless now. Told +about the cheque so as to shame her." +</P> + +<P> +"She was his wife. He should have remembered +that," faltered Denise. +</P> + +<P> +"She had deceived him," Sir Cyril answered. +"No man worth the name forgets that. She deceived +him. I couldn't forgive five minutes of it, +especially as there are no children; not that sort of +deceit. I was even too hard on folly once, but +that's different." He went out of the room, big +and strong and determined. +</P> + +<P> +"Bother that boy!" stormed Denise. "There +are three or four things I hate missing. Oh, bother! +bother!" She stamped her foot in her impatience, +frowning and biting at her fingers. "Oh, here, +Esmé. Come to my room." +</P> + +<P> +The maid was there, laying out a new gown. +</P> + +<P> +"You can go, Sutton. Here! slip it away." +Denise opened a case, pulled out a heavy pendant, a +tasteless, valuable thing. +</P> + +<P> +"Old Susan, Cyrrie's aunt, sent it to me when she +heard I was a mother." Denise laughed. "Green +said it was worth three hundred. I've loads of +others, and no one will miss this. I'll get you the +notes." +</P> + +<P> +Denise was friendly again, more like her old self, +but moved, as Esmé knew, by fear, and not by +gratitude or love. +</P> + +<P> +Denise was called to the telephone. Esmé was +left alone for a time in the luxurious bedroom, +standing by the open safe, enviously fingering the +jewels. How lovely they were. A necklace of +diamonds and emeralds; Cartier work; a jewelled +snake with ruby eyes. A rope of pearls. Sapphires, +opals, emeralds, all glowing as Esmé opened the +cases. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I thought her ladyship was here, mem," the +maid had come in quietly. Esmé turned with a +start. +</P> + +<P> +"Her ladyship went to the telephone." Esmé +closed her hand about the pendant, which she had +been holding carelessly. She could see the maid +watching her covertly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, there you are, Denise." Esmé still held +the heavy pendant, afraid to put it in her bag +before the maid, afraid to show it. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I'm late too. Cyril's waiting. We're +lunching out. My hat, Sutton, my veil, quickly!" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé slipped the pendant into her bag as the +maid turned away. The Blakeneys drove her to +Jules, where she said she would be lunching. +</P> + +<P> +But, not hungry, she went on to Benhusan, a well-known +jeweller, offering her pendant. +</P> + +<P> +The head man took it, looking at the heavy +stones. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, we could give two hundred for this, to +break up. It's tasteless." He examined it carefully. +"Came from us, originally," he said. "We +all have our private mark, madam. Made to order, +no doubt. I'll speak to Mr Benhusan, madam. +One moment." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé flushed with annoyance. They might look +up the pendant, perhaps speak of it to someone. +</P> + +<P> +She got two hundred and thirty for it and went +out. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Benhusan nodded at the heavy bauble. "It +was made for the Dowager Lady Blakeney," he +said. "I remember it. The centre stone is worth +all the money we have given for it." +</P> + +<P> +Absently, with a lack of her usual shrewdness, +Esmé went to the door, opened it, and remembered +her notes; they had paid her. +</P> + +<P> +She had put three into her bag, when a thin hand +shot out, grabbed the rest, and before she could +even cry out, the thief was lost in the crowd. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé stood stricken, shaking more with futile +anger than anything else. Her brains were quick. +If she went back, raised the hue and cry, what then? +Bertie would ask her what pendant she was selling. +The whole thing would come out. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé walked away, her face white, her hands +shaking. She counted what was left at her club +in Dover Street; three notes for fifty each. So she +was robbed of over a hundred, and someone must +go unpaid. Unless Denise would make it up. +There was too much loyalty in Esmé to think of +working on her friend's fears. She sat brooding, +smoking, too much upset to eat. A boy she knew +came in, noticed her white cheeks—a thin and somewhat +stupid youth, who posed as a Don Juan, considered +himself irresistible. +</P> + +<P> +"Not lookin' a bit well," he said. "No +luncheon? Come along down to the Berkeley and +have a little champagne. Let me look after you, +dear lady." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé was a beauty; he walked proudly with her, +looking at her dazzling colouring, her well-formed, +supple limbs. +</P> + +<P> +She let herself be distracted by flattery, listened +to foolish compliment, to praise of her glorious hair, +her beautiful eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Wouldn't she come for a drive some Sunday? +The new Daimler was a dear. Down to Brighton +or away into the country for a picnic. She must +let him see more of her. +</P> + +<P> +Angy Beerhaven leant across the table, <i>empresse</i>, +showing how ready he was to love, to be a devoted +friend. +</P> + +<P> +Over champagne and sandwiches Esmé babbled a +little, told of her loss, of how hard up she was. +</P> + +<P> +With sympathy discreetly veiled behind his +cigarette smoke, Angy hinted. Pretty women need +never be hard up. Fellows would only find it a +pleasure to make life easy for them if—there was +friendship, real friendship, between good pals. +</P> + +<P> +The restaurant was almost empty; they sat in a +quiet corner. With wits suddenly sharpened, Esmé +looked at the thin, weakly vicious face, at the boy's +eyes glittering over her beauty, already seeing himself +chosen. His carefully-tended hands were opening +his gold cigarette-case. She shuddered. If she +allowed those hands the right to caress her she could +be free of debt and care—for a time. +</P> + +<P> +Love affairs were butterflies of a season. Next +year it would have to be someone else; there would +be the distraction of it, the adoration which always +pleases a woman; and then the fading, the breaking +free. The meeting again with a careless good-morning, +with the shame searing her soul as she +remembered. +</P> + +<P> +Distraction, a little less time to think, was what +Esmé wanted. She saw too clearly for this. She +had sold one birthright without thought; but not +this second one of her self-respect. +</P> + +<P> +She got up, smiling sweetly. It had been charming +of Mr Beerhaven to look after her; she was +feeling so much better now. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +Angy unadulterated from seven until one! Esmé +smiled. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé promised to lightly; went away leaving +the boy frowning. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Clutching the rest of her money, Esmé 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 muffins; the second and third where +one could smoke; these rooms were separated by +portičres of Indian beads, rattling as one passed +through. +</P> + +<P> +Tired, her head aching from the champagne, Esmé +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. +</P> + +<P> +Voices drifted to her from the inner room. It was +a mere cupboard, kept in semi-darkness. +</P> + +<P> +She listened at length, listened with a start. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it safe here by the door?" +</P> + +<P> +The beads rattled. She heard Jimmie Gore +Helmsley's voice. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But if people heard of it?" Sybil Chauntsey +faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she whispered. "No." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Her letters. Sybil knew that she had written +two foolish, girlishly gushing notes, open to several +constructions. In one she had spoken of that +ripping tea at his rooms. She shivered again. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll let you know," she faltered. "Oh! I'll try +to come." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé 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-snatched-up newspaper. They did not +notice her. +</P> + +<P> +Tragedy and comedy were being played out, to +each their lines and part. +</P> + +<P> +Denise Blakeney, dressing for dinner, had to play +her part without rehearsal. +</P> + +<P> +"The sapphires, Sutton," she said, "the +sapphires and diamonds. They'll go with this +cream gown. And the aigrette with the sapphire +stars." +</P> + +<P> +Sutton's prim voice rose a little as she bent over +the safe. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you wearing the heavy diamond pendant, +m'lady?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." Denise flushed, bending over something +on the dressing-table to hide her rising colour. +</P> + +<P> +"It's not here, m'lady, and it was here at +luncheon-time when I gave you the pink pearls." +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" Sir Cyril, big-jowled, heavy, +strolled in. +</P> + +<P> +Sutton repeated the news of the loss, turning over +the cases. "The case is here," she said, "but I +noticed it open." +</P> + +<P> +"The pendant old Aunt Sukey sent?" Sir Cyril +went to the safe himself. "That's valuable." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"It must be there," she repeated sharply. "It's +just muddled away; or I may have lost it. I'm very +careless." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +He had seen Esmé Carteret bending over the safe, +fingering the jewels. She could not ... it was a +monstrous thing! +</P> + +<P> +He put the idea away resolutely as though it were +some crawling beast; came down to where his wife +was getting into her motor. +</P> + +<P> +"You must have dropped it," he said slowly, +"but I thought you never wore the thing. We'll +offer a reward." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, very well," Denise Blakeney answered +nervously, pulling at the buttons 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." +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé Carteret"—Denise could see the big, heavy +face thrust forward, as Sir Cyril lighted a cigarette—"Esmé +Carteret is—er—pretty well off, isn't she, +now that old Hugh's sons are dead?" +</P> + +<P> +"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 Esmé could not go about as she +does." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +It is a shallow nature's joy, it has power to +forget. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil would not go to a dance that evening; she +pleaded headache, sat in her stuffy room, looking out +across the hot slates, thinking. +</P> + +<P> +She was afraid. Who would help her now to pay +this man and so get out of his power? She had +learned to dread him. +</P> + +<P> +She jumped up suddenly, ran to her writing-table. +Old memories crowded back to her, her first years of +coming out, when she had been so happy. She saw +the library at the Holbrooks', felt warm young +hands on hers, heard a voice saying: +</P> + +<P> +"But if you are ever in any trouble, if you want +help, send for me. I shall always be ready." +</P> + +<P> +Her young soldier lover would help her now; and +with wet eyes above the paper she wrote on, Sybil +knew how she would turn to him again. How gifts +of flowers and sweets, expensive dinners and suppers, +stolen interviews for tea and subtle flattery, had lost +their charm. +</P> + +<P> +She only wrote a few lines, posted it to York, +where his regiment was stationed; she wanted his +help, urgently; would he come to her <i>at once</i>? +</P> + +<P> +So the hot curtain of night fell on another act for +Sybil. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had gone home after tea, found Bertie there, +resting in the flowerless drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +With nerves strung up, with her hidden excitement +wearing her out, she came to him, threw herself +suddenly on her knees beside him, laid her face +against his, tried to wake the thrill which the touch +of his lips had given her once. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie, surprised, drew her to him, kissing the red +mouth. +</P> + +<P> +It had been innocent of lip salve when he had +kissed them first; her soft cheeks had not been +plastered with expensive creams and powder. As +hungry people imagine feasts, so Esmé sought for +forgetfulness in passionate kisses, in new transports +of love. Sought—and found no place. It seemed +to her that Bertie had grown cold, that he no longer +cared for her. He had never been a sensualist, only +an honest lover. +</P> + +<P> +Whispered hints of Gore Helmsley's, little stories +he had told her, came to her as she rested her cheek +against her husband's. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear old Es," he said affectionately, but not +passionately. "Dear old butterfly, it's nice to have +my girlie loving again; but we'll be late for dinner +if we don't dress quickly. Es, call your maid." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé rang listlessly; she hardly knew what she +wanted, save that it was something which would +wipe away her bitter thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +Through dinner she was recklessly merry, witty in +her flashing way; brilliantly, a little haggardly, +pretty. The patches of pink were more pronounced +on her cheeks, her powder thicker. +</P> + +<P> +Then, driving home in the cool, she remembered +Sybil Chauntsey. Here was another woman about +to make a mistake, to realize too late, as she +had done, that money cannot repay peace of mind. +Deep, too, in Esmé's mind, was a horror of sinning. +She was instinctively pure herself; her ideas set +deeply in a bed of conventionality. A girl of Sybil's +type would suffer all her life if she once slipped, +perhaps afterwards grow completely reckless, look on +her one sin as so deadly that a host of others could +matter little, and might drown thought. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé forgot Sybil until Sunday morning. Angy +Beerhaven had proved himself in earnest, had +almost insisted on a trip in his new car. "Bring +anyone—your husband and a friend," he said. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had agreed heartily. There was Estelle; +she would like the drive. As the huge cream-coloured +Daimler hummed softly at her door, Angy +asked where they would go to. +</P> + +<P> +"The sea would be lovely to-day," he said. "Or +there are the Downs or the Forest." +</P> + +<P> +"The sea!" Esmé shot out swiftly. "The sea!" +she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Then Brighton. It's a nice run; there are +decent hotels. One only gets cold beef and cutlets +in heaps of places." +</P> + +<P> +"Brighton let it be," she said carelessly. +</P> + +<P> +The Daimler seemed a live monster purring as +she flew along the smooth roads, laughing at her hills, +answering sweetly to her brakes, swinging her great +length contemptuously past weaker sisters. +</P> + +<P> +The salt kiss of the sea was on their faces as they +dipped into Brighton. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll run out again afterwards," Angy said; +"get a good blow." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had been a merry companion on the way +down. +</P> + +<P> +Strolling on the front, Esmé started suddenly. +Sybil might be here; she remembered the conversation +now. In the huge place it would be almost +impossible to find her. Jimmie would not come to +the best-known hotels. +</P> + +<P> +But if she could—it would be worth some +trouble. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's fit of boredom vanished. She was full of +plans. They would run off for a long run, come back +to tea, dine again in Brighton and go home in the +cool. +</P> + +<P> +"They'll be quite happy anywhere," she said, +nodding towards Estelle and Bertie. "We can go +off by ourselves." +</P> + +<P> +Angy's hopes grew deeper. His fatuously ardent +glances were more frequent. He whispered eager +nonsense to Esmé, hinted at happy future drives +and meetings, of lending her the car altogether if she +liked. +</P> + +<P> +To have a sixty Daimler at one's disposal would +be convenient, but as it would generally include +Angy Beerhaven as chauffeur, Esmé shrugged her +shoulders. A taxi suited her better, though she did +not say so. +</P> + +<P> +After tea she grew restless; wanted to see other +hotels, to inspect Brighton. The Metropole was too +crowded. +</P> + +<P> +"Come with me," she said to Angy; "we'll +prospect, and telephone here if we find some nest +which suits me." +</P> + +<P> +A cabman gave her information. +</P> + +<P> +"Quiet hotels, but smart, nice? He'd tell of +one, yes, miss, he would." +</P> + +<P> +It was only as they went on that Esmé realized +the smirk of innuendo on the man's red face. +</P> + +<P> +"Often driven parties there as wanted to be quiet +an' comfabul," said Jehu, taking a shilling graciously. +"Thank you, lady, and good luck." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé went to two or three places, read the dinner +menu carefully, made Angy wonder what restless +spirit possessed her, then came to the jarvey's +recommendation, a small hotel facing the sea, standing +modestly behind a long strip of garden. The +garden was full of roses and shrubs, so that the porch +was almost concealed. +</P> + +<P> +The lady peering out of the little office was unmistakably +French. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame wished to see the dinner menu—but +certainly! Madame would want a private room, +no doubt; the coffee-room was small and the tables +already crowded." +</P> + +<P> +"It is a hotel of private rooms," said Esmé to +herself. She went on to a small, dimly-lighted +veranda, set with huge palms and cunningly-placed +nooks. She paused abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"I must go back! Oh, I must!" said Sybil's +voice. "We shall miss the train—please let +me." +</P> + +<P> +"My cousin cannot be any time. Most annoying +her being out all day. Don't spoil a perfect day, +little Sybil. There's a late train we can catch. Or, +better still, hire a car and drive up." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé turned swiftly to her somewhat bewildered +cavalier. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Mr Beerhaven," she said. "Will you go +to the telephone—order dinner at the Metropole, +and see if they have quails—and peaches. It's the +best place, after all. I'll wait here for you. Hurry, +or they won't have shot the quails." +</P> + +<P> +Angy left, ruminating on the logic of women. +</P> + +<P> +"But give me my letters," she heard Sybil plead. +"Please do! You promised them if I came here +to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"I promised—I will fulfil. After dinner you +shall have your letters, little girl. Now, don't get +silly and nervous." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I'll send you that money when I can," +Sybil faltered, "but—" +</P> + +<P> +"I won't ask you for the money. You were a +good child to come here, little Sybil." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé looked in. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil was lying back in a long chair, her face +white, her eyes half resentful, half fascinated. +Jimmie Helmsley, bending over her, began to stroke +her hands softly. His dark eyes bore no half +thoughts in them. +</P> + +<P> +"After dinner," he whispered. "I won't tease +you any more about that silly debt." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé pushed aside a spiky frond; she was +righteously angry. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Sybil," she said. "Your mother asked me +if I came across you to take you home in our car. +I was sampling hotels and luckily ran you to +earth." +</P> + +<P> +Sybil sprang up. Resentment, fascination, +merged to sudden wild relief. She had told her +mother that she was spending the day with a +school friend. +</P> + +<P> +"But—How very lucky your running across +us." Gore Helmsley's teeth showed too much as +he smiled; it made his greeting exceedingly like a +snarl. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, so lucky." Esmé listened to Helmsley's +pattered explanation. "His cousin, Mrs Gore, etc. +Very awkward. Out of Brighton. They had come +here to wait for her." +</P> + +<P> +"Very awkward," said Esmé, drily. "Well, +you must join us at dinner. You can't wait here—alone." +</P> + +<P> +A waiter padded noiselessly in. Dinner would be +ready in ten minutes in Number Twenty-seven. +They had procured the roses which Monsieur had +ordered. +</P> + +<P> +It amused Esmé a little to watch Gore Helmsley +fight back his anger, mask himself in a moment in a +thin cloak of carelessness. He followed the waiter +into the hall. +</P> + +<P> +"Sybil," said Esmé, sharply, "this is not wise, +not right." +</P> + +<P> +"We came to meet a cousin," Sybil whimpered. +"She never came. I had to come—I had to. And +now he's angry." She shivered a little, half tearful, +half frightened. +</P> + +<P> +"No, she would not come," said Esmé, drily; +"but lie as I lie, my child, or there may be some +pretty stories floating about London." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! you've ordered dinner," she said to Angy, +"and I've just found Miss Chauntsey. She was +dining with Captain Helmsley's cousin, Mrs Gore. +But she is putting her off and joining our party at +the Metropole." +</P> + +<P> +Mr Beerhaven opened his mouth twice without +emitting any particular sound. +</P> + +<P> +"She's just gone home, hasn't she, Sybil?" said +Esmé. "Quite a pretty woman. Come along." +</P> + +<P> +Again Angy opened his mouth and shut it. It +was not his part to say that he knew Mrs Gore to be +in London. Angy was not altogether bad-hearted +and he disliked Jimmie Gore Helmsley. +</P> + +<P> +"Rotten!" said Mr Beerhaven, speaking at last. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" said Esmé, sharply. +</P> + +<P> +"Rotten luck, y'know, on Mrs Gore, but so glad. +We'd better drive back. And a rotten chap," said +Angy, forcibly. "You're a brick, Mrs Carteret." +This speech made Esmé understand that Angy Beerhaven +was not as big a fool as he looked. +</P> + +<P> +In the cab Sybil leant back, frightened. She was +afraid of Gore Helmsley's too-pleasant smile—afraid +of the look in his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had whispered a few swiftly-spoken words +to him, directing that their lies should be alike. +</P> + +<P> +"It was exceedingly awkward," she said drily. +</P> + +<P> +Angy had ordered everything he could think of. +They began on iced caviare and finished up with +forced peaches. He was exceedingly rich, and a +snare wrought of gold was the only one he knew of. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil was quiet through dinner, eating nothing, +visibly unhappy. +</P> + +<P> +Afterwards, as they sat in the cool, smoking, Gore +Helmsley slipped to her side. +</P> + +<P> +"Was there ever anything so unlucky?" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"It was—very unlucky," said Sybil, dully. +</P> + +<P> +"That woman hunting round for dinner, so she +says. She's fairly decent, I fancy, won't blab. +She lied brilliantly. It was so very awkward, and +now Cissy will be quite disappointed. She 'phoned +to say she was just starting to meet us. It was a +lovely day together," he whispered. "Come to tea +with me to-morrow, Sybil." +</P> + +<P> +"You promised me my letters," she shot out, her +heart thumping, "and my I.O.U. Give them to me." +</P> + +<P> +"To-morrow," he said lightly. "I would have +given them to you to-night, Sybil. Silly child ever +to sign things." +</P> + +<P> +Sybil's lip trembled; the snare was about her feet. +</P> + +<P> +A tall man pushed his way through the crowd, +looking anxiously at the tables. He was covered +with the dust of a long journey; he came quickly, +staring at each group. +</P> + +<P> +"Oliver!" Sybil sprang to her feet, rushed +across to him. "Oh, Captain Knox, why did you +not come yesterday?" +</P> + +<P> +"I only got back to York this morning. I +motored to London, and it took me hours to find +your mother. Who is that—in the shadow?" +</P> + +<P> +"Captain Gore Helmsley." Sybil's voice grew shrill. +</P> + +<P> +"And Sybil is here with me," said Esmé, coming +out of another shadow. "Take her for a walk before +we start. I want to talk to my friend here." +</P> + +<P> +"Sybil—why did you write for me like that?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted you to save me, and you never came," +she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"But I am not too late. My God, not that!" +</P> + +<P> +Then, stumblingly, she told him her story of +sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +"I was going to ask you to pay the debt for me," +she said, "to get me clear. I dare not tell my mother +or father." +</P> + +<P> +"I brought money, as you said you wanted it; +and there is nothing more, Sybil?" he said, taking +her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing. We spent the day here—waiting for +Mrs Gore. And oh, I was afraid." +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs Gore is in London. I saw her as I was +looking for your mother." +</P> + +<P> +"In London!" Sybil's cheeks grew very white. +It had all been a lie. She would have dined at the +small hotel, waiting for the woman who could never +have joined them. And afterwards, alone with the +man she feared and yet who influenced her. +</P> + +<P> +Sybil was no innocent fool; the blackness of the +chasm she had just missed sliding into was plainly +before her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +She flung herself suddenly into Knox's arms. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Oliver, if you want me still, take me," she +sobbed, "for I am a fool, and not fit to look after +myself. I don't mind being poor; I only want +you." +</P> + +<P> +Captain Gore Helmsley, meanwhile, was listening +to a few softly-uttered home-truths from Esmé +Carteret. +</P> + +<P> +"You might have ruined the child's reputation," +she said angrily. "She was a fool to come here +with you. Married women are fair game, Jimmie, +but a girl has not learnt how to guard. It's not fair." +</P> + +<P> +Sybil, with the frightened look gone from her +eyes, came back to the table on the veranda. +</P> + +<P> +"I owe you some money, Captain Gore Helmsley," +she said clearly, "for bridge debts. It was good of +you to let it stand over." She laid a cheque on the +table. "Will you give me back my acknowledgments? +Oliver is paying for me—we are going to be +married." +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie, smiling sweetly, pulled out his pocketbook, +took from it a neatly-folded paper. +</P> + +<P> +"And—two letters—referring to the debt," said +Sybil, steadily. +</P> + +<P> +"Not altogether to the debt." Jimmie laughed. +"You are as unkind now, Miss Chauntsey, as you are +dramatic." +</P> + +<P> +"I want them," she said coldly. "You gave me +your promise that I should have them back." +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie took out the letters. +</P> + +<P> +"I am giving them to Oliver to read, and then +we'll burn them," she said simply. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, hang it!" said Gore Helmsley, blankly; +"this <i>has</i> been a nice evening!" +</P> + +<P> +"In which you got your dinner and desserts," +flashed Esmé, laughing openly. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI +</H3> + +<P> +A solemn child, healthy in body, but with wistful +eyes, paddled his spade into wet shingly sand at +Bournemouth. He was precociously wise, already +given to thought, to wondering as children wonder. +</P> + +<P> +What Cyril wondered was why there were so many +scold words in the world? Why it was always, +"Don't, Cyril!" and "Cyril, run away!" or "Cyril, +I will not have you rough to your brother." +</P> + +<P> +Why mother, who was a beautiful thing, would +catch up little Cecil and look so bitterly at him, and +on more bitterly still to Cyril. +</P> + +<P> +"Funny how her ladyship adores Master Cecil," +Mrs Stanson would confide to the under-nurse; +"being delicate, I suppose." +</P> + +<P> +Cyril was heir to four places, to grouse moors and +fishings, to diamonds and plate and pictures, all +entailed. Cecil would have a younger son's ample +portion, and no more. Cecil was puny, a weakling; +his father sighed over him. +</P> + +<P> +Paddling his spade, Baby Cyril came round the +castle, brushed a little roughly against Baby Cecil; +the spoilt child fell and whimpered. +</P> + +<P> +"Cyril sorry. I sorry, Cecil." +</P> + +<P> +"Cyril, you rough little wretch!" Lady Blakeney +leant forward, slapping the boy harshly. "You +little bully!" +</P> + +<P> +"I"—Cyril touched the white place which stung +on his soft cheek, the white which turned to dull red. +"I—" His mouth quivered, but he said nothing, +merely looked out at the heaving sea. +</P> + +<P> +The pathos in his child's eyes might have touched +anyone but a mother jealous of another woman's +child, storming behind a rage which must be hidden. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé Carteret's baby must oust Denise's son from +his kingdom. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Denise! How can you?" A pained cry, +another woman springing forward, catching the +slapped baby to her. "Denise! How can you!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not, Esmé? He's a born bully. Bad-tempered, +always hurting Cecil. A great strong +tyrant." +</P> + +<P> +The women's eyes met with anger and dislike +flashing in both glances. +</P> + +<P> +It was not altogether chance which had brought +Esmé to Bournemouth. She hunted health now, +strove for what once had been hers to trifle with—hunted +health and peace, and found neither. +</P> + +<P> +Denise's payments were desultory; she had to +show outward civility to Esmé to make up for the +half-yearly hush-money. Sir Cyril had houses at +Bournemouth; she had offered one to the Carterets +for nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Esmé, Cyril. I told her she might have the +little lodge. She's looking wretched." +</P> + +<P> +"She's the most restless being on earth. Of course, +Den; give it to her. If she had a pair of boys, now, +as you have." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." Denise had to hide the pain in her eyes, +for with Cecil's birth had come a fierce mother-love, +making the careless indifference which she had felt +for Cyril turn to bitter dislike. He got the measles, +brought it to her boy, who almost died of it; whooping-cough, +before the child was old enough to bear it +well. +</P> + +<P> +They were down at Blakeney Court when Denise +told her husband that she had lent Esmé the lodge. +The boys were playing outside; the little one crawling +solemnly, Cyril arranging sticks and flowers into a +pattern. +</P> + +<P> +"He's got an extraordinary look of someone," said +Sir Cyril. "Cecil's a true Blakeney, if he wasn't so +delicate; but Cyril's finer—not like us; he mopes +and dreams already." +</P> + +<P> +If there were no Cyril! Denise clenched her +hands, understood how men felt before they brushed +aside some life in their path. That day was wet later; +she found the children playing in the picture-gallery, +with Nurse Stanson showing a friend the Romneys +and the Gainsboroughs, and other treasures which +represented a fortune. +</P> + +<P> +Cyril loved one cavalier, painted on a fiery charger, +an impossible beast, all tail and eyes and nostril. +The boy was happy staring at the picture, patting at +the great frame. "Cyrrie's man," he would say. +"Cyrrie's man." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Cyril's man—all Cyril's men," Denise flashed +out furiously. "No men for Cecil." +</P> + +<P> +"Cecil not care for Cyril's man, mummie," the +child's eyes looked wistfully at Denise. "He never +look up yet." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, they'll all be yours—gloat over it!" snapped +Denise. "Take your friend on, Mrs Stanson; show +her the picture of Lady Mary Blakeney—the one by +Lely. Yes, all yours!" Half unconsciously she +pushed Cyril; he slipped on the polished floor, slid +toward the fireplace, fell with his yellow head not +three inches from the old stone kerb. +</P> + +<P> +Nurse Stanson ran to him, screaming. Demon-driven, +Denise had watched. If—if—the little pate +had hit the hard, cold stone, if her boy had been left +heir. +</P> + +<P> +"All right, mummie—Cyril not hurt," he had said, +bravely, as he got up. +</P> + +<P> +And now—they were playing at Bournemouth, and +Baby Cyril had come through croup, with the best +doctors in London striving against King Death for +the life of Sir Cyril's heir. +</P> + +<P> +How many children would have died in the wheezing, +cruel struggle! At heart it made Denise a +murderess, and she hated herself for it. +</P> + +<P> +"You—you are cruel to that child," Esmé said. +"You are, Denise. Take care." +</P> + +<P> +Two small, sand-dusted hands pushed her away. +Cyril backed with dignity. +</P> + +<P> +"Mummie only made a miftook, tank you," he +said—"only a miftook." +</P> + +<P> +He was loyal to the woman who hated him. Her +child, yet he pushed her away, would not accept the +clinging tenderness of her hands. Esmé sat down +again, her eyes hard and bitter. +</P> + +<P> +The years had changed her greatly. Her dazzling +beauty had not so much faded as hardened. Her +eyes were still bright, her hair gold; but the flush of +red-and-white was all art now; her mouth had +tightened; the brightness of her blue eyes was that +of aching restlessness. +</P> + +<P> +She had tried rest cures and come away half maddened +by the quiet, by her leisure to think. She had +travelled and come home to England because the +boy was there. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes she would turn to Bertie, show the +same half-wild outbursts of tenderness which she +had first shown on the day she had sold the pendant; +trying to find comfort in his caresses, clinging to +him, pouring out tender words. Then the phase +would pass. Without perfect confidence perfect +love cannot exist. There was a secret between them; +they were lovers no longer. For weeks she would +go her own careless way, spending recklessly, always +in debt, paying off the mites on account which make +debts rolling snowballs, mounting until they crush +the maker. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes Denise was difficult to get at; sometimes +she said she was afraid of Sir Cyril. The boy's +price came in small sums, fifties, twenties; often +frittered away on a day or two's foolish amusement. +</P> + +<P> +Old Hugh Carteret made his will, left it ready for +signature. +</P> + +<P> +"When you have a child, Bertie, I will leave you +everything," he said, "and make your allowance up +to what my boys had." He sighed as he spoke of +his loss. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé would have welcomed a child now—a mite +to wipe out Cyril's memory, but none came to her. +</P> + +<P> +She had taken to concealing her debts, to paying +them as well as she could, for Bertie grew sterner +as the years passed. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe that Reynolds girl advises him," Esmé +once confided to Dollie Gresham. "They're always +talking sense." +</P> + +<P> +"So frightfully trying," sympathized Dollie +kindly; "kind of thing one learns up for maiden +aunts, or uncles about to die; but in everyday life, +unbearable." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's old friends dropped her a little; she lost +her fresh, childish charm; she was always hinting at +her poverty; asking carelessly to be driven about in +other people's cars, picking up bundles of flowers and +carrying them off, vaguely promising to send the +money for them; but she hadn't time to go round to +get her own. She wanted now to be entertained +rather than entertain. She was feverishly anxious to +win at bridge, and irritable to her partner if they +lost. +</P> + +<P> +The club saw more of her. Men friends dropped +Esmé after a time; the disinterested spending of +money is not the way of ordinary mankind. Dinners, +suppers, flowers, theatres must have their credit +account on one side of the ledger; and Esmé would +have none of it. +</P> + +<P> +Behind the aching love for her lost boy she liked +her husband, and even if she had not liked him, +would not have deceived him. +</P> + +<P> +Stolen interviews, bribed maids, carefully-arranged +country-house visits, were not of her life. +</P> + +<P> +She sat still now, staring at the sea. Sometimes +she would get into a bathing dress, and swim out. +She was a fine swimmer, but the ripple of the salt +water meant an hour's careful repairs. Her figure, +too, had lost its supple beauty and she did not care +to show it. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle Reynolds was swimming, carefully, with +short, jerky strokes, Bertie holding one hand under +her small, firm chin. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle's mother had married again; the girl lived +on with her aunt in London. A dull life, only +brightened by her friendship with the Carterets. +</P> + +<P> +With eyes which would not see Estelle and Bertie +Carteret had put aside that day in Devonshire, tried +to hide from each other how sweet it was to meet and +talk, how easy to drop into the fatally intimate +confidences when man and woman tell of their +childhood, and their hopes and fears and foolish +little adventures, as men and women only tell to +those they care for. +</P> + +<P> +"She is no swimmer," said Esmé, contemptuously, +"that Reynolds girl." +</P> + +<P> +"Your husband takes care of her." Denise +Blakeney's laugh was full of spiteful meaning. "He +will teach her to swim, belle Esmé." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll swim myself; I'll show them how." Esmé's +bathing dress was by her side. She picked up the +bundle, calling to her maid; regretted the impulse +before she had got to her tent; flung herself hurriedly +then into the thin webbing, fastened on stockings +and sandals and a bright-coloured cap, and ran +out. +</P> + +<P> +"Here, Bertie, tell Estelle to look at me." Vanity +breaking out as she poised on the board, slipped into +the cool water, swam easily, powerfully out to sea; +the rush of the water soothed her nerves; she was its +master, beating it down, cleaving her way through it. +Treading water, she looked through the translucent +depths; how quiet it was there. What if she gave +up struggling and slid down to peace? She looked +down, morbidly fascinated. But before peace there +would be a choking struggle; the labouring of +smothered lungs for precious air; the few moments +of consciousness before the blackness came. +</P> + +<P> +A child's voice rose shrilly from the shore. +</P> + +<P> +"No, mumsie, Cyril didn't. He not sorry, 'cos +he didn't." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé turned and swam back. She could not die. +She would have a son of her own to still the longing +for the sad-eyed boy she had sold. +</P> + +<P> +"See, Estelle—strike out! Don't be afraid. Let +Bertie go." +</P> + +<P> +"But I am afraid, horribly. And I like one toe on +the sand," said Estelle, placidly. "I swim all short, +somehow." +</P> + +<P> +"It's because you are afraid." No one was looking +at her; Esmé's interest in the swimming died out +suddenly; she grew bored again, fretful. +</P> + +<P> +She went in, the bathing dress clinging to her, +showing how thin she was growing. +</P> + +<P> +"You had better go in too, Estelle. You've been +out for an hour. No, you'll never swim the +Channel." +</P> + +<P> +Half nervously Bertie sent the girl away, tried to +forget the thrill of contact as he held up the firm +little chin, as he touched her soft round limbs in +the water. +</P> + +<P> +The girl was so completely fresh and virginal, with +a new beauty growing in her face and sweet grey eyes. +She was lithe, active; he watched her run to catch +his wife, to walk in beside her. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé was quite young, but she walked stiffly; +she was growing angular. +</P> + +<P> +The two women pulled to the flap of the tent, flinging +off their dripping things. Esmé had thrown a +silken wrapper over her shoulders; she stood looking +into the long glass she had hung up in a corner. A +sense of futile anger racked her as she looked; the +powder was streaked on her face; the rouge standing +out patchily; she looked plain, almost old. The +mirror showed her slim body, with limbs growing +too thin, with her girlish outlines spoilt and gone. +Behind her, unconscious of scrutiny, she watched +Estelle drying herself vigorously, perfect of outline, +with rounded arms moving swiftly, slight and yet +well-covered, a model of girlish grace. +</P> + +<P> +With a muttered exclamation Esmé looked at tell-tale +marring lines, began hastily to put on her expensive +under-garments; cobwebby, silken things, +trimmed with fine real lace. +</P> + +<P> +"Go for my powder, Scott"—Esmé's maids never +stayed with her for long—"for my powder, +quickly!" +</P> + +<P> +"A clumsy woman." Esmé lighted a cigarette, +sat in the shadow, accentuating the age she had seen +by knowing of it, lines of unhappiness deepening in +her handsome face. +</P> + +<P> +Scott, objecting to a quarter of a mile in scorching +heat, went mincingly. Came back with powder +alone, without rouge or lip salve, or face cream—stood +woodenly listening to an outburst of abuse. +They were going on at once to a picnic luncheon; +the motors were waiting. Denise had called out +twice impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +"You said powder, mem." +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot go like this. I must get back; and +they will not wait." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had denounced the picnic as a bore in +the morning; now she knew what it would be +like to sit alone at a cold luncheon and miss the +drive. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame"—a soft voice spoke outside the flaps +of the tent. Scott, enraged and giving notice, had +left to bridle in the sunshine—"is there anything I +can do for Madame?" +</P> + +<P> +It was Esmé's old maid, Marie. The girl came in +with a Frenchwoman's deftness, and pulled a make-up +box from her pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"Pauvre, madame; after the bath too. I always +carry this." +</P> + +<P> +Marie dabbed swiftly until the streaked complexion +was made cunningly perfect. Marie was +out of a place—had left her last mistress, a plebeian +nobody. +</P> + +<P> +"With no dresses to come to me but those in +violet silks or of the colour called tomato!" cried +Marie. "Oh, Madame! And with no life, no +gaiety, nothing but five-o'clock parties, and long +luncheons, and, madame—oh, but raging when she +lost at the bridge. Mon Dieu! So I left Madame. +It is true one night I did put on the false plait—oh, but +not carefully, for a dinner, but after a great scolding +my fingers did tremble. Madame's great guest was +an Eveque, what you call down Church, and strict. +James the footman told me, and it was dreadful; +it was to his lap the loose plait fell. I left. Madame +is ravishing, and I would I were again in the service +of my dear Madame." +</P> + +<P> +It was easily arranged. Esmé forgot that Marie +might know a little and guess more. She sent the +irate Scott away immediately, and directed Marie +to the house they were lodging in. +</P> + +<P> +A glance at the glass had made Marie seem +indispensable; a brilliantly handsome face was +reflected there now, pink-cheeked, white-skinned, +smooth. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé! What have you been doing? We are +hopelessly late, and we are driving you." +</P> + +<P> +"All my powder was washed off"—Esmé was +frank, up to a certain point—"I'm sorry, Denise." +</P> + +<P> +"And Cyril will bring the children; they are +gone in the small car." Denise was irritated, +impatient. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril drove; a big, pearl-grey Mercedes hummed +away, nosing through traffic, sensitive as a child, +eager as a hunter. +</P> + +<P> +The picnic was on the cliffs, miles away. They +lunched in a dazzling sun, since it is ever in the mind +of man that he enjoys himself more away from his +own cool dining-room, seated on hard ground in the +heat. +</P> + +<P> +The Blakeneys' cook knew that which was indigestible +and therefore indispensable. Lobster +mayonnaise, cold salmon, devilled shrimps, galantines, +pastry, whipped cream. +</P> + +<P> +The appetite of picnickers is a great thing, and one +which towards tea-time wonders what possessed it. +But girls laughed merrily, planning strolls by the +shimmering sea; they had brought shrimp nets. +Girls with pretty, unspoiled feet would take off shoes +and stockings and paddle into pools, treacherous +places where one slipped and wanted help to steady +one. +</P> + +<P> +Other girls would sit quiet in shady nooks. Youth +loves its picnics where it may wander in couples; +and mamma loves them, knowing how sunshine and +fresh air and the folly of shrimp-hunting all lead to +the hour when the young man feels he cannot do +without the merry, pretty, foolish thing who cries +"A crab!" and clings to him. +</P> + +<P> +Denise had asked young people; she had no +London friends down here. She watched them pair +off as she sat down in the shade—listened to shrill +laughs and merry voices. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, yawning, bored again, strolled away alone; +there was no one she wanted to talk to. The sea +had slipped far out; opal-tinted pools gleamed on the +sands and shingle; brown seaweed clung to the rocks. +</P> + +<P> +The children, busy with pails, were gathering shells +and stones, looking with delight at the gay colours +of the pebbles as they picked them up, wet and +glistening, to fade into dull-hued things of red and +brown and grey. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé waited with them; helped Cyril to find +yellow shells and brilliant bits of polished brick and +pebble. +</P> + +<P> +He looked pale, wistful. It was in her mind to +shriek out her secret aloud—to pick the child up +and cry out that he was hers and she would keep +him. +</P> + +<P> +How she had dreaded his coming; how gladly she +had arranged the plot with Denise. And now she +knew that her heart was no harder than other +women's; that nature was stronger than her love of +indolence and pleasure. If she had been honest and +patient Bertie would be heir now to several thousands +a year, and this child, her son, to a title. He +was hers and she had cheated him, given him to a +loveless life, sent him into unhappiness. Who would +have dreamt of Denise having a child, of the bitter +jealousy of this false son. +</P> + +<P> +"And we dare not," whispered Esmé to the +pebbles, "we dare not tell." +</P> + +<P> +Cyril was settling his pebbles in rings and loops, +making quaint patterns of them, on a strip of dry +sand. +</P> + +<P> +"Funny thing." Bertie Carteret strolled across +to his wife. "I was always at that when I was a +kiddie. Let me help, Cyril. I used to love making +patterns." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you?" said Cyril, solemnly. "I does." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé saw the faces together. There was a likeness, +faint, but yet plainly visible. The same level +eyebrows, finely-cut nose, and eyes with their power +to suffer. +</P> + +<P> +"Playing?" Sir Cyril joined them, the children's +faces lighting up, for they loved the big man. "We'll +all play. Let's dig a castle. Cyrrie"—his arm +closed round the elder boy—"mummie says you +were naughty to-day—pushed Cecil." +</P> + +<P> +"Mummie made a miftook," said Cyril equably. +</P> + +<P> +"Mummies never make miftooks," Sir Cyril +answered gravely. "Never. Cyril must be a +better boy and not bully the baby. I don't want to +punish you, Cyril." +</P> + +<P> +"It doesn't last long, dad—if she'd like you +to." The boy's eyes, with an old look in them, +met Sir Cyril's. "I don't mind, dad—it's soon +over." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's fingers closed on a handful of pebbles, so +closely that when she let the wet stones fall her +hands were marked and bruised. +</P> + +<P> +The boy was telling them calmly that he was used +to punishment. Her boy! +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril grunted to himself. His wife adored +delicate Cecil; had never cared for the elder +boy. It puzzled the big man, vexed him, so +that he made a pet of Cyril, loving him as the +child whose coming had made such a change in his +own life; the strong, big boy who was a credit to +the name. +</P> + +<P> +Foolish young people hunted for shrimps until +they were weary; then, looking at the advancing +sea, they whispered how dreadful it would be to +drown, and listened, flushing, as proud young manhood +assured them that to swim to shore with such +a burden would be a joy. The crawling baby waves, +inch deep in their advancing ripples, heard and +laughed. To prove devotion young manhood +would have welcomed white-crested rollers, swift +currents running fiercely between them and the +land. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie had wandered far out, Estelle Reynolds +with him. +</P> + +<P> +They talked of books and plays, but always ending +with the same subject, the lives of two human beings +called Albert and Estelle. +</P> + +<P> +"If one only could live down at Cliff End," he +said. "I wanted to go there now, but Esmé would +come here. Oh, how tired I am of asphalte and +'buses, and the comforts of clubs. I hunted five +days last winter, Estelle." +</P> + +<P> +"But you shot a lot," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"At huge house-parties, with a two-hours' +luncheon to be eaten in the middle of the day, and +bridge to be played when one is dead sleepy after +dinner. I have an old-fashioned liking for scrambling +over rough ground with a setter and a spaniel, and +bringing home a few snipe and a pheasant or a couple +of duck. They give me more joy than my pile of +half-tame pheasants, reared for slaughter, or my +partridge or grouse. My friends wouldn't come +to my shoots, Estelle. And—Esmé's friends"—he +shrugged his shoulders—"they are too smart for me. +She's straight herself as Euclid's line, but—one hears +and sees—Dollie Gresham, for instance." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" said Estelle. +</P> + +<P> +"She is a very clever bridge player," he said drily. +"Oh, I say nothing, but I've watched the people she +picks out to play with. Aspiring idiots who think +high stakes give them a reputation as fine players. +There's Gore Helmsley, too—the black-eyed Adonis. +I meet him everywhere, and my desire to kick him +flourishes unappeased. There are queer stories +afloat about the man. There was Sybil Knox; she +won't speak to him now, almost cut him at the Holbrooks +last Christmas. He's running after Lady +Gracie de Lyle now, a little, dolly-faced baby who +goggles into his black eyes and thinks him magnificent." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Bertie! Goggles!" said Estelle. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, she does. She's got china-blue eyes, just +like saucers; and she's barely eighteen. I spoke to +her mother, and she said it would make the girl less +school-girly to be taken up for a month or two by a +smart man—that is a word," grunted Bertie, "which +I'd like to bury. 'Smart'—it's a cloak for folly, +extravagance, display and gambling—for worse. +Never be smart, Estelle." +</P> + +<P> +Estelle looked at her brown hands and remarked +drily that she did not think she ever +would be. +</P> + +<P> +"They know no rest, these people," he said. +"They wake to remember all they absolutely must +do, and how many meals they must eat with their +friends. Madame breakfasts in bed. Monsieur picks +at devilled kidneys in the dining-room. He has +his glass of port at twelve at the club. She has hers +before she goes shopping. Then luncheon, bridge, +drives, parties, tea; more bridge-parties, cocktails, +dinner. Theatre, and bridge, a ball; supper; +bridge again; devilled bones and chloral; they are +too tired to sleep naturally. And since all this must +pall, they must have some zest of novelty, and so go +through the oldest round on earth—that of stolen +meetings and hidden letters, and the finding out if a +new lover has really anything new to say to them. +If they lived in the country and looked after their +houses and their gardens, and just had a yearly +outing to amuse them, they wouldn't all go wrong +from sheer nerves. The Town is swallowing home +life, Estelle; the smell of the asphalte gets into their +nostrils, the glitter and noise of restaurants become +necessity. We cannot be bothered with a cook, so +the restaurant for the flat can send us in what it +chooses, called by any name it pleases. We get our +breakfasts in now in the new flat. And anything +else we want. Esmé only keeps two maids. Everything +is exceedingly cold by the time I get it, and if +we have people to dine it means crowds of things +from Harrod's, but it all saves trouble. And to save +trouble is the spirit of the age. To eat glucosey +jams, and drink cider which never heard of apples, +and so forth. I believe, in the future, that every +square and street will have its monster kitchens +with lifts running to each house. No one will +cook." +</P> + +<P> +"And one day," said Estelle, laughing, "will +come the swing of the pendulum, and we shall go +back to an England which bakes and preserves +and brews, and finds out how healthy it makes its +children." +</P> + +<P> +"No." Bertie shook his head. "We are going +too fast for that. So fast that one day, with its +motors and aeroplanes, old England will find it has +fallen over a cliff, and lies buried in the sand of Time, +forgotten. The brakes will not always act, and +exceeding the speed limit generally ends in disaster. +We are a mighty nation, but always, always the sea-road +for our supplies. We should starve here in a +month if that was stopped. Some day it will be—by +some strategy. Tea is ready—let us forget +lobster and eat again." +</P> + +<P> +Hot-faced footmen had built a big fire on the +shore. The couples came flocking back to eat and +drink again. Some shyly radiant, their afternoon +a golden memory; others laughing too loudly for +happiness; others visibly bored. +</P> + +<P> +"The most absolute dullard," Rose whispered to +her cousin, Hilda Hamilton. "He only made two +remarks the whole afternoon, and one was 'that +shrimpin' was shockin'ly wet.' And the other +that 'he did hope it wouldn't wain to spoil the +bathin'.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Rose, he didn't lisp," laughed Hilda. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, he ought to, he's such an idiot. Yes, +I'll take muffins, thank you. How clever toasting +them." +</P> + +<P> +"There was a fire," said the dull youth, sapiently; +"it made it easier." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it would." Miss Rose giggled over her +muffin. +</P> + +<P> +The opal tints grew wider on the sea as it creamed +in over the sands; the murmur of the baby waves +grew louder. +</P> + +<P> +Marie was airing her triumphant return at the door +of Esmé's pretty house. She had tripped into the +bedroom, altered and arranged, peered into the cupboards. +</P> + +<P> +"Ciel! but Madame has now an outfit," said +Marie; "it is good that I return. Evidently Madame +has an income." +</P> + +<P> +Scott, the ousted one, waited stolidly for her +wages, and grumbled in the kitchen, hinting spitefully +that she might not receive them at once. +</P> + +<P> +Marie settled and sang, and settled, poring over +the heaped letters on Esmé's tables, raising her thin +eyebrows at the gathering of bills. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder"—Marie laid down an urgent letter +from a Bond Street firm—"where Madame went +when she sent me away. I have always wondered," +said Marie, tripping down the path of the little +garden. +</P> + +<P> +A young man strolling by stopped in amazement, +listened to Marie's voluble explanations. A freckled +youth, who kept a little hairdresser's shop, and +hoped in time to keep fair Marie over it as +part proprietress. Marie possessed schemes for +moving westwards and becoming affluent. The +youth's name was Henry Poore, his hobby +photography. +</P> + +<P> +"Tiens! they come, and you must go," said Marie, +seeing the big motor humming to the door of the +Blakeneys' house. "Ah! it is well that I came +here, for there are many clothes and a fine wage, +and voila! there is Monsieur le Capitaine. See, he +stands with a thin mees." +</P> + +<P> +Henry Poore looked down the road. "Seems I've +seen him before," he said. "Sure I have." +</P> + +<P> +"Laikely. Ze world is full of meetings," observed +Marie. "He was soldier; he has now retire. Oh, +Henri, I am happy. Nevair did I have so good a +time as with this Madame. You shall come to do +her hair for ze Court. You shall be great hairdresser. +Allez vite, quick!" +</P> + +<P> +Marie made an appointment, and Henry walked +off. But the invisible lines of fate were closing +round Esmé. She had taken up one herself when +she re-employed Marie, who knew just a little too +much. +</P> + +<P> +Scott, dourly respectful, waited for her due. +</P> + +<P> +"Four months, mem, if you please." +</P> + +<P> +"Give it to her, Bertie. I am tired." +</P> + +<P> +"But—I gave you the wages cheque each month, +Esmé," Bertie said sharply. "Why did you not +pay the woman?" +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose I spent it on something else. +Don't fuss over a few pounds. Give it to her +and let her go. Tell her not to come to me for +recommendations." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé strolled off to give herself over to the deft +brown hands, to be powdered, tinted into new beauty, +to have her golden hair re-done. +</P> + +<P> +"It is not the money. It is only a few pounds, +but it is always the same thing," muttered Bertie to +himself as he wrote the cheque, "always." +</P> + +<P> +"Sure to be right, sir?" Scott permitted herself +a little veiled insolence. +</P> + +<P> +"Right? What do you mean, Scott?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs Carteret's were not always, sir," snapped +Scott, primly. "Several shops have had to apply +again. Thank you, sir. Good-night." +</P> + +<P> +The block of a fat cheque-book was looked at unhappily. +The balance left was so small, and there +was no more money due until Christmas. Bertie +Carteret sighed drearily. Another lot of shares +must go; long-suffering luck be trusted to replace +them. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, in one of her gay moods, came down, dressed +in filmy white, black velvet wound in her burnished +hair, a glittering necklace at her throat. She +chattered incessantly, hung about Bertie with one of +her outbursts of affection. +</P> + +<P> +Marie had given Madame ah, but a tiny thing for +the nairves, a thing she had learnt of at Madame la +Comtesse's and treasured the prescription. Marie +had prescribed further, suggested massage, a sure +cure for nervous ills. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé made plans in her head; leapt from reckless +despair to reckless hope. She spent in imagination +the big allowance Bertie's uncle would give them; +she saw herself "my lady." She felt clinging +fingers in hers, saw baby faces in her house. +She would brush away the effect of her own +wicked folly; she would be happy and rich and +contented. +</P> + +<P> +So, with her thoughts leaping ahead, she frightened +Bertie by talking of her plans; they comprised +country houses, a yacht, hunters, jewels, new +frocks. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll have that sable coat altered. The Furrier +Company will do it for a hundred pounds. I'm sick +of it. We'll go to Tatts, Bertie, and buy you a +couple of hunters." +</P> + +<P> +"Out of what?" he asked gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"Out of—futurity," Esmé laughed. "Estelle, +don't look sensible; it worries me. Look here, +children, I'm not well. I'm going over to Paris to +see Legrand. That dull doctor's wife I met to-day +says he can cure death itself. And then, when I am +well—" +</P> + +<P> +With flushed cheeks and shining eyes she perched +on the arm of Bertie's chair, her fingers caressing his +hair. "And then," she said, bending and whispering +to him. +</P> + +<P> +He flushed, but took her hot white fingers in +his. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it's for that," he said, in a low voice—"for +that, Esmé." +</P> + +<P> +"For that. Then I'll settle down—give up +Society," she said, jumping up and running to the +window. "Come, we'll go out and join the trippers. +I wonder Denise has not sent for me to play bridge. +No, we won't go out; ring up the Adderleys, Bertie. +They'll always play.... It's too dull just walking +out in the dark." +</P> + +<P> +It was always too dull to do anything which left +room for thought. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé played until morning, then, with the effect of +the nerve tonic worn off, went irritably upstairs, +knowing that nothing but chloral would give her rest +that night. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell Monsieur I am not well, that I must +sleep alone. That will do, Marie. You can +go." +</P> + +<P> +Marie held the cobwebby nightdress ready to +put on, but Esmé sent the maid away. +</P> + +<P> +Marie laid down the scented silken thing and +went thoughtfully. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XII +</H3> + +<P> +"I fear it is unlikely, Madame. I am very +sorry." Dr Legrand put his capable finger-tips +together, looked sympathetically at the tall, golden-haired +Englishwoman who had come to consult +him. +</P> + +<P> +"The child died, then, Madame—that another is +so important?" he asked kindly. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé flushed scarlet. "It—yes—I lost it," she +said bitterly, her eyes filling with tears. "I lost +him. And I am not likely to have another?" +</P> + +<P> +"Frankly, no, Madame. But you are young. +Madame is nervous, says she cannot sleep without +something. Give the something up, Madame; there +is a little death, a little madness, bottled in each +innocent dose. Go to the country, live in the open +air. Get Madame's nerves well, then perhaps your +wish may be realized." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé sat silent, growing sullen, raging at fate. +Why should this be? Why had she been treated so +cruelly? +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Well"—Esmé got up slowly, putting the +great man's fee on the table—"bon jour, +Monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"It has," she rasped out bitterly, "and always +will. Well, adieu, Monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +Dr Legrand wrote an entry in his book: "Mrs +Eva Smith of West Kensington, London." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet," he said to himself, "she looked more +angry than sorrowful." +</P> + +<P> +Pulling down her thick veils, Esmé followed the +man-servant across the hall. She had dressed very +plainly, hidden her face by thick black gauze and +net. +</P> + +<P> +A little dark man was coming on to the steps, +whistling cheerily. Seeing him Esmé started and +jumped into her waiting taxi. +</P> + +<P> +The little man passed 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. +</P> + +<P> +"A cher Nonno," he cried, gripping the Frenchman's hand. +</P> + +<P> +"A la bonne heure, Luigi." +</P> + +<P> +"So Milady Blakeney comes to consult you," +Luigi said. "She passed me." +</P> + +<P> +"Milady Blakeney? No! A Meeses Smith, of +Londres, a handsome creature, but artificial, racked +by late hours and chloral." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." The Frenchman appeared to be very +interested in his finger-nails. "Yes—there were no +complications, were there?" +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Never," said Luigi. "But why tell her?" +</P> + +<P> +Legrand took up his book. "Mrs Eva Smith, of +London," he said thoughtfully. "H'm! She was +dark, this milady?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it is so," answered the Italian. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, 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. +</P> + +<P> +Her boy, her boy! who would have meant so much +to her. Her baby, ill-used, neglected! +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé 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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé wanted new gowns. Denise owed her +money. She drove to her dressmaker's. +</P> + +<P> +But Madame Lilie was cool, unenthusiastic. +Madame Carteret's accounts were over-difficult to +get in. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +The three could be supplied—they would fit Esmé +easily—for one hundred and twenty pounds for cash, +with jupons to match thrown in. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé was going to the Holbrooks. She must wear +her old clothes; and Dollie Gresham would be there, +and Denise. +</P> + +<P> +"You know that I would pay you," Esmé flashed +out. "It is nonsense. I could send you half in a +month." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +It was in Esmé's mind to lose her temper, to call +the woman insolent and suspicious. But the three +models lying together, green and blue and shimmering +opal, held her tongue. +</P> + +<P> +She would come back to-morrow, buy the gowns; +she had meant to leave next morning, but she +would not. +</P> + +<P> +It was dusk outside, and cold; she hurried on to +the Ritz. +</P> + +<P> +A stout man, barring her path, swept his hat off to +her, murmuring some words. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur!" Esmé said haughtily. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Madame"—the man's French halted. +"If Madame would come to tea with a humble +admirer—" +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur!" she stormed, hurrying on across the +open space in front of the huge hotel. The man +followed her, apparently unabashed, into the lounge, +his eyes fixed admiringly on her. +</P> + +<P> +With a little gasp of relief Esmé saw a man she +knew, Sir Thomas Adaire—a round-faced, jovial +youth, with cunning blue beady eyes, and a distorted +imagination. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't make a fuss," she said, "but that dreadful +person is following me." +</P> + +<P> +The stranger sheered off rapidly, with a smile of +understanding more insulting than his pursuit. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Thomas, ordering tea, first called the unknown +an impossible bounder, and then let his +blue beads rest on Esmé with some surprise in +them. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't exactly wonder either," he said. "Dress +very fine, ain't it? Hubby over with you?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," Esmé answered, irritably. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" A comprehensive pause. "Let me +know when to sheer off then. I'm doing nothing. +Just over to look round. Lots of things to look at, +eh? over here. Same sort look like peaches in the +apple-house over in London." +</P> + +<P> +Sir Thomas drank his tea. Esmé knew that in his +shrewdly lewd little mind he quite believed that she +had come to Paris to meet someone—looked on it as +merely natural. Sir Thomas knew one code of life, +and love had never come to make him wish he had +not believed in it thoroughly. +</P> + +<P> +He talked on lightly; with him no wife was faithful, +no man a keeper of his marriage vow. He told of +little scandals pleasantly; they were nothing in his +eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"She was very nearly caught that time. Dicky +Margrave rolled up quite unexpectedly and milady +had the forbidden fruit in her boudoir. She told him +to turn his back and take off his coat, and clean the +windows. 'Horrible mess in here, Dicky,' she said. +'Man's just finishing the windows. Come to the +library.' The forbidden one walked out boldly two +minutes later." +</P> + +<P> +"But the servants?" said Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, if they tell, they go; also, they won't +get other places; they keep quiet all right. +Betty Margrave told me that herself. She's got +Dicky in order now; he's afraid of reprisals about +Caromeo." +</P> + +<P> +So from story to story, a male Vivien carelessly +blackening reputation. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé told him so, growing impatient. +</P> + +<P> +"Bless you! who's got 'em nowadays? We only +treasure visiting lists," he mocked. +</P> + +<P> +After a time Esmé talked herself, found herself +enjoying the ever-pleasant task of pulling our friends +to pieces, added a new whisper or two for Sir Thomas +to elaborate. +</P> + +<P> +"Just left the new Penelope, haven't you?" he +said. "Denise Blakeney—she's into the starch bag +after several years in hot water. No one but Cyrrie +now, and he—well, he was always a gorgon husband. +Saw a parson gazing at Denise last month at her +big garden-party. 'There is a model of English +wifehood, of truth and purity,' he said to something +in brown muslin, whom I fancy was his +wife." +</P> + +<P> +"And if he knew," flashed Esmé, indignantly, and +stopped. +</P> + +<P> +"Knew what?" Sir Thomas grew interested. +</P> + +<P> +"A little secret." Esmé's face grew grave. +"Pah! if we all knew each other's secrets. If you +knew mine and I yours." +</P> + +<P> +"Haven't got any," he said comfortably. +"Secrets are the kind of things you've to keep a flat +for and a motor which they drive some other fellow +out in. A day's amusement is my sort. But—you—you're +a bit of a Penelope yourself, Mrs +Carteret." +</P> + +<P> +"Anything else is so stupid," said Esmé, +laughing. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Thomas, falling into complete bewilderment, +asked Esmé to dinner when he found she +was really alone. To forget her misery she was +hilariously gay, telling smart little stories, flashing +out sharp speeches, amusing the little man +immensely. +</P> + +<P> +"Kind of woman you don't know what to make +of," grumbled Sir Thomas. "Lets you kiss her ear in +the taxi, and gives yours a verbal boxing when you +suggest supper in a quiet room. Gets herself up to +look like what she's not, and is frightfully offended +when she's taken for it. Tires one's eyes, that class +of cipher. We'll read plain print again demain, +thank the Lord." +</P> + +<P> +Folly would never be Esmé's refuge; she +sat in her room, her sleeping draught ready, +wondering what life would be like if, for mere +amusement, she had been what Sir Thomas took +her for. There was not even a pretension of affection, +but merely: "We are well met. You are +pretty, your skin is soft, your eyes are bright; let +us see how much joy we can steal from Time's +storehouse." +</P> + +<P> +"There must be crowds of people who are like that +or he wouldn't think it so natural," said Esmé. "I +believe Dollie wouldn't care—or Denise, once—but +I—I could never forget my miseries by becoming a +beast." +</P> + +<P> +Then, soothed by the drug, she slept soundly, +to wake with a parched mouth and heavy head, +and lie tossing feverishly because her tea was +late. +</P> + +<P> +There were the three dresses. Fretting for them—more +because she wanted to fret than because +she really wanted them—Esmé went to the +telephone. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that Madame? No? Well, give her a message. +Tell her I'll send over a cheque for those +dresses from London. To alter and keep them for +me—Mrs Carteret." +</P> + +<P> +It was a weary journey back. When thoughts +would come crowding in bitter array. If there was +never to be a child, then they would never be rich. +Only a week before Bertie had told her plainly that +they could not go on spending so much. Here again +Esmé blamed someone else. If Denise would only +pay her regularly, it was all Denise's fault. There +was two hundred owing now, since June. The +thousand pounds vanished so easily. Dresses, +bridge, furs, so many things that Esmé wanted, could +not do without. If Bertie knew that besides what +he knew to be spent she was using this other money, +too. +</P> + +<P> +If Denise would only pay up her debts for her, let +her start fair again! Esmé looked sullenly at the +calm sea. If not she would threaten to take the +boy—she would take him. He would forget it all +in time. Then, with a shiver, she thought of the +telling, of the scandals, of tongues wagging, of the +proving and altering, and, she was not pitiless, of +Denise Blakeney's complete undoing. +</P> + +<P> +Denise was still in Scotland. Rashly, pressed by +her desire for the dresses, Esmé made up her mind to +write. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie met his wife at Charing Cross. With her +irritable mood making her observant, Esmé noticed +that his light overcoat was shabby, that he lacked +smartness. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Bertie!" She kissed him, eagerly glad to +see him, always hoping to find comfort in his love. +Then the barrier which her secret made rose, drearily, +between them. They had so little to talk about now, +so little in common. +</P> + +<P> +"That coat's shabby, Bert. You must get a new +one," she said impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +"Not just now," he answered; "it's all right." +</P> + +<P> +"It's not right." Esmé felt that he was hitting at +her extravagances. "You shall get one. I'll buy +it for you, Bert." +</P> + +<P> +"Millionaire," he mocked. "Have you got some +secret fount of money, Es? You never have enough +to buy your own things, child. And—the doctor, +Es—Legrand?" +</P> + +<P> +"Says I'm to drink milk and eat turnips and +pray," she said bitterly, "and live in the country, +and sleep on ozone, and so forth." +</P> + +<P> +"And—if you would?" His voice grew eager. +"Oh! Esmé, if you would—just you and I together +again." +</P> + +<P> +The tenderness in his voice was forced there, +stilling thoughts which would not sleep; he assured +himself that with a fresh start, without perpetual +extravagance and excitement, he would feel the +old passion for his wife wake in him. Fresh +air and exercise would banish the memory of the +companion whose presence he longed for so much +now. +</P> + +<P> +"Come to Cliff End, Butterfly. Try it as a cure, +with me as chief physician." +</P> + +<P> +London, huge and splendid, flitted by them as the +taxi rushed to the flats; the streets called to Esmé; +the restaurants were lighted up, glowing golden +behind their portals. She thought of the whimper of +the wind, the thunder of the surf against the rocks; +the dreariness of the country. +</P> + +<P> +"I couldn't," she said at last; "the man doesn't +understand. Town's my life, Bertie; all my pals +are here. No, I couldn't." +</P> + +<P> +"It will have to be Town with a difference very +soon," he said, sighing. +</P> + +<P> +Economy again—money; he thought of nothing +else. She was not back five minutes and he was +preaching at her. He could look up what he'd paid +for her clothes last year. It wasn't so much. "And +I'm better dressed than rich women," stormed Esmé, +hysterically. "You might be proud of me instead +of grumbling—always grumbling." +</P> + +<P> +The taxi stopped at the door of the tall buildings. +There was no home in it to Bertie. The hall porter +greeted them. The lift took them upwards to their +flat, past other flats, and then into the pretty +rooms. +</P> + +<P> +Marie was ready waiting, supplying the petit soins +which Bertie had forgotten. +</P> + +<P> +"Pauvre Madame is tired." Marie had a cup of +coffee with but just a soupçon of eau de vie. The +bath was prepared. She hovered round Esmé, +getting a soft wrapper, soothing jangled nerves. +Marie was a treasure! +</P> + +<P> +Esmé took up her letters. Bills, invitations, more +bills, a scrawl from Dollie asking them to dinner. +Esmé had forgotten her ill-humour. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie, we're dining out—telephone to Dollie. +Yes, I said we'd go." +</P> + +<P> +Dollie Gresham's was better than dinner in the +restaurant, or brought up by a flat-faced German to +their dining-room. Bertie distrusted the tinned soup, +the besauced entrées and tasteless meat. He was +glad to go out. Esmé had told him nothing; he was +hurt and would not show it. +</P> + +<P> +"Ring up the coupé people, Marie. Dollie may +be going to a theatre, Bert." +</P> + +<P> +"We must owe them a fortune," was on Bertie's +lips, but he stopped. To even ask if a taxi would do +might disturb peace. +</P> + +<P> +Dollie wanted them for bridge. Her little dinners +surpassed Esmé's now. They were a party of eight, +Dollie's bitterly clever tongue keeping away all fears +of dullness. +</P> + +<P> +"Cousin May was here to-night, Esmé; she came +from Paris to-day also. She saw you there—at the +Ritz, having a dinner with blue-eyed Tommy. You +heard some pretty tales before that evening was over, +Esmé. Let's have them now." +</P> + +<P> +"Am I to undermine the peace of this dinner-table?" +Esmé's wit was fairly ready, and she +watched with a smile as women flushed and men +looked uncomfortable. +</P> + +<P> +"Unsavoury little dustman," said Bertie, sharply. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had not told him of her dinner. His look at +her made the table know it, and gave them something +to talk of afterwards. +</P> + +<P> +"Sly Esmé, setting up as such a model too. And +Tommy of all men. She was a friend of Jimmie +Helmsley's once, too; <i>don't</i> you remember he dropped +her for the Chauntsey girl?" people whispered. +The teeth of Society loves a bone of scandal to +crunch. +</P> + +<P> +After dinner Bertie cut in at Dollie's table, and as +her partner found himself absent, playing badly, +losing tricks carelessly. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm really sorry," he apologized, as their opponents +went across for sandwiches. "I'll wake up +now." +</P> + +<P> +"You're out of sorts," Dollie said kindly. "What +is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Debts," he said wearily. "We're the old proverbial +china crock, Mrs Gresham, trying to swim +with the brass one. What does it cost a woman to +dress, Mrs Gresham?" +</P> + +<P> +"It costs Esmé about fifteen hundred a year," +said Dollie, shrewdly. "Claire is ruinous now. +Never an evening frock under sixty, and the etceteras +at so much an ounce. Then Esmé's furs are all new. +She's a bad little lady going to Claire, and Lilie in +Paris." +</P> + +<P> +"Fifteen hundred!" Bertie laughed. "No, +about three; and it's far more than I can +manage." +</P> + +<P> +"Three—grandmothers!" observed Dollie, +blandly. "You see Claire's little bill and tell me +then. You're very extravagant children. Esmé +paid those electric people fifty pounds before you +left London, and taxis are just as good." +</P> + +<P> +"Fifty pounds!" Bertie shuffled the cards +silently. He had not given Esmé fifty pounds for +the garage. He certainly did not pay Claire's bill. +His payments had been to big drapers, and to a tailor. +</P> + +<P> +A sudden sickening doubt was assailing him. Was +Esmé getting money he did not know of? Was he +one among the hundreds of fooled husbands? He +flung the thought away, and turned to the game, and +played carefully. +</P> + +<P> +But on the way home the thought returned. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé, we must pay these people," he said, +trying to speak carelessly. "Not let it get too +high." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I sent them a sop to Cerberus months ago—a +big one." +</P> + +<P> +"But—I never gave it to you." +</P> + +<P> +"No." He saw her hand move impatiently. +"No, it was bridge winnings, I suppose. Or when +Poeticus won the Hunt Cup. I forget." +</P> + +<P> +Suspicion is a seed which, sown, grows, and will not +be hoed up. Bertie came into his wife's room as she +lay asleep, and looked sadly at her pale face. There +was a small room next door, lined with cupboards; +he went to it, opened the doors, saw the shimmer of +satins and silks, the softness of chiffon and lace, the +gleam of rich embroidery—dress upon dress. He had +loved to see her well dressed, and not dreamt of the +great cost of some of these mere wisps of evening +gowns. Sixty pounds! Bertie shut the doors, +feeling mean, as if he had spied, but he was not +satisfied. +</P> + +<P> +Had Esmé some way of getting money? Instead +of sleeping, he did accounts; got up frowning, to +go to sleep at last in the grey bleakness of an autumn +morning, to wake with the little parasite, suspicion, +gnawing at his heart. +</P> + +<P> +He went into his wife's room after his breakfast; +she did not come down for hers now. Esmé was up, +her golden hair loose, waiting to have some brightening +stuff rubbed into it. +</P> + +<P> +She was bending over her jewel-case, choosing a +necklace and pendant to wear. +</P> + +<P> +"This clasp is loose, Marie; the clasp of these +sapphires"—Esmé held up a thin chain holding together +little clusters of sapphires and diamond sparks. +"It's—oh! you, Bertie!" +</P> + +<P> +"That's new, isn't it, Esmé?" He took the chain +from her. +</P> + +<P> +"New—if a year old is new." +</P> + +<P> +"And this"—he snapped open two or three cases, +holding glittering toys. "I didn't give you any of +these, did I?" +</P> + +<P> +Esmé moved impatiently. "Paste," she said +suddenly. "Parisian! I can't go about always +wearing the same old things, so I am foolish, and get +these." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, paste!" He was putting back a pendant +when he looked at the setting. Surely paste had a +backing, was not set clear. +</P> + +<P> +"They're wonderfully done," he said gravely. +The satin lining of the case bore a Bond Street +jeweller's name. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, wonderfully." Esmé snapped the case to. +"And I get the cases so as to deceive my friends' +maids. Run away, Bertie, you worry me standing +there." +</P> + +<P> +He went slowly. Esmé was lying to him. The +things were real. Her jewel-box was full of new +toys and trifles; he began to realize that her dresses +were magnificent. +</P> + +<P> +Her letters lay in a litter on her bureau, some half-opened, +all tossed about as if they had worried her. +One long slip oozed from its envelope, with a huge +total at its foot. It was a bill for new furs. Another +thick envelope bore the word "Claire" on the +back. +</P> + +<P> +A man has a right to see his wife's bills. Bertie +took out the letter. +</P> + +<P> +Madame Claire begged immediately for a cheque +on account. She really must have a few—Bertie +turned white—a few hundreds. A smaller slip of +paper was enclosed. Amount of account furnished, +three hundred and ten pounds. Yellow evening +gown, lace overdress, seventy pounds. Blue tea +gown, forty pounds. The total was for five hundred +pounds. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie laid it down with a sick feeling of despair. +He could not pay this. It was impossible. Five +hundred pounds to a dressmaker. Dollie Gresham +had been right in her estimate. He sat looking at +the dull blue of the drawing-room carpet, sat thinking +hopelessly. +</P> + +<P> +Then Esmé, in dull blue-green, masses of black +making a foil to her fair skin, came back. A faint +perfume clung about her, nothing emphasized, but +the memory of sachets or little pieces of perfumed +skin sewn into her dress. +</P> + +<P> +The necklace of small sapphires and diamonds +glistened at her throat. She was humming gaily, +ready to write to Denise. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé!" Bertie raised his white face. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie! Have the Germans taken London, or is +Lloyd George made Regent? Or—you're not ill, +Bertie?" +</P> + +<P> +"We can't go on, Esmé," he said. "I saw your +account on your bureau there. Esmé, I can't pay it, +unless we sell everything—go away." +</P> + +<P> +He saw her hand clench, but she did not look at +him. +</P> + +<P> +"How dared you pry?" she began, then checked +herself. "Paul Pry!" she mocked. "Paul Pry! +But I can pay it." +</P> + +<P> +"You? How?" he asked, getting up. +</P> + +<P> +"How? I've won a lot lately," she said, after +a pause. "I got some tips. I can pay it, +Bertie." +</P> + +<P> +"You've got money to your account, then?" he +said, for he knew that she was lying again. +</P> + +<P> +"Not now." +</P> + +<P> +"Bookmakers," said Bertie, "pay on Mondays. +Who is your man?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! <i>don't</i> bother, Bertie." Her hands shook +as she began to write. "Denise did the bet +for me. I'm writing to ask her to send it on +now." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" he said, more quietly still. +</P> + +<P> +"I backed first one and then another," she said; +"got it that way. So don't fret, Boy." +</P> + +<P> +"But if you had not won," he said softly. "The +account is not new, Esmé." +</P> + +<P> +"I chanced it! I let the winnings go on to other +gees." He could hear the anger rising in her +voice. "I chanced it. Don't bother now, I'm +writing." +</P> + +<P> +"But I must bother, Esmé. We can't go on like +this. We're getting poorer every day. If we had a +child things would be different, but as it is Hugh +Carteret will leave me Cliff End and what he allows +me now—four hundred a year." +</P> + +<P> +"And you'll be Lord De Vinci," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"With a title and two mortgaged places, and every +penny left to the girl. Esmé, if you can't pull in we +must give up London." +</P> + +<P> +"Not until London gives me up," she flashed out. +"Leave me my own affairs, Bertie. If I make a bit +it doesn't hurt you. You don't have to pay then." +</P> + +<P> +"You're mad, Butterfly," he answered, "to dream +of living by backing horses. Look here! Nothing's +ever been the same since I went away that time. +Esmé, we're young. Let's start again." He came +nearer her. +</P> + +<P> +If he had taken her in his arms she might have +fought down the restless demon of anger and resentment +which was tearing at her. But he did not +touch her. +</P> + +<P> +"Start in a sand castle by the sea," she mocked, +"with limpets for friends and neighbours." And +then suddenly her self-control gave way. She burst +out hysterically and told him he wanted to make her +miserable, to imprison her in the country; cried tears +of sheer peevish temper; swore that all the world's +luck was against her; that she had no pleasure, no +real fun; that even a few rags paid for by herself +were grudged to her. +</P> + +<P> +After a little Bertie turned away, went out so +quietly that she did not hear him go, and left Esmé +raving in an empty room, until Marie with a tabloid +came to soothe and comfort. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie walked swiftly across London, up through +the roar of Piccadilly, with its motor monsters, +diving, stopping, rushing, with its endless flight of +taxis, its horse vans out of place in the turmoil. It +was cold, a thin rain falling; he walked on to narrower +streets, and came to the grey, dull square where +Estelle lived with her aunt. It was London at its +dreariest; smoke-stained old houses, blinking out at +a smoke-grimed, railed-in square. A few messengers +delivering meat at area doors, a few tradesmen's +carts standing about, now and then a taxi gliding +through, spurning the thin slime of the quiet street. +Decorous, old-fashioned carriages were drawn up at +some of the doors, with large horses poking miserably +at their bearing reins, and getting their mouths +chucked as they did it by obese and self-satisfied +coachmen. The self-centred life of a colony of quiet +people was making its monotonous way from free +lighting to lights out. People who lived next door +and never knew each other, who revolved in their +own little circles and called it living. Perhaps +lived as happily as others, since to each their own life +and drawing of breath. +</P> + +<P> +"Was Miss Reynolds in? Yes?" +</P> + +<P> +Estelle was dusting the china in the big, brown-hued +drawing-room, an appalling museum of early +Victorian atrocities, with efforts of the newer arts +which followed the cumbrous solidity; pieces of +black and gold, plush monkeys clinging to worked +curtains, fret-work brackets and tables covered with +velvet sandwiched in here and there. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle dusted an offensive bronze clock with +positive loathing. It was a gouty effigy of Time, +clinging to his scythe because he must have fallen +without it, and mournfully accepting the hour-glass +set in his chest, which held a loudly-ticking clock of +flighty opinions and habits; evidently, judging by +his soured expression, a cross to the holder. Two +large vases containing dyed pampas grass guarded +each end of the mantelpiece; two others held everlastings. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle had once said that the room inspired her +with a deep longing to throw stones there, so as to +break some of the monotony. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Martin, her aunt, padded softly in each morning, +moving pieces of furniture back to their exact +places if they had been stirred by visitors, patting +the muslin antimacassars, pausing every time at the +doorway to remark, "Is it not a charming room?" +and then padding out again—she wore velvet slippers—to +sit in the room at the back and stitch for the +poor. Mrs Martin had reduced dullness, skilfully +touched up with worthiness, to a fine art. +</P> + +<P> +She gave Estelle complete liberty, because, behind +her conventional stupidity, she herself had a mind +which imagined no harm, a child's mind, crystal clear +of evil thoughts. She had married, been widowed, +lived blamelessly. The swirl of London was part of +the newspaper world, "which everyone knows, my +dear, the compositors make up as they go on," she +told Estelle, "except of course the divorce cases, +and no doubt half of those are not true." +</P> + +<P> +The most blameless daily which could be procured +was taken together with the Athenćum and the +Sunday Chronicle. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I shall throw them some day," said Estelle +aloud to the vases. +</P> + +<P> +"Who is that, Magennis?" said Mrs Martin to the +butler. "Captain Carteret! I trust he has come to +arrange an outing for Miss Reynolds." +</P> + +<P> +"He does that often, 'e does," said Magennis, as he +went back to his pantry. Magennis had not a mind +of crystal purity. When he was younger he had been +pantry-boy in a large country house. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie! What is it?" Estelle dropped one +of the smaller vases. It crashed on to the silver +brightness of the polished fender, making a litter of +bright-flowered glass and crackling everlastings. +</P> + +<P> +"It's broken," said Estelle. +</P> + +<P> +"And so am I." Bertie crossed the room and +took her hands. "And you cannot ever mend +the vase, Estelle, but I wonder if you can mend +me." +</P> + +<P> +Estelle turned very white. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm tired," he said drearily. "I feel as if the +fates had drubbed me mentally, until my sore mind +aches. We'll get another vase, Estelle"—for she +was picking up the pieces with shaking fingers. +"And I tell you, I have come to you to be mended," +he went on, almost pitifully. +</P> + +<P> +"But I—what can I do?" she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +The room faded; she saw the open sea shimmering +blue and green and opal; she felt again the +love she had hoped she had fought down and put +away. +</P> + +<P> +"You can stop pretending," he said. "You can +give me a little comfort, Estelle, a little love. I have +lost faith in everything except you. And—I love +you, Estelle," he added gravely. +</P> + +<P> +The rush of mingled joy and sorrow made the girl +gasp. +</P> + +<P> +"But Esmé?" she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé was a will-o'-the-wisp—a false light on a +marsh. You are the solid world. Estelle, I don't +know where I am. Esmé has made a fool of me—and +I can never care for her again. Will you help +me—or see me go to the dogs alone?" +</P> + +<P> +The cunning of man, turning the mother-love in +woman, which he knows is stronger than passion, +to his own ends. Man triumphant, merry, full of +strength and hope, she may resist; but man broken, +pitiful, needing her, is irresistible. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie had sat down on the brown sofa; he was +looking at her with dazed eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll help you, Bertie. I'll be all I can ... +as your friend ... remember, only as your +friend." +</P> + +<P> +"Child, do you take me for a brute?" he said, as +he drew her down beside him. +</P> + +<P> +Poor Friendship, lending his cloak once more, +standing mournfully as Love flings it over his pink +shoulders; knowing so well how the god liked to hide +and mock beneath the solid folds. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I am so tired, Estelle," said Bertie. +</P> + +<P> +Friends only—the cloak held firmly. But friends' +lips do not meet with a thrill of joy; friends do not +know the unrestful happiness which came to these +two as they sat hand-in-hand—their two years' sham +fight over. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIII +</H3> + +<P> +"OH, bother!" said Denise Blakeney. "Bother!" +</P> + +<P> +"What is it, Den?" +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril sat on his wife's bed; he was up early, +out about the place, arranging the day, looking at +his horses, his herd of shorthorns, speaking to the +keepers. His men feared Sir Cyril, and served him +well. +</P> + +<P> +Denise pushed a letter away. +</P> + +<P> +She was pretty and fresh in her lace cap, her rose-pink +wrapper. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, nothing!" she answered. "It's time to +get up, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"To-morrow," he said, "it will be time an hour +earlier." +</P> + +<P> +"Shooting mornings are so long," yawned Denise. +</P> + +<P> +"But what, or who, worried you, Den? Why did +you exclaim?" +</P> + +<P> +An insistent man, he held out his hand for the +letter. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! nothing, Cyrrie. No, you mustn't see it. +It's only from Esmé, grumbling. I couldn't show it +to you. There are things about herself—her health." +Denise talked very fast, growing a little breathless. +"And she wants a little loan—and I'm short. She +was so good to me that time abroad, you know—she—" +</P> + +<P> +"She's rankly extravagant," said Cyril, equably. +The silken quilt had slipped on one side; he saw the +figures Ł200 written plainly. Sir Cyril sat thinking, +frowning as he thought. He gave Denise a huge +allowance to do as she chose with; but twice in the +last year she had asked him for more. +</P> + +<P> +"She's rankly extravagant," he went on, "and +she must not worry you, my dear. I'll send her five-and-twenty." +</P> + +<P> +"No, Cyril, not you—it would be a breach of +confidence." +</P> + +<P> +"There can be no breaches of confidence between +a wife and her husband." His eyes hardened, his +big jaw stuck out. "No secrets, Den. I tell you +that, and I mean it. If she has asked you before I +should have known. I expect to know again." +</P> + +<P> +Stooping, he kissed her lightly, but she knew the +meaning in his voice, knew and dreaded him. The +folly of her petty sinning had been crossed out, but +since then she was his, and he would stand no +deceiving. +</P> + +<P> +"You fool! to write to me," almost whimpered +Denise. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had written excitedly. She had raved on at +Bertie, stormed, cried, grown calm, and then angry. +Money must be found now—must! Two hundred +was not enough. Denise must send three, advance +the money for January; she must give at least two +hundred to the rapacious Claire. So her letter was a +flurried one, lacking caution. "I must, Denise," +she wrote—"I <i>must</i> have money. I could have it +of my own if I—if I—upset everything. You know +what I mean. So don't refuse me, old girl, for old +sake's sake. Send me something to sell if you can't +manage coin. I'm really in a corner. Bertie's +grumbling, Claire pressing. You know what Hugh +has said—that if I had a child he'd leave us money, +and so—" then a long blank. +</P> + +<P> +"She is mad," whispered Denise, now white to the +lips, shaking from sick fear. "If she told, if it came +out. I'd deny it all! She dare not; but—if she +did!" She sat up, shivering, and Sir Cyril, looking +in, saw her. +</P> + +<P> +"That Carteret girl is worrying Den," he said to +himself. +</P> + +<P> +"And I haven't got it," muttered Denise. "I +don't think so, and I daren't send off jewels, for that +tiresome Studley counts them all, and nothing wants +mending." +</P> + +<P> +She must slip into the town, get money and send +it off. Cyrrie had been looking over her accounts +lately; she had had to draw out money in small sums, +and send them on. +</P> + +<P> +Denise was frightened. She was going down +when she saw the tell-tale letter lying on her bed. +She ran back, tore it up, burnt it in her fire; came to +breakfast shaken and looking ill. +</P> + +<P> +Cyril was making his own tea; Denise took coffee; +the boys, in their high chairs, were solemnly eating +bread and milk, eating fast that they might reach +the stage of scrambled eggs, and later, honey or +jam. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Cyril, how you mess!" Cyril had dropped +his spoon. "You shan't have any jam now, or +egg—only bread and butter." +</P> + +<P> +"You're hard on him, Den. Any fellow can drop +a spoon." +</P> + +<P> +"He can also learn to hold it. Now don't cry, +Cyril." +</P> + +<P> +"I never does," said Cyril, quietly. "Never, +mumsie." +</P> + +<P> +"No—you sulk." Denise was venting her irritation +on the boy. +</P> + +<P> +Big Cyril was thinking. He thought quietly, +and, equally quietly, acted. Denise must not be +weak enough to go on paying for one winter's +kindness. +</P> + +<P> +"Say sorry and mumsie will give us jam," said +Sir Cyril. +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't drop it a pupus, dads." The clear baby +eyes met Sir Cyril's, filled with the mystical reasoning +of childhood. "Not a pupus—the dog joggled me, +dad." +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril grinned gently; Denise muttered something, +and he helped the boys to egg. +</P> + +<P> +Cyril, forgetting the wisdom of silence, wished to +know why hens wouldn't lay eggs scrambled, an' +save cook's trouble, and Cecil suggested telling the +fowl-woman. +</P> + +<P> +"I am going to Insminton, Cyril. I have to get +some things." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I'll come in with you. No one will be +here before one." +</P> + +<P> +Denise flushed; then she must go in the afternoon, +and the bank would be shut. +</P> + +<P> +She sat fidgeting, afraid to the bottom of her +shallow soul of the big-jawed man she had married. +</P> + +<P> +She had seen him angry—knew the depths of his +cold anger, and his ideas of justice. The hard +Blakeney pictured faces frowned down upon her +from the dining-room walls; a race of human steamrollers, +driven by the power of determination; diving +aside respectfully for what they realized to be the +rightful traffic of the road of life, but coming on +mercilessly to grind what needed grinding. +</P> + +<P> +"Coming, Den?" Sir Cyril called from the +door. +</P> + +<P> +Denise came reluctantly; she must pretend to +have some errands, for she knew she would get no +opportunity now of going to the bank. Her husband +would do his own work quickly, then drive her about, +waiting for her. +</P> + +<P> +The big drapers scored by an order for silk and for +table linen. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Holmes, the grocer, rubbing his fat chin, decided +that sardines must be about to be used as fish +by the great, seeing that he had supplied a dozen +boxes the day before and was asked for another dozen +now. +</P> + +<P> +"Finished, Den?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I think I've forgotten something, though." +Denise was driven home, answering questions, but +not speaking, frightened, and too visibly ill at ease. +</P> + +<P> +"H'm!" said Sir Cyril to himself. +</P> + +<P> +He went to his study to write, stayed there until +the luncheon gong rang, came out to find the first +arrivals in the morning-room, and to see Denise, her +colour high, hurrying in. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm so sorry I'm late. I had to run over to the +Vicarage to give the vicaress some books for her club. +I forgot them this morning." +</P> + +<P> +Denise had been to the bank, extracted two hundred +pounds in notes from a beaming manager. She +came in a little nervously, looking aside at Sir Cyril. +The big man would have made a good detective. His +hard eyes narrowed a little, his big chin shot out. +Denise was not in the least likely to have remembered +the books for the vicar's wife without some other +motive. Without the faintest suspicion of Denise in +his mind, he summed it all up. +</P> + +<P> +"That Carteret woman's worried the girl; she +went to get her the money." After all, the Carteret +woman had been once full of devotion; Denise had +heaps of money; but it must not go too far. Cyril +Blakeney was a man who walked straight to his goal. +He meant to ask Denise how much she had sent, to +warn her against being bled. +</P> + +<P> +He ate his plainly-cooked luncheon, almost in +silence. A thorough Englishman, eating large helpings +of roast beef and vegetables, topped up by a +steamed pudding and cheese. A mouthful of something +highly flavoured had no attractions for Cyril +Blakeney. +</P> + +<P> +Denise, picking at a cutlet, watched him, grew +brighter as she began to feel certain that she +had managed everything so well. She would have +her own money soon, send on the advance to +Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +Denise pulled out the one foot she had dabbled into +the Slough of Despond. She walked gaily again in +the sunshine on firm ground. +</P> + +<P> +And yet the cue was on the call-boy's lips; the +drama was being played out, and a net she never +dreamed of closing about her. +</P> + +<P> +By tea-time the party had nearly assembled; they +took it in the big drawing-room, chilled people +coming gladly near the blazing fire, drinking hot tea, +eating tea-cakes and hot biscuits as if dinner were +twenty-four hours away. +</P> + +<P> +Lucy Richmond, a big blonde, married to one of +the best shots, came to sit by Denise. She was a +dull, stupid woman, deeply impressed by herself. +Hostesses were profoundly bored by Mrs Richmond, +but she delighted in house-parties and was comfortably +certain that Gus, her lean little husband, was +only asked for her sake. +</P> + +<P> +"So nice to be here again, dear Lady Blakeney. +I do love your big house. And now tell me all about +the babies, and how they are." +</P> + +<P> +Denise nibbled a sandwich, and looked for rescue. +She was lamentably ignorant as to flannel undervests +and patent foods. +</P> + +<P> +"The little one is in knickers now, I expect, isn't +he? I hope he wears...." +</P> + +<P> +Denise's appealing eyes raked Sir Thomas from his +chair; they called openly for help. +</P> + +<P> +"That he wears really fine wool," said Mrs Richmond, +heavily. "No, Sir Thomas, run away; +you're not interested in children's clothes." +</P> + +<P> +"In knickerbockers," giggled Denise, faintly. +</P> + +<P> +"Not going to come out with the guns in 'em +really, are you?" said Sir Thomas, blandly, ignoring +everything except the last words. "Sportin' of +you, Mrs Rich—very. Has Raleigh taught you +shootin' then?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Richmond sniffed angrily. +</P> + +<P> +"Get me some tea," said Denise, "and oh, here's +Cyril." +</P> + +<P> +The big man strolled across to his wife, handing her +a telegram from a delayed guest. +</P> + +<P> +"Nuisance," he said; "good shot, too." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Lady Blakeney, I must show you my new +pendant." Lucy Richmond forgot knickerbockers, +and turned to a fresh subject. "One of those dear, +old-fashioned, heavy things. Raleigh sent me to +buy myself a birthday present, and it had just come +in to Benhusan's." +</P> + +<P> +Unfastening a clasp, she held the jewel out. Seeing +it, Denise felt her colour ebb until she feared her +cheeks must be deathly white. It was the pendant +she had given to Esmé. Why had the woman +chosen this moment? +</P> + +<P> +"It's just like yours, Den"—Sir Cyril took the +jewel in his big fingers—"exactly the same." +</P> + +<P> +"I love these dear old-fashioned solid things," +babbled Lucy Richmond. "As it was heavy, it +wasn't so dear. Benhusan told me he had just +bought it, but that they had made it originally +themselves." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" Sir Cyril sat down. "Yes. Bought it +when, did you say?" +</P> + +<P> +A bore is a person stocked with date and detail. +Lucy Richmond loved a listener. How interesting +she was, she felt, as she re-clasped the ugly pendant. +Oh, on such a day—at such an hour. +</P> + +<P> +Close by Denise sat listening, afraid to speak, +hoping she was not showing her fear, her heart +fluttering. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Curiously, my wife has a duplicate of this, +one an old aunt gave to her. Wear yours to-night, +Denise." +</P> + +<P> +"I hate it, Cyrrie," she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet wear it," he said very quietly, and strolled +away. Sir Cyril never seemed to hurry. +</P> + +<P> +Denise, for the best reasons, could not wear the +pendant. Wild thoughts shot through her head. +Should she go to Mrs Richmond, borrow the diamonds, +make up a story? No, for the gossiping fool would +repeat it all over London. +</P> + +<P> +It was late when Denise came to her room; she sent +her maid away, sat by the fire. It was so comfortable +there; she was surrounded by rich things; her +dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory; her +bed was carved white wood, a nest of silken +eider-down. +</P> + +<P> +And if Cyril knew. +</P> + +<P> +He came in then, quietly, walked to the fire and +stood looking down at her. +</P> + +<P> +Some silences are harder to bear than words. +Denise shivered nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"You did not wear the pendant to-night, Denise." +</P> + +<P> +"No," she said miserably. +</P> + +<P> +"Because you could not. Denise, why lie to +me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I—I," she crouched down in her big chair, +sick, frightened, wondering what lie might serve +her best. +</P> + +<P> +"I know Benhusan," he said. "I rang him up +at his own house. Den—Esmé Carteret took that +pendant, and—you lied to screen her." +</P> + +<P> +The woman cowering in the chair turned as red +as she had been pale, felt as some sinking swimmer +who suddenly feels ground beneath his feet. +</P> + +<P> +"I saw her standing at your safe, opening and +shutting cases. She thought you might never miss +this thing, as she knew you hated it. Denise, I +don't blame you; but one cannot know a thief. It +was that, was it not?" +</P> + +<P> +Stronger people have taken their rescue at the +cost of a friend's reputation. Denise was not +strong; she was shallow-natured and afraid and +shaken. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Cyril," she said, beginning to cry. "Oh! +don't tell a soul. Oh, promise—promise! She +wanted money so badly." +</P> + +<P> +"Money to spend upon herself, upon frocks and +furs and entertainment. Den, she must not come +to the house again. And this exonerates you from +sending her gifts of money." +</P> + +<P> +Sick fear jumped to life again. If there was any +difficulty with Esmé's allowance the whole story might +come out; she might still be ruined, disgraced. +</P> + +<P> +But reflection brought comfort; there would be +heaps of ways of managing the money. +</P> + +<P> +Denise put her arms round Cyril's neck and +pleaded for silence for her friend; let the stigma of +thief fall on another woman, and wondered why +she had found so easy a way out. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't blame you, Den—don't cry." He held +his wife closely. "But don't lie to me, girl! Don't! +even to save other people. I must have truth. +Must—and—will. The past's past; the future's +mine, Denise, remember that." +</P> + +<P> +He held her away a little, so that he could see her +face. "You took some money out to send this +wretched woman to-day. Don't send it now. How +much was it?" +</P> + +<P> +"It was not all for her, Cyril; she wanted—fifty," +stammered Denise. "I got a lot—I was +thinking of buying those ponies and the little trap +for the boys as a surprise. You know, Edwardes' +pair." +</P> + +<P> +It was a good lie this time; he had no suspicion. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, put your money back," he said kindly. +"I'll get that. I'll put it in for you to-morrow ... +send it for you." +</P> + +<P> +Denise Blakeney did not sleep that night; and +next day, driving into the town, she lost a valuable +ring; it was loose, must have slipped off in her +glove. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, opening the parcel, read a letter which +surprised her. +</P> + +<P> +"You were mad to write, Esmé, mad! All kinds +of things have happened, and I cannot tell you. +Take these stones out to sell them. I've said I lost +the ring. And don't go to Benhusan's." +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril, before he promised silence to his wife, +had talked too openly to Amos Benhusan; said +more than he had perhaps intended to. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Benhusan had not promised silence; he +talked a little, discreetly, but he talked. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé bought her Paris frocks; paid something +to Claire. Denise had sent her something valuable; +but when the Blakeneys came to London, and she +called, the "Not at home" was unmistakable. +</P> + +<P> +"When would her ladyship be in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Could not say, madam." +</P> + +<P> +The door respectfully pushed to. Sir Cyril, +meeting her, passed her with a cold bow. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé rang up furiously. What was it? She +must know. +</P> + +<P> +"Not here. I can't talk here." Denise's voice +was hurried and strained. "Meet me at the club +to-morrow—at eleven." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé kept her appointment punctually. +</P> + +<P> +"Down here, Esmé—down in this lounge." +Denise hurried to a dim corner, poured out a badly-jointed +tale. +</P> + +<P> +It was the letter. Cyril had caught sight of some +of it, been furious; Esmé must keep away. It was +the only plan. "And never come near the boy, +never," wailed Denise, "never. After all, you never +wanted him. You mustn't come to the Square. +Cyril would suspect." +</P> + +<P> +A passion of anger rent Esmé. Not to see the +little son she had sold. Not to spend the half-hours +which sent her away yearning and wistful. Not to +bring sweets to the unloved child; to try to be his +friend. +</P> + +<P> +"Then, if you're not good to him," she stormed +out, "by Heaven, Denise! I'll have him back. +And for money, I must have my payment, but the +boy comes first. Be good to him." +</P> + +<P> +A sneer from Lady Blakeney. It was a little late +to prate of mother-love, to assume virtue. Esmé +had hated the idea of the baby coming. It was +rubbish to suppose that anyone so hard-hearted +could want to bother now. "I wouldn't have sold +my child," sneered Denise. "No real woman +would. Let cant alone, Es." +</P> + +<P> +A pretty quarrel between two well-bred women +who, with primitive instinct itching their fingernails, +flashed out sharp truth and sharper innuendo. +</P> + +<P> +A couple of women passing in saw the two. +</P> + +<P> +"Hullo! I think that Esmé and Denise are disagreeing." +Lady Mary Ploddy peered down the +corridor. "They're flaming at each other. Look, +Sukey." +</P> + +<P> +Lady Sukey, her sister, looked; she even listened. +"Quite interestin'," she drawled languidly. "Quite!" +</P> + +<P> +When Esmé, flushed and furious, had gone out of +the club, she flung back a last threat which left +Denise raw with fear and anger, so irritated that her +words were not quite under her control. She forgot +caution, only wanted to hurt. +</P> + +<P> +"Denise, you've been fighting with your Esmé," +said Mary Ploddy. +</P> + +<P> +"I was telling her I could not go on being friends +and she resented it," said Denise, unsteadily. +</P> + +<P> +"Couldn't? Why?" It was ill-fortune for +Esmé that Denise should meet two women who +loved a scandal dearly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, never mind why. Cyril has forbidden me +to. It's something I could not tell; nothing to do +with morals." +</P> + +<P> +"Money then?" Lady Mary's eyes were glowing +with curiosity. "Only money and morals nowadays +in the sin catalogue." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, never mind—she's impossible," snapped +Denise, and, flustered, shaken, went out. +</P> + +<P> +"It's something bad. Scratch the Carteret +woman's name off the list of your Bridge Tournament, +Sukey. I'll drop a hint to the Rollestones, +too, for their dinner and dance." +</P> + +<P> +So a whisper grew. Esmé, going to a big reception +that night, caught one or two frigid +bows from women who had smiled the day +before. +</P> + +<P> +The rooms were crowded, full of notabilities. +The reception was in honour of a French diplomatist +and his wife; the tripping tongue was as +much used in the rooms as English. +</P> + +<P> +"There is one lady whom I wish to see." Dr +Legrand looked at the brilliant crowd. "Milady +Blakeney." +</P> + +<P> +"So, Monsieur. She is close to us—passing +downstairs. There—in grey-blue—with the +diamond stars." +</P> + +<P> +"But, non, that is a dark lady." The doctor +stared, puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"My nephew attended milady in Italy; but she +is fair." +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monsieur; she was always dark. He's +muddled her with Esmé Carteret, who was with her. +She is brilliantly fair. She might—yes—there she +is, just going out." +</P> + +<P> +Legrand turned, caught a fleeting glimpse of +Esmé, started. +</P> + +<P> +"Meeses Carteret," he half whispered. "But +surely, it is so like the Mrs Smith of London. +I seem to know this Mrs Carteret," he said +aloud. +</P> + +<P> +"She is a pretty woman. Oh!" +</P> + +<P> +For Legrand had slipped away, struggled to the +far doorway to get to Esmé, caught a glimpse of a +fair head on the stairs, but got no nearer. +</P> + +<P> +But that night he drew the strands of fate closer, +for he wrote to Luigi: +</P> + +<P> +"I have seen your Lady Blakeney, and she is +brown-haired, ordinarily pretty, no fair-haired goddess. +If you will join me here for a day—get +Cartier to act for me. Thy Nonno." +</P> + +<P> +Luigi arranged to come to London in ten days' +time. +</P> + +<P> +As fog spreads, cold and bitter, so a whisper +crossed London. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, restlessly pleased by new dresses, by money +to gamble with, went to the Holbrooks. Came, +without thought of the scandal which was biting at +her name, down to dinner. +</P> + +<P> +The new dinner-gown clung to her long, thin +limbs; she was haggardly, dazzlingly handsome. +</P> + +<P> +Lady Mary Ploddy was at the fire. +</P> + +<P> +"How cold it is!" Esmé had played bridge for +years with the Ploddy women. +</P> + +<P> +Lady Mary went on talking to Vita St Just as if +she had heard nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"How goes bridge, Lady Mary?" Esmé said, +carelessly. "Been winning lately? We can play +in the mornings here." +</P> + +<P> +Mary Ploddy's powdered profile was slowly turned. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you, Mrs Carteret," she said icily. "I am +rather off bridge. Vita, shall we sit down?" +</P> + +<P> +The whisper to yet another friend: +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, something. Her old friend, Denise +Blakeney, has had to cut her. Sir Cyril insisted. +I heard that it was something about a pendant. +Amos Benhusan told one or two people—you know, +the big jeweller." +</P> + +<P> +The chill deepened. Esmé was left alone at the +fire, realizing suddenly that the women had drifted +away from her. She looked at them curiously, +turned to talk to a couple of men who came in, and +forgot it. Something had put out the old Ploddy +women, she decided carelessly. +</P> + +<P> +But that evening, next day, Esmé began to +realize people were avoiding her. She saw glances +as she came into a room; she noticed the sudden +hush which told her she was being discussed. +</P> + +<P> +What was it? What could it be? The Holbrooks' +party gave her no pleasure. For a time she +tried to think it was jealousy, envy of her gowns, +but Esmé was not small-minded; the thought had +to be put away. +</P> + +<P> +She sat up for Bertie one night, called him +in from the small room off hers, where he +slept. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie! these women are avoiding me," she +flung out. "What is it? I've done nothing. They +keep away from me—are almost rude; there's something, +Bertie." +</P> + +<P> +"Lord!" He sat down, staring at his wife. +She looked haggard, worn; older than her years. +He began to think. People had been curiously +<i>kind</i> to him since he had come. He had been +almost fęted by the men; they had "dear old +chapped" him, asked him to play bridge and +billiards, praised his shooting, offered to lend him +horses, with a whispering undernote of pity in it +all. +</P> + +<P> +"Lord! It—must be nonsense, Butterfly," he +said kindly, with something telling him that it was +not. They had got wind, he thought, of Esmé's +extravagance, and then he shook his head. What +were debts to women who thought it smart to evade +them, who paid exorbitant bills because they had +been running too long to check them, who all wanted +a little more than they had got? +</P> + +<P> +"It must be nonsense," he said gruffly. "Scandal +wouldn't offend them, even if you'd ever gone in for +it. Want of money is nothing. Perhaps you've +won a bit too much off 'em at bridge, or attracted +someone's private man-property." +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't," she said irritably. "Well, good-night." +</P> + +<P> +Luke Holbrook, big and good-natured, paddled +across his palm-court next day to the stiff room +where he knew he would find his wife writing letters. +</P> + +<P> +"Seem to have made another mess of it, my love," +he said mildly. "Went to Sukey Ploddy now +about what you told me, and she swears it's true. +Telephoned to Benhusan. He wouldn't commit +himself. Very awkward, my love, having the +woman here." +</P> + +<P> +"Too awful," said Mrs Holbrook. "To have +stolen a friend's diamonds! That's it, isn't it? +Gracious!" said Mrs Holbrook, weakly. "And +Daisy Ardeane coming to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"Bad as the dancer, my love." Luke Holbrook +stroked his fat chin. "Bad as the dancer. See the +<i>Morning Post</i>, my love?" +</P> + +<P> +He picked it up. +</P> + +<P> +"'A marriage has been arranged and will take +place immediately between the Marquis of Boredom +and Miss Maisie Moover, of Magnificent fame.'" +</P> + +<P> +"The Duchess, my love, is having hysterics at the +Hyde Park Hotel. Ploddy informs me that his +cousin Trentwell is attending. She cut me dead last +week in the Park, my love; and all because we +wished to amuse a Cabinet minister." +</P> + +<P> +"That affair," said his wife, "may alter the +Boredoms' missing chins. But this is important. +I can't have Esmé Carteret here." +</P> + +<P> +Mr Holbrook remarked that actions for libel were +unpleasant, and that Carteret was an excellent +fellow; then he sighed. +</P> + +<P> +"The woman has been living at a ridiculous +pace," snorted Mrs Holbrook. "French frocks, +furs, out everywhere and in debt." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid I'm horribly sorry for her; she +looks wretched." The big man got up. "Debt's +the devil, Maria." +</P> + +<P> +"The reminders generally go to a hot place," said +his wife, absently. "Think it over, Luke. Help +me." +</P> + +<P> +"I must, my love," said Luke, meekly. +</P> + +<P> +And then chance cut the difficulty in two. Esmé, +picking up the <i>Morning Post</i>, saw another paragraph. +</P> + +<P> +"Sir Cyril Blakeney's son and heir was to-day +run over by a taxi-cab. Lady Blakeney was with +her two children, returning to her house, when the +eldest boy stepped off the footpath and was caught +by the wheel of a passing cab. Faint hopes are +entertained of his recovery." +</P> + +<P> +The paper slipped from Esmé's hands; she grew +numb and cold. +</P> + +<P> +"She pushed him," she whispered to herself. +"She was angry and pushed him." +</P> + +<P> +Her boy! Her baby! She knew now what she +had sold and lost. Panting out his tiny life, +dying! +</P> + +<P> +Esmé got up slowly, came numb and white to her +hostess. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +Something in the stricken face touched Mrs Holbrook. +A motor could come round at once; catch +the eleven-o'clock train; she was sorry. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you. My maid can follow. Thank you +and good-bye." +</P> + +<P> +"She went herself, my love," said Luke, contentedly. +</P> + +<P> +Oh! crawling slowness of the big car; of the flying +express train; biting fear of what might be as +she reached London. +</P> + +<P> +Their flat was cold, dusty; Esmé did not notice +it; she unhooked the telephone. +</P> + +<P> +"Who is that—Mrs Stanson?" A pause. "<i>How</i> +is the child?" +</P> + +<P> +Swaying, Esmé listened. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +The nurse had not recognized the hoarse voice. +</P> + +<P> +"The ... Duchess of Boredom. Thank you ... +thank you!" +</P> + +<P> +A great wave of relief swept over Esmé. 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. +</P> + +<P> +Denise's voice answered. "Who? Oh, it's you, +Esmé. I'll shut the door. Now don't get hysterical, +don't! The boy's doing well. He was naughty; +it was his fault." +</P> + +<P> +"You pushed him," stormed Esmé. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé sat on, taking no count of passing hours. +</P> + +<P> +"But, oh, my poor Madame," wailed Marie, as she +came in, "perished and alone." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +What was it? What trouble was Madame in? +Knowledge was useful to clever people. +</P> + +<P> +The telephone bell whirred; before Esmé could +come Marie had snatched up the receiver. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that you, Esmé? Quick! I've no time. +The boy is doing well. What? Not Mrs Carteret? +Oh, call her—at once." +</P> + +<P> +No necessity to call the woman who came +flying in, her eyes wild with anxiety. Esmé +listened for a moment, then came back to her tea +slowly. +</P> + +<P> +It was Milady Blakeney's voice; Marie knew it. +</P> + +<P> +"There is something then amiss with the little +Master Blakeney, Madame?" the maid said +softly. +</P> + +<P> +"He is hurt, ill. His mother hates him," Esmé +burst out, then checked herself. +</P> + +<P> +"It is sad that Madame who loves so much a +bébé should not have a little son," said Marie. "I +thought ... when I left Madame...." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé felt the flood of scarlet rushing to her tell-tale +cheeks. With a quick movement she dropped +her cup and cried out. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +Little Cyril mended rapidly. His hand and arm +were crushed, might never be used freely again; +but there were no fatal injuries. +</P> + +<P> +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. Esmé would +give up worrying her. +</P> + +<P> +There was a dance next night given by a newcomer +to London, an Italian Marchese. +</P> + +<P> +Denise went to it, for Cyril was out of danger. +</P> + +<P> +Three times Esmé had rung up to know if she +might see the child, and Denise had answered: +"No, no! Cyril was suspicious. Esmé must not +come." +</P> + +<P> +The Marchese had taken a big house in Eaton +Place, had spared no expense on her entertainment. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé, 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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Jimmie, you!" Esmé was glad to see him. +"Any news?" +</P> + +<P> +"Heaps!" he said coolly. "Sorry I can't stay +to tell it you, fair lady. It's curious news." +</P> + +<P> +Jimmie was paying off a score. He was openly +unfriendly. Esmé 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. +</P> + +<P> +She saw Denise splendidly dressed, glittering with +jewels; saw, too, that Denise backed and tried to +slip away to avoid a meeting. +</P> + +<P> +"How is he?" Esmé darted through the +crowd. Sir Cyril stood near his wife, his big face +set coldly. +</P> + +<P> +"The boy? Oh! much better, thank you. So +nice of you to take an interest in him." Denise's +voice shook from nervousness. +</P> + +<P> +"May I not come to see him?" +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril interrupted quietly. "Impossible," he +said, "impossible, Mrs Carteret. The boy is to be +kept quiet. Come, Denise." +</P> + +<P> +It was an open snub, given before people who +looked on full of malicious curiosity. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé stood, white under her rouge; there was +something, and she did not know what it was. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, let us go to supper." She turned, laughing, +to her partner. "I'm thirsty." +</P> + +<P> +The lighted room, masses of flowers, gay dresses +and bright jewels, swam before her eyes. Then at +the door she saw Luigi, and saw him wave and smile +to her. +</P> + +<P> +The secret was undone. This man knew. Fate +had brought him to London. +</P> + +<P> +Mechanically she walked on. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, milady!"—his brown hand gripped hers. +"Well met. And—you do not look well." +</P> + +<P> +"Mr Herbert, I've dropped a brooch, just over +there; try to find it for me." Esmé sent the boy +away, stood staring at the Italian. +</P> + +<P> +"I have not ten minutes," he said. "I have to +go, but my uncle would have me come here to see the +English monde. And so—I see the child is hurted, +but is nearly well again. I came yesterday," he +said. "I leave to-morrow, recalled to Italy, or I +would have gone to see him and you." +</P> + +<P> +He knew no one there. He was alone and he was +leaving London. Yet at any moment he might +meet Denise with her husband. +</P> + +<P> +"I am so glad to see you," Esmé faltered. "See, +come to supper, and I will try to find Esmé; she is +here too." +</P> + +<P> +She hurried him downstairs to the supper-room; +saw Denise, and leaving Luigi ran across +to her. +</P> + +<P> +Denise was with Lord Ralph Karton. +</P> + +<P> +"Denise!" Esmé bent down to her. "Get +away. Luigi is here. He takes me for you. He is +at supper with me. Get <i>away</i>, I say; but I must +see the boy to-morrow, if I keep silence again—I +must," she said. +</P> + +<P> +Denise Blakeney slipped to the door, stood there +panting, hiding; she was not well, she told Lord +Ralph; sent him for her husband. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé—I dare not," she whispered back; "but +here—you are hard up—take this for gratitude." +</P> + +<P> +She slipped a great bar of diamonds from her +bodice, held it out. +</P> + +<P> +"It cost a thousand," she said. "But you've +saved me." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll take it if I see the boy," said Esmé, sullenly. +</P> + +<P> +"Not until Cyril's out of London. Telephone to +me. I dare not." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's fingers closed on the glittering toy she +held. It was magnificent; meant ease, peace—for +months. +</P> + +<P> +"So again I sell him," she said bitterly. "Go, +Denise, quickly, while there is time." +</P> + +<P> +She was pressed against Denise by the crowd, +struggled away just as Sir Cyril came down the stairs +to his wife. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé slipped the diamond bar inside her dress, +fastening the clasp to some lace. She went back to +the Italian doctor, sat talking to him, saw him leave, +and at the last was almost discovered. +</P> + +<P> +For Luigi, bowing low over his country-woman +and hostess, had told joyously of his meeting with +Milady Blakeney. +</P> + +<P> +"I will tell the uncle who said she was not fair +that he is blind," he laughed. +</P> + +<P> +The Marchese smiled, puzzled. "Fair to us, +perhaps," she said. "She has gone home, poor +lady." +</P> + +<P> +"But no," said Luigi, puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +Then the crowd separated the two Italians. +Luigi went back to his hotel, and on next day to +Italy. +</P> + +<P> +A line no broader than that of a spider's weaving +had saved Denise from exposure. +</P> + +<P> +She drove home so frightened that she looked +really ill; went to her room, clinging to Cyril's +arm. The husband she had once treated so +lightly seemed now a bulwark between her and +all misfortune. To lose him—lose her home, her +position— +</P> + +<P> +Denise was pale, exhausted, as she slipped into +her big chair, crouched there shivering. +</P> + +<P> +Sutton, stiffly sympathetic, unloosed the clinging +satin gown, brought a warm, rose-pink wrapper. +Cyril ran for brandy. +</P> + +<P> +"But, milady, the bar of diamonds. It is gone." +</P> + +<P> +Cyril Blakeney paused at the door; he had +heard. +</P> + +<P> +"I told you that the clasp was bad, Sutton; I +was afraid." +</P> + +<P> +"I do not remember your ladyship having +mentioned it," said Sutton, acidly. +</P> + +<P> +"Your big bar, Den? The one I gave you last +Christmas?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." Denise sipped the fiery spirit. "Telephone, +Cyril; send a man round. The fastening +was bad; search the car." +</P> + +<P> +"I do not think that we shall find it." Sir Cyril's +face was very stern. He remembered seeing Esmé +pressed close to his wife. In his heart he had no +doubt the woman had stolen again. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had been Denise's friend in time of trial. +He could not give her into the hands of the police. +He said nothing to his wife, but went down slowly, +heavily, to write a note and send it round. +</P> + +<P> +And as fogs rise, so the whisper grew; Sir Cyril +shrugged his shoulders when he spoke of the loss; +he openly turned away from Esmé Carteret in the +Park. +</P> + +<P> +"Someone, I fancy, took it from my wife when +she felt faint; at a huge reception like that there +are curious people. Lord Harrington noticed it as +she came to supper." +</P> + +<P> +Sharp eyes had seen Esmé press close to Lady +Blakeney, whisper to her; someone had noticed +that she slipped something inside her dress. +</P> + +<P> +London must draw its skirts aside from this +offender and suspect. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIV +</H3> + +<P> +Spring again, dancing backwards from summer's +hot grasp. Light winds whispering wantonly as they +caressed the waking earth. Soft sunlight, and everywhere +the scent of narcissi, the blaze of golden +daffodils. +</P> + +<P> +The brown drawing-room had known no change +during the passing months. It was as stiffly hideous +as ever. The <i>Church Times</i> and <i>Sunday Herald</i> lay +on the same table; the winter fires had been ordered +away, and a vase of daffodils glowed yellow in the +grate. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be good in Devonshire to-day." Bertie +Carteret looked out at the dull, prim square, where +the sooty trees were trying to grow green. "Lord! +think of the great clean air there blowing in over the +sea, and the flowers in the old spring garden; and +here with spring there is dust, and there are always +pieces of paper blowing round corners." +</P> + +<P> +Through a weary winter he had drawn the veil of +friendship across love. Estelle's gentle face had +brightened the world for him, a world which had +grown very dark. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor boy," she said softly now; and there was +no friendship in her voice. Spring called. She was +a woman, weary of watching the game she might not +join. The wanton voice of London was in her ears +to-day—the sooty, dark square, the prim room +stifled her. Your being of transient emotions has +frittered so many thrills, so many little mockeries of +passion, that one a little deeper matters little; but +the hard-held nature frets at barriers, tears at its +self-made bit as its longing eyes look at the wide +fields it must not go into. To give nature the rein +for once, to know the glory of loving. Man and +woman, one giving, one possessing, both tasting the +joys of the gods. +</P> + +<P> +"And it is always the same?" Estelle's strong, +slim hands were pressed together as though she held +something in them that she would not let go. +</P> + +<P> +"It is always the same," he said bitterly. "The +world—what Esmé calls the world—has dropped us. +Somewhere—Heaven knows where—she finds the +money to make another for herself. Is always with +Cissie de Burgh—a woman glad to know anyone—with +her friends the Henley leaders, and Frank +Dravelling. Bridge parties, dinners, bitter tempers. +I had to go to supper at the Savoy last night to find +one table a mass of flowers and fruit, to see Esmé +sweeping past her old friends, to hear her laughing too +loud, talking for effect, so that they should see she +did not care. It was a pretty party, with neither +Tommy nor Lord Francis Dravelling quite sober." +</P> + +<P> +As Sir Cyril Blakeney believed Esmé to be a thief, +so her husband believed firmly now that some man +must pay, and that she was too clever to let him find +out. +</P> + +<P> +Their roads lay apart; they were frigidly friendly, +and the depth of Esmé's hurt prevented her asking +for an explanation. +</P> + +<P> +She did not know why her London turned its head +away from her; never guessed that Denise had let +her fall under such a vile suspicion—to save herself. +Never guessed either why Bertie grew suddenly cold, +told her one day that for the future she would still +hold his name but no more. +</P> + +<P> +Brooding, sore, Esmé's brilliant beauty faded; +she lived, clawing at the spiked door which closes +the room called right. It was bitter to see her book +empty of engagements, to hear the cold "Not at +home" of well-drilled butlers, to be left out of bridge +at the club. For a time she went there, sitting alone, +then it hurt too much; she went no more. As Cain +she was tempted to cry out that her punishment was +greater than she could bear. +</P> + +<P> +"Leave London. Come to Cliff End," Bertie +pleaded once. +</P> + +<P> +"No! Someone has lied, and I must find out who. +No, Bertie, I can find other friends." +</P> + +<P> +They were found. Esmé spent money recklessly. +Smiled now on people she would not have bowed to. +Went to houses whose reputation had endured one +of the many smudgings. Played high, and lost and +won. Ate grilled bones at six o'clock in the morning, +and tried to make it pleasure. Her tongue could +trip lightly over well-known names. She was welcome +in the new set, which called folly, smartness, +and weak vice, life. +</P> + +<P> +What was it? A cloak may hide a sore, but the +very manner of the concealing chafes the thing it +covers. +</P> + +<P> +Unpitied, wrongly suspected, Esmé's heart broke +as she tore at the locked door. If one could find the +backward road—if the Great Powers would give us +back the years, seeing as we see now. Lie and scream +and bleed, little human, the way is always onward—there +are no scissors to cut the false stitches we have +made. +</P> + +<P> +If she could go back to that careless springtime +and do right. Take motherhood as woman's right +and joy and pain; guess how she would love the child +which then she had dreaded. +</P> + +<P> +"I was mad—mad," Esmé would groan, and yet +blame circumstance and opportunity and Denise, +rather than her own selfish weakness. +</P> + +<P> +If Denise had not come to her she must have +gone through with it, and gained peace and +happiness. +</P> + +<P> +Selfishness and greed and fear had stood for her +boy's sponsor, had marred both these women's lives. +And Justice, smiling grimly, saw one floating on a +flood-tide of prosperity, made happy and successful +by her scheming. The other an outcast, broken in +health and spirit. Justice sat quiet. To some the +whip is administered at once; to all the punishment, +the payment of the fine. Interest grows in the black +ledger of our sins. +</P> + +<P> +Two women had schemed successfully, and other +lives were drawn now into the mesh. +</P> + +<P> +"I am very tired of it all, Estelle." Bertie got up +restlessly. "Very tired. My home is no home. My +old friends look at me with a pity which is worse than +enmity. I went to Denise Blakeney once. I asked +if she knew what was amiss, and she turned red and +white and stammered, and 'Oh, no, of course not—unless +there might be some scandal, something +foolish.' I came away, knowing she would not tell +me the truth she knew of." +</P> + +<P> +Estelle's head turned away; she knew; she had +heard the black suspicion, but she could not tell +Bertie Carteret that the world held his wife to be a +thief. Better let him suspect the other, which was +not true. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, little companion?" He stopped his restless +pacing, looked down at the sunny brown hair, +and at the girl's sweet, glowing face. "How is it all +to end?" +</P> + +<P> +"When I go back to—to Cape Town," she said. +</P> + +<P> +The words were as knives slashing at self-control, +cold steel carving finely at an open +raw. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he slipped out. "By Heaven! you shall +not go." +</P> + +<P> +"But I must." Then Estelle's voice faltered; +she knew what it would be to part, with nothing +known of love save imagining, save a few hand-clasps—friends +must not kiss; save the sweetness +of nearness driving home from theatres. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said again. He caught her hands suddenly, +held them closely. +</P> + +<P> +"You would take my only comfort," he muttered. +"Estelle—don't go." +</P> + +<P> +Man does not see sometimes his supreme selfishness. +That this girl should eat her life out to keep +him from his sorrows. +</P> + +<P> +"I ... let us go out," she said. +</P> + +<P> +Outside spring rioted, danced, kissing men and +maids to madness and to merriment. His breath +passion, his light touch a thrill. +</P> + +<P> +"Come from this sooty sarcophagus," Bertie +said. +</P> + +<P> +They drove to the Park, and on to Kensington +Gardens, where London plays at being the countryside. +There the big trees were really green; one +could look through the tracery at the blue sky, and +forget the great city roaring at right and left, at back +and front. Toy lap-dogs, belled and netted, and +larger dogs held on leash, by well-dressed men and +women, bereft of liberty, told that this was a mere +painted scene, and no true piece of country. +</P> + +<P> +But it was fresh. Spring danced there gleefully. +Summer would gather the harvest; spring was the +sower of love thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle strolled across the grass, sat down at +length on a wooden bench, where a great beech above +her made green fretwork against a sea of tender blue. +</P> + +<P> +They were silent. Everyday words were out of +tune to spring's music; and they feared to say the +others. +</P> + +<P> +"You cannot go, Estelle. You will not really." +Bertie harked back to the fear of parting. +</P> + +<P> +"And if I stayed," she said, suddenly mutinous, +alluring. +</P> + +<P> +"If you stayed," he whispered, then grew grave. +"Could two people not make a world for themselves, +Estelle, and be happy in it alone?" +</P> + +<P> +She held sweet fruit to her aching mind, then +broke through to the hard kernel of the truth. +</P> + +<P> +"No, for we are never alone," she said gently. +"That is the weariness of it. There are no two who +strive to make this world who do not draw others +inside the hedge of their secret orchard." +</P> + +<P> +His hand fell on hers softly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then, since there is no future, I'll have to-day," +he said sharply. "We'll dine and do a +theatre, Estelle, and sup recklessly in some quiet +place." +</P> + +<P> +What theatre? Bertie had a paper in his pocket; +they bent over it. +</P> + +<P> +"This new thing—Spring," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"It's advanced, isn't it?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"It's very much so, they say. Miss Prude! But I +am not in the mood for flounced virtue set in Scotch, +nor for all the solid worth which the fashion follows. +The music's lovely. I hear the piece floats through +a pale green wood, and over primroses and daffodils, +away to a sapphire sea." +</P> + +<P> +"Let it be Spring then," she said. "This day is +yours, my friend." +</P> + +<P> +Friend! whose hand lay hot on hers, when their +eyes met half joyously, half despairingly. Joy +that fate should have allowed them to meet; +despair that since man and woman are created +for each other they could not know the fullness of +happiness. +</P> + +<P> +A cord long strained will snap at last. The cord of +self-restraint which they had tied up the hands of +nature with had come to its last strand, and they +knew it. +</P> + +<P> +The spring day slipped away to the hour when the +curtain rose on the new musical play. Well-named, +for it was light and sweet as spring himself, full of +tenderly passionate music, of waking love, of budding +youth. Tame blood which would not run a little +faster as the south and west winds, the sunshine +and the showers, came creeping to wake the spring +earth maidens. Girls veiled in tender green, their +limbs and faces seen through a mist of some transparency. +The wild winds blew the draperies aside; +a mock gale blowing from the wings; sunshine turned +the green to a glow of gold; the showers came, +mistily green, with light behind them, but to each the +maidens turned, trembled, and gave themselves to +the wooing arms. +</P> + +<P> +The whole piece was full of suggestion and of +fantasy. +</P> + +<P> +Quiet Estelle, watching, felt the longing in her +blood grow stronger; was youth to pass and leave +her unwoken by a lover? Was she never to know +the madness of hot kisses, the restful heaven of the +afterwards? +</P> + +<P> +"I dreamt once that I had found Spring"—Bertie's +voice sounded far away to her—"and it was a mocking +wraith. Estelle, if we might find it together—you +and I." +</P> + +<P> +"If!" She moved her hands to the time of a +haunting dance. +</P> + +<P> +The house was full. People who had been the +Carterets' friends were here and there. Dollie +Gresham, with the Blakeneys; the Holbrooks in a +box, often looking sadly at a pair in the stalls—the +Marquis and Marchioness of Boredom. +</P> + +<P> +One big box at the left, empty until the middle of +the second act, was suddenly filled by a noisy crowd. +Three women came to the front, throwing back rich +cloaks, showing over-bare necks and arms, flashing +with jewels; the background was filled in with the +black-and-white uniform of dining mankind. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé," Bertie whispered, "with those people." +</P> + +<P> +Poor Esmé, glaring defiance at the friends who had +cut her, her cheeks scarlet, her lips crimson, dazzlingly +handsome still, but haggard, bad style, laughing too +gaily, talking too loudly, holding up her careless +happiness too openly. And straight opposite, +Denise, quietly dressed, placidly happy, avoiding +Esmé's challenging looks. +</P> + +<P> +The parts had been played and gone strangely for +the players. +</P> + +<P> +"My wife," said Carteret, bitterly, "with a crowd +of fourth-rate impossibilities—and looking...." +He paused, expressively. "Estelle, do you think +a man likes to see his wife look like that? I hope she +may not see us." +</P> + +<P> +A vain hope. Esmé's restless eyes looked everywhere. +She started, turned laughingly to Lord +Francis Dravelling. +</P> + +<P> +"See my immaculate spouse and his flame," she +said, "there, in the stalls. I used to like the girl +once, but I leave her to Bertie now." +</P> + +<P> +"Hot stuff, eh?" said the boy, his eyes devouring +Esmé. Then he whispered to her eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's eyes grew hard, her face set bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie, the man she had once loved dearly, was +sitting with another woman, and she was listening, +without anger, to a bold suggestion. And all, everything, +had come from that one rebellion against +nature and custom. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not taking you among the world to-night," +Bertie said to Estelle. "I've ordered a quiet supper +in a quiet place." +</P> + +<P> +It had turned cold; they drove to a hotel, went to a +warm room, its stiffness tempered by huge bowls of +flowers, supper laid on the table. +</P> + +<P> +The waiter discreetly presumed that they would +ring if he was required; he left them with a faintly +un-waiter-like grin. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle was not hungry; she pecked at aspic +and foie gras, but drank champagne; glad as +the sparkling wine banished care, did its allotted +work. +</P> + +<P> +It was peaceful in there; the scent of the flowers +filled the room; the fire burnt brightly. +</P> + +<P> +They left the half-eaten meal and came to the glow +of the blazing coals. +</P> + +<P> +"Estelle!" The last strand snapped. Bertie's +arms closed round the girl, crushed her supple body +to his, kissed her with the reverence of great passion. +"Estelle!" he said. "You are spring—turn to +me." +</P> + +<P> +The lips that answered his, the arms that clung +about his neck told him she loved him. +</P> + +<P> +Forgetting the barrier of custom and law, they +snatched bliss from the greedy gods. Yet, even as +he held her, Bertie knew this was no creature of light +intrigues; she might come to him in a glory of +sacrifice, to be his for all time; she would not sink +to the furtiveness of secret meetings, to the sharing of +her man with another home. +</P> + +<P> +He put Estelle in a big chair, knelt before her, told +her all the folly which is never old, which the great +master Passion can tune anew each time. And what +were they to do? Part—and let the world rob them +of their joy, or.... +</P> + +<P> +"It must be all or nothing now," he said hoarsely. +"We could meet so often, little sweetheart—be so +happy." +</P> + +<P> +"Living a lie," she said bravely, though with all +her nature yearning for him. "No, Bertie, no." +</P> + +<P> +He pleaded on—pleaded with lips which touched +her hotly and yet reverently, with soft whispers of +what life might mean. "Estelle—then come to me. +Let us go away altogether. Take some house in the +country, and live for each other. People would forget +in time." +</P> + +<P> +"And Esmé?" Estelle asked simply. "How +would she live?" +</P> + +<P> +"I would give her money, what I could spare; +then she has someone who supports her; there is no +doubt of that, Estelle, or I would not be here now. +I would have buried my love for you, taken her away +to Cliff End if she had been faithful to me." +</P> + +<P> +"You do not know," Estelle faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"I know she can pay bills, do as she chooses. It +comes from someone." +</P> + +<P> +Estelle sat silent. People said it came from stolen +jewels, and she did not tell him. She knew him so +well; she feared his burst of wrath, his going +straight to Cyril Blakeney and demanding proof +or retraction. +</P> + +<P> +"It is time to go," Estelle said. "Bertie, I'll tell +you to-morrow. Come to me about four. I'll be +alone. I'll tell you then." +</P> + +<P> +With a sudden thrill of fear and joy she knew that +in her own sultry room she might be less strong. +</P> + +<P> +"For if I lose you, I shall go to the Devil without +you," Bertie said recklessly. +</P> + +<P> +The heart of woman delights in self-sacrifice. +Estelle knew that she would lose the world gladly +to make her man happy. She was pure enough to +look passion in the face and not hide hers; to joy in +the thought of giving herself and to realize what it +would mean. +</P> + +<P> +"I will come to-morrow," Bertie said, his hands +heavy on her bare shoulders, his eyes more eloquent +than words. +</P> + +<P> +The discreet waiter came padding noiselessly, took +his bill and tip. +</P> + +<P> +"But not our sort," he muttered, as Estelle went +out. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie Carteret walked home alone. Estelle would +not let him drive with her. Far up the stars blinked +in a violet sky, the cool spring wind blew against his +flushed face. Having been, up to the present, a mere +ordinary honourable man, he was miserable. Gloss +it over as he might he knew what he was asking +for. +</P> + +<P> +The tall mass of the mansions towered high above +him; he hated the place, its comfortless show. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr and Mrs Rabbit, who live in a warren," he +said, as he let himself in. +</P> + +<P> +The little sitting-room was dusty, neglected, but +he sat in it smoking until the stars went out and grey +dawn came sickly pale to oust the night. +</P> + +<P> +A motor siren bleated below. After a little he +heard the swish of silk. Esmé, haggard and flushed, +came into the room. +</P> + +<P> +How she had changed. The childish look had gone +for ever, replaced by a hard bitterness, by mirthless +smiles. +</P> + +<P> +"You!" she said carelessly. "You've made a +night of it, my friend." +</P> + +<P> +"I have been home for hours," he said coldly. +</P> + +<P> +"Tiens! Who knows!" She went to a table, +poured out brandy and opened a bottle of Perrier. +"Who knows, my Bertie. I saw you with Her at the +theatre." +</P> + +<P> +He sprang up, white, angry, to find the words +wither on his lips. How could he deny, refute, with +to-morrow—nay, to-day—before him? He sat down +again, wearily, as a man does who is very tired. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, Bertie." Esmé lighted the gas fire, +flung off her cloak; her hair was tossed, her thin arms +and neck bared to the bounds of decency, her dress +was a sheath outlining each slender limb. "Look +here!" she said. "You're sick of me. Let's have +done with it. I'll meet you half-way." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" he stammered. +</P> + +<P> +"Mean?" She lighted a cigarette, then took a +little tablet from a box and dropped one into her +glass. "This is Nervine—Steadier—what you like," +she mocked, "and really morphia. My nerves have +gone to pieces. I mean—go away; refuse to come +back; amuse yourself with the fair Estelle, and I'll +divorce you. Frank Dravelling would marry me," +she said eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie gave no answer. +</P> + +<P> +"And I'm sick of this. He's a bleating, mawkish +calf, but he's got fifteen thousand a year for me to +spend, and if I don't, a dozen other women will." +</P> + +<P> +Cold disgust gagged him. Had she no sense of +decent feeling, to talk like this? Was the girl he +had married dead? +</P> + +<P> +"He is at the age when he admires rouge and paint," +mocked Esmé. "He'll make me My Lady, and +Society will be glad to know me again. I'm sick of +being no one, of seeing glum looks and tracking round +with fifth-rate women. Come, Bertie! It's easily +arranged." +</P> + +<P> +As swift hands rub blurred glass, so that one can +see clearly through what was dim, Esmé's words let +the man's mental eyes look across the future. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle, his pure little Estelle! This painted, haggard +woman would make a cat's-paw of her, drag +her shamed name into the maw of the press, and +stand aloof herself, an injured wife. And he—he—in +his madness had been about to help her. Hidden +by glamour of passion, how different it had been +to this standing naked, showing its distorted limbs. +Let sorrow come or go, he knew that he would not now +drag the woman he loved into sinning. These are +the world's laws, men say, yet surely God's laws also, +since to break them means remorse and punishment. +Slight bonds of custom, but holding sane +humanity. +</P> + +<P> +"You have a curious mind," he said at last. "My +God, have you no sense of right or wrong, Esmé—no +shade of decency left?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, leave sermons to the Church," she said +roughly. +</P> + +<P> +"And supposing"—he got up, stood facing her, +man baited, driven to bay—"I were to divorce you, +my wife?" +</P> + +<P> +"You can't," she said coolly. "If I stay out all +night it's with companions. And look here, Bertie, +I am sick of it all. I say, let me divorce you, or I'll +take proceedings myself. If you are wise any woman +of the streets will serve your purpose; if you are not, +your pure Estelle's name will be in every paper. +See!" +</P> + +<P> +She tossed a photograph across to him. A glimpse +of sea and cliff, and two people asleep, lying close +to a bank. Their faces were clear; the girl, lying +back, had one hand outstretched; the man, his face +against the bank, had his upon it. +</P> + +<P> +"Repose," said Esmé, coarse meaning in her voice, +as every shade of colour whickered from her husband's +face. "Repose by the sea." +</P> + +<P> +The girl's face was Estelle Reynolds; the man's +his own. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie's young man is a photographer; he +snapped this at the seaside one day in June, years +ago. Marie brought it to me, commenting on the +likeness to you. I kept it. Come, Bertie, give me +freedom, or I'll take it." +</P> + +<P> +Holding the photograph, he saw what its evidence +would mean. Idle to prate of innocence with this +before the jury. It might be printed with a dozen +suggestive names below it. His uncle would turn +against him; Estelle would not get over it. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" she said, watching him. +</P> + +<P> +"No, but ill," he answered. "Yes, it's true. We +dropped asleep sitting looking at the sea. Pah! +what use to tell you?... We merely dropped +asleep. But if you show this there shall be counter +action, Esmé." +</P> + +<P> +"As I said," she flung out defiantly—"if I stay +out at night, it's with companions." +</P> + +<P> +He was ready with his counter-thrust; it darted, +swift and true. +</P> + +<P> +"From what companion," he asked slowly, "do +you get your money? Do you think me a fool, +Esmé, not to have noticed all that you spend and +pay?" +</P> + +<P> +The colour ebbed from her face now, leaving the +reddened mouth, the rouged cheeks, standing out +unnaturally. +</P> + +<P> +Evidence was so easy to find and trump up; she +wanted her freedom, but with her name untouched—it +was her one chance. +</P> + +<P> +"I've known for months or more that there was +someone," he went on. "There is such a thing as +common intelligence, Esmé." +</P> + +<P> +"You've known for months and years—known +that there was someone," Esmé repeated; her red +lips drew away from her white teeth as she sat, +stunned. So Bertie had believed her a light woman, +untrue to him, a creature vending her beauty to some +man. That, too, the consequence of her deceiving, +of her folly. +</P> + +<P> +She sat still, a stricken thing, her eyes alone alive +in her face. +</P> + +<P> +"That, I suppose, was why you changed to me," +she whispered, in a curious metallic voice. +</P> + +<P> +"That was why I ceased to love you—to live with +you as your husband," he said simply and very sadly. +</P> + +<P> +"That too!" The words rasped from between her +white teeth, and suddenly she laughed—a hopeless, +mirthless laugh, coming in noisy gusts; laughed, +sitting there, white and haggard, until the laughter +changed to gulping, sobbing gasps. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't, Esmé, don't," he cried. "Don't laugh +like that." +</P> + +<P> +She got up, her rich dress trailing round her thin +limbs, the fire of her jewels catching the gleams from +the electric light. +</P> + +<P> +"So you won't let me divorce you?" she said. +"Well, find my fellow-sinner if you can, and for the +present say good-night to Mrs Cain." +</P> + +<P> +Still laughing, she moved slowly across the room, +and into her own; shut the door quietly behind her. +</P> + +<P> +"That too!" she said. "Cut by Society; suspected +by her husband." Oh, poor Esmé, just because +she was a selfish, wicked fool. Poor Esmé—who +was once so happy. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie, I ... have you heard me? Marie—come!" +</P> + +<P> +And then, for the first time, Esmé fainted; sank +into a merciful blackness, lay cold and still, until +Marie found her. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle had decked her room with flowers; had put +on a soft gown, when a messenger brought her a +letter. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Estelle, I will not come. You are not a woman +for a selfish man to drag down. It is good-bye, and +not good-bye for me, for I shall never lose sight of +your dear face; but for you, you are a girl—young—forget +me. Marry someone you can like; don't +leave your life empty. Let home and the kiddies +be the cloth to wipe my memory out with. Estelle, +I've woken you. I speak from man to woman, +plainly. Go to your mother, and marry, for thwarted +nature leads to strange miseries. Good-bye, Estelle. +Last night Esmé spoke out, and I saw where I was +taking you to, and I'll not do it. My place is here, +to save my wife, for who am I to prate of morality?" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Estelle read the letter, folded it up; the world was +empty, swept clear of love and hope and tenderness. +</P> + +<P> +Very quietly she went to her writing-table, sat +down there. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"I have just got your letter," she wrote. "You +are right, but one word. People believe that Esmé +took, or got, jewels of Lady Blakeney's and sold them +at Benhusan's and elsewhere. Her money comes +from this source, they say. That is why people have +cut her. I could not tell you before, and I was wrong. +I do not believe it, but think that they were given to +her by Denise Blakeney, and that there is some secret +between them. <SPAN STYLE="font-variant: small-caps">Estelle</SPAN>." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +She sent the letter by a cab. +</P> + +<P> +"A thief!" Bertie Carteret turned white to the +lips as he read. They called his wife a thief. He sat +for an hour before he moved. Should he go to Cyril +Blakeney, fling the foul slander in his face? What +should he do? +</P> + +<P> +"Move carefully, or I show this." +</P> + +<P> +Esmé had the photograph which could brand +Estelle before the world. He feared it, feared his +wife. She came in now, dressed to go out. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé," he said hoarsely, "Esmé, do you know +why people dropped you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have never known," she answered coldly. +"Come, Bertie, are you more sensible to-day? Get +out of my life and I'll let your girl's reputation be." +</P> + +<P> +She was his wife, bore his name. He told her then, +quickly, his brain reeling. +</P> + +<P> +"They say that!" she cried wildly. "Denise let +that lie pass. Denise knew, and let them say I +<i>stole</i>." +</P> + +<P> +There was no guilt in Esmé's storming, but a madness +of rage, of blind, futile fury. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you sell diamonds?" he asked. "Esmé, +tell me the truth, and I'll see the slander buried. +You are my wife." +</P> + +<P> +"I did. I sold them," she flung out. "They +have the evidence. But Denise gave them to me; +she gave me money to buy silence. So that, too—that +too! all for one thing. A thief to the world—a +fallen woman to you. A thief! Oh, God! a thief!" +Her hands were at her throat; she gasped a little. +"Oh! I have borne enough," she raged wildly. +"And now Denise shall suffer. Tell as much truth +as will clear me, and give me back my own. You +don't believe it, Bertie?" There was wild appeal in +her tortured eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Before heaven, no, Esmé," he rang out. +</P> + +<P> +"And your belief is as false. Before to-morrow +you shall know what I am, and what I've done, and +judge me then. I am going to find Denise. I'll send +for you." +</P> + +<P> +"What is there between you?" he asked. +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +"You'll know to-morrow." There were tears now +in her eyes; just at the door she turned, held out +her hands. "Forgive a sinner, Boy," she faltered, +"though not the sinner you dream of." In all her +bravery and paint she was very pitiful. +</P> + +<P> +Before Bertie could answer she had slipped away. +</P> + +<P> +She had gone to the Blakeneys; there was something +between the two women. +</P> + +<P> +Then Marie, trim, moving deftly, came in. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" He hated the woman who held the +photograph and had shown it. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur, I would follow Madame. She was +distraught, wild! There is some secret, Monsieur, +between her and Milady Blakeney. Always notes +to the club, and notes by special messenger for +Madame, though it is that they do not speak. And, +Monsieur, I leave to-day. I go to be married. I +will speak. Has Monsieur never suspected anything? +Before I left Madame, Madame was enceinte. +I know, I could not be mistaken. The two Madames +then disappear—alone. Has Monsieur never seen?" +</P> + +<P> +"What?" almost shouted Bertie. He got his +hands on the maid's shoulder, unconsciously he shook +her. +</P> + +<P> +"<i>How like Milady Blakeney's son is to Madame +here</i>," hissed Marie; "that when he was ill Madame +sat here as one distraught. Ah! gently, Monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean?" he gulped out, letting go. +</P> + +<P> +"That Milady Blakeney is not the mother of one +of her children," said the Frenchwoman, softly. +"And that sorrow for having parted with her child +has made Madame so miserable as she is now. +Follow her, Monsieur. She is worn out from drugged +sleep—from remedies full of the cocaine. Follow her +swiftly." +</P> + +<P> +"Woman, I think you're mad." +</P> + +<P> +With a groan stifled in his throat Bertie ran down +the stairs and hailed a taxi to drive to Grosvenor +Square. +</P> + +<P> +The butler was human; distress and gold broke his +reserve. +</P> + +<P> +"Her ladyship was out of town. Master Cecil had +not been well, and her ladyship and the children +were at Trelawney in Devonshire." +</P> + +<P> +Trelawney was the village close to Cliff End. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs Carteret was here, sir. She got a time-table +and looked out the trains; she has left for Devonshire, +I fancy. There is a fast train reaching Trelawney +at about four, no other now for some time. +Mrs Carteret, sir, said she would get a motor, as it +would be much quicker." +</P> + +<P> +"You, Carteret!" Cyril Blakeney had driven +up in his big car. "What is the matter? You +look ill." +</P> + +<P> +"Slander's the matter. Mischief's the matter," +Bertie burst out. "A story too strange for credence +is the matter." +</P> + +<P> +"A moment! Come in here. The doorstep's no +home for confidence." +</P> + +<P> +"With you—who spread this lying tale!" rasped +Bertie. +</P> + +<P> +The two men faced each other. One worn from +unhappiness; one big, prosperous, untroubled. +</P> + +<P> +"You've only heard it now then? Now, Carteret? +Come in here. You're ill. Keep the car, Jarvis! +Come and hear my side." +</P> + +<P> +There was something dominant in Sir Cyril; his +will forced Bertie into the dining-room, kept him +there to listen to the explanation. There, quietly, +without any exaggeration, he told the whole story. +</P> + +<P> +"And you believed this? One side," said Bertie, +bitterly. "Sir Cyril, your wife lied; she gave +diamonds to my wife." +</P> + +<P> +"Gave them? Why?" The big man's voice +rang in cool contempt. "That's your wife's story +to you." +</P> + +<P> +"As silence money for some secret. Esmé told +me that. It must have been when they were away +in Italy. Sir Cyril, my wife was not lying to-day. +It was the truth." +</P> + +<P> +"And if mine was?" The big chin stuck out, the +heavy brows drew together. Cyril Blakeney could +always think quickly. "As silence money," he +muttered. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie talked on, told how he had spoken to Esmé, +and what she had said. "And she was telling the +truth," he said proudly. "She's no thief, Blakeney." +</P> + +<P> +Denise had spent a great deal of money; Cyril +knew that; on charity, she said. He had no thought +of what it could be. He believed in his wife as much +as he believed in any woman. +</P> + +<P> +"Come to Trelawney," he said quietly. "My +car is at the door. We cannot catch a train now, +and if your wife is hysterical, overwrought, there +may be trouble." +</P> + +<P> +As a man in a dream, Bertie went with Sir Cyril, +heard the quiet questioning, nothing forgotten. +</P> + +<P> +"The tank's fairly full, isn't it? Put out the jack +and the levers. We shall not want you, Anderson. +Now, Carteret. Oh, you'll want a coat—take one of +mine. We must run fast for it's a long way." +</P> + +<P> +The big Daimler glided off, threading her decorous, +restrained way through London, gathering speed in +the endless dreariness of the suburbs, shooting past +tradesmen's carts, past suburban children herded +by nurses in spotless white, for Suburbia on two +hundred a year must not be surpassed by Belgravia +on four thousand. Then the open country, the hum +of warm engines, the glorious rush of the highly-powered +car through the sunlit world, spurning the +miles, taking the hills contemptuously, rushing along +the level. Roads showed white ribbons, and then +when that ribbon was gone another was to be ruled +off. Policemen sprang out waving angry hands; the +red car was past and away, and the quiet man who +drove did not mean to stop. They stopped once for +petrol and water, drank a whisky and Perrier, and +munched some biscuits. +</P> + +<P> +"Not bad." Cyril Blakeney looked at the clock +which marked five as they tore into Trelawney. +"We left at eleven. Now we shall know." +</P> + +<P> +He drove to a little red-brick house looking on to +the bay. Denise had brought her Cecil down to +grow strong in the soft mild air; the boy had caught +cold and been delicate. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Stanson was at the door, her face wrapped in +a shawl. She came to meet them. +</P> + +<P> +Her ladyship was out, she said, had taken the +children to the bay. +</P> + +<P> +"My face ached, Sir Cyril. Her ladyship said she +would go alone without Ellen." +</P> + +<P> +"Has Mrs Carteret been here?" Sir Cyril asked. +"Quickly, nurse, answer!" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Stanson blushed, faltered. "Yes, Sir Cyril. +She came in a motor, has gone out to her ladyship. +Oh! is anything wrong?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes!" Cyril Blakeney's face was very quiet, +but his eyes gleamed thoughtfully. "Where shall +we find them, Mrs Stanson?" +</P> + +<P> +There were two bays, one on each side of the town; +two stretches of firm sands. Mrs Stanson looked +dubious. +</P> + +<P> +It appeared that the children had quarrelled as +they started. Master Cyril wanted to go to the bay +to the east, where the big rock ran out into the sea. +Master Cecil to the west bay. +</P> + +<P> +"Then it is sure to be this way." Sir Cyril turned +to the right—to the west. "Come, Carteret—we'll +walk fast." +</P> + +<P> +Something was making Bertie Carteret afraid. +The two men had scarcely spoken on the way down. +Just once Sir Cyril had asked: "You think you're +right, Carteret?" and Bertie had answered: "Yes. +My wife's no thief. She was <i>given</i> those jewels." +</P> + +<P> +"Then there is something," Cyril said. "Something!" +and did not speak again. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll go the other way." Bertie pointed to the +cliffs. "One never knows, and Esmé was dreadfully +excited. I'll go along the cliffs, Blakeney; I can +see the whole shore, and there are passages leading +down, and the cliff path is quicker walking." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well! It's all rather a fuss about nothing, +isn't it, Carteret?" +</P> + +<P> +Bertie hurried away towards the cliffs. An opal +evening was falling on the world. The sea glimmered +and sparkled out to the sinking sun. As he hurried, +Bertie could see the woods of Cliff End, and the gables +of the old house. So far he had seen no one on the +beach. The tide was coming in, creaming back +softly over the sands, nosing upwards on the rocks. +</P> + +<P> +He was coming close to where he had sat with +Estelle and known for the first time that he loved her. +Far below was a stretch of firm sand, with a curious +rock running out, deep water always at its landward +side—a treacherous, slippery rock, not high above +the water, but its sides sheer and steep. +</P> + +<P> +Then he saw Denise Blakeney and his wife. Esmé +was gesticulating, speaking loudly. Denise standing +with bent head and outstretched, pleading hands. +He saw little Cecil playing with his spade, making a +castle. +</P> + +<P> +The next downward track was some way on. He +watched for a minute. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie!" He swung round, astonished. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle, with lines in her pale face, was on the cliffs. +</P> + +<P> +"You!" he jerked out. "Here—to-day. Why?" +</P> + +<P> +She flushed. "I ... came to say good-bye to +the cliff here," she said gently. "Where I knew for +the first time that you were my world, Bertie. I +came down this morning. I was walking back to +Trelawney now to catch a train." +</P> + +<P> +For a minute he forgot everything except that the +girl beside him would understand and sympathize. +He stood pouring out his story; there was no hurry. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle listened, saw suddenly that Marie had not +dreamed; looked back on little incidents. +</P> + +<P> +"Her child!" she muttered. "Poor Esmé. Oh, +Bertie, listen! we can hear what they are saying, +and it's as well to know." +</P> + +<P> +The voices rang clearly. Esmé was flinging out +passionate words, demanding justice. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll not take him," Denise cried. "Esmé, it +would ruin me." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you think when you allowed me to be +ruined?" stormed Esmé—"saw me cut, banned by +my friends?" +</P> + +<P> +"You wrote a foolish letter," wailed Denise. +"Cyril thought you had stolen the diamonds. I +never told him so." +</P> + +<P> +"No, but to save yourself you left it at that. You +acted a cruel lie. Now give me my boy. I have +borne enough." +</P> + +<P> +"You cannot prove it," Denise sobbed piteously. +"No, Esmé, no." +</P> + +<P> +"I can and will. Because I was weak, and loved +ease and pleasure, all this has come. The world +believes me to be a thief—my husband that I am an +adulteress. At least I'll have my boy. Oh, Denise, +do you know how I've longed for him? How my +whole life has been one ache of regret?" +</P> + +<P> +"But the scandal. Oh, God! I cannot face +Cyril." Denise flung herself down on the soft sand, +gripping it with her hands. "I'll give you more +money, anything." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing but the truth will give me back my +honour. Where is the boy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Cecil wanted some red seaweed for his castle. +Cyril is on the rock getting it," said Cecil, looking up. +"Mumsie not let Cecil go." +</P> + +<P> +"On the rock!" Esmé sprang round. +</P> + +<P> +The two on the cliff could hear the raised voices. +With white, strained faces they listened, bewildered, +almost afraid. +</P> + +<P> +"The boy is hers. It is true," whispered Bertie. +"Look, he's out on the rock, and it's slippery, +dangerous. He ought to keep down." +</P> + +<P> +A little figure was toiling along the sharply-cut edge. +The tide was washing at the safe side where the rock +merged into the sands, so Cyril kept high up. +</P> + +<P> +"It's not safe; he may fall. You want to kill +him," Esmé cried, beginning to run towards the rock. +</P> + +<P> +It was safe at low tide, because the sands were bare, +but no place for baby feet on the upper side above +the deep water. +</P> + +<P> +"You would not have let Cecil go," Esmé stormed +as she hurried on. "Oh, Cyril, stop! Keep near +the tide." +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps her voice frightened the child as he picked +his way. He started, slipped, and fell over. In a +second a little white face could be seen on the calm, +dark water. +</P> + +<P> +"Cyril, oh, Cyril! Oh, my baby!" rose a shrieking +cry. +</P> + +<P> +With mad haste Esmé tore off her skirt and sprang +into the sea, clutching at the sinking child. She +caught him as he came up for the third time, and +swam back holding him. But the black sides +towered sheer and straight four feet above her; +the seaweed gave as she caught it; the child was a +dead weight on one arm, and she had hurt the other +jumping in. +</P> + +<P> +"Get help," she cried. "Get help, Denise." +</P> + +<P> +Denise lay on the sands, shrieking, half-unconscious, +useless and helpless. +</P> + +<P> +"They'll drown! Go for help, Estelle. I may +get down to them in time." Bertie swung over the +edge of the cliff, beginning a perilous climb. +</P> + +<P> +Another rescuer went hurrying too. +</P> + +<P> +"It's Cyrrie! My Cyrrie, dwownin'." +</P> + +<P> +Baby Cecil left his castle, began to patter out along +the rock, sobbing as he ran. "Wait, Cyrrie, wait! +I tumin' to help. Oh, my Cyrrie!" +</P> + +<P> +Half-way down Bertie knew that he ought to have +run on to the path. Sometimes he hung and thought +he could go no further, then dropped and scrambled, +and caught some point which saved him. He was +still too high up to jump when he came to a jutting +ledge and could see no way on. There, Esmé, clinging, +slipping, as she called for help, looked up and saw +him. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie!" she said. "You followed me." +</P> + +<P> +She stopped calling out, clutched a new piece of +seaweed and grew strangely quiet. +</P> + +<P> +"Bertie, I'm not worth it," she said. "Don't +risk anything." +</P> + +<P> +Voices are strangely clear across the water; hers +rang plainly. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll come, Esmé. I must find a way. I'll save +you." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going to drown, Bertie. I'm so tired, it +won't hurt much; but I've time to talk a little." +</P> + +<P> +As he raged up and down his ledge he heard her +voice telling, as quietly as though they were in some +room, safe and sheltered, her story. +</P> + +<P> +"Send for Luigi Frascatelle, he'll identify me as the +boy's mother. Bertie, I sold my birthright, but I've +been punished for it, so forgive me now, and keep +my Cyrrie—he's alive." +</P> + +<P> +The pity of it as she clung there—young, pretty, +once so happy. Truly, the punishment had been +hard. +</P> + +<P> +"Esmé! I see a way. I'll get down in five +minutes. Live on and let the past be." +</P> + +<P> +Twice she had felt the water at her lips, once her +boy had almost slipped from her arms. +</P> + +<P> +"I would have swum round but one arm is hurt," +she said weakly. "Bertie, I think the boy is dying. +If he dies let Denise be. Don't tell if she will clear +my name." +</P> + +<P> +A man ran out along the rock, heard the faltering +words. +</P> + +<P> +"By the God above us she shall clear it," stormed +Bertie, "and give us back our child. No, Esmé, no. +Oh, wait! I'm down." +</P> + +<P> +He was in the water now, swimming strongly, too +late; the last strand of weed had parted; weak, +tired Esmé had slipped to her rest in the cool, clear +water. And as she went, little Cecil, sobbing wildly, +holding out his spade, fell over into the sea. +</P> + +<P> +A clawing, twisted woman rose from the sands, +screaming wildly, looking up as baby Cecil fell over. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Cyril ran past her, kicking off his shoes as he +went. +</P> + +<P> +Bertie hesitated for a second, but the struggling, +drowning mite had fallen in coming to try to save +Cyril; he turned, swam to Cecil, and carried the child +to the rock, where his father leant over. +</P> + +<P> +"Quickly, man!—we'll dive," Sir Cyril cried. +</P> + +<P> +"I give you back your child," Bertie said. "Mine +is gone for ever." He swam on. +</P> + +<P> +Diving, he brought up Esmé, her boy clasped to +her. +</P> + +<P> +Estelle had fetched help. They carried the still +figures quickly to the cliff and back to the house. +</P> + +<P> +"You meant?" Cyril Blakeney said as he went +with him, carrying his drenched boy. +</P> + +<P> +"Cyril is Esmé's child," Bertie said bitterly. +"Your wife bought him from her. I heard it all as +they talked on the sands. She told me where to find +proof." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" said Cyril, slowly. "Ah!" +</P> + +<P> +Denise was tottering behind them, wild with fear, +grey-faced, all beauty reft from her. +</P> + +<P> +"God send," said Sir Cyril, reverently, "that both +come to, and we live to repay for the blight we cast +on your wife's name, Carteret." +</P> + +<P> +"I cast a worse one," said Bertie, fiercely. +</P> + +<P> +Then long-drawn working, as the living strive with +death, as the poor quiet body is forced to life. But +no working brought a quiver to little Cyril; they +left him at last quiet in his cot; the motherless boy +was at peace for ever. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé's breath came fluttering. She had closed +her eyes on sea and sky, opened them to see watching, +kindly faces. +</P> + +<P> +"Hush, do not speak," they told her. +</P> + +<P> +"Cyril?" she whispered, and knew without an +answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Then let it rest," she murmured, and so drifted +out again, this time for ever, into the land of shadows, +glad to go and rest. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +Denise, half wild, had stumbled in alone, sobbing, +shivering, unnoticed, as the household worked for the +two lives. +</P> + +<P> +Cecil had been put to bed; his hip was hurt; he +lay still and exhausted; sometimes asking for "Cyrrie—my +Cyrrie." +</P> + +<P> +"Not you, mumsie—Cyrrie," he said fretfully. +"I couldn't pull Cyrrie out—fetch Cyrrie." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Stanson, weeping for her eldest charge, came +in. Seeing her, hope leapt up suddenly into Denise's +heart. +</P> + +<P> +"The boy, milady?" Mrs Stanson sobbed. "No +hope. We've laid him to rest." +</P> + +<P> +"And—Mrs Carteret?" +</P> + +<P> +"Came to, and passed away, milady." +</P> + +<P> +The wave of hope swelled high. For as all the +punishment had fallen on the woman who lay still +in the pretty drawing-room, it might lie on her still. +No one else knew. +</P> + +<P> +"She spoke?" Denise faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"Once, milady—to ask for Master Cyril; and +again to say, 'Let it rest.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" The greyness slipped from Denise's +cheeks. The dead cannot speak. After all, she was +to escape. +</P> + +<P> +Then, his big bulk filling the door, her husband +came in, Carteret following. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! oh!" she cried, and held her hands out, +sobbing. "Oh, Cyrrie! the boy and poor Esmé. +She died to save him. Oh!" +</P> + +<P> +"You can go, Mrs Stanson." The sick fear crept +back to Denise Blakeney's heart. "Yes, Cyrrie is +gone; and now, Denise, you will tell the truth." +</P> + +<P> +"The truth," she faltered. "I—and I am so +miserable." +</P> + +<P> +"You'll tell how you gave those diamonds to Mrs +Carteret. You'll publish it in the big papers. That +is one part—and then ... now the rest of the +truth," he thundered. "Oh, you two poor fools." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Cyril—what else?" +</P> + +<P> +"All the rest," came quickly. "Of Italy and +Esmé Carteret's child." +</P> + +<P> +It was over. Denise tottered to a chair, sat there +staring; her punishment had fallen at last. +</P> + +<P> +Then, faltering, stumbling, yet afraid to lie, Denise +Blakeney told the story. Of Esmé's fear of poverty; +of her own wish for a child. "And then it was +arranged," she said; "we changed names. The boy +was Esmé's. Luigi Frascatelle, the doctor, can tell +you." +</P> + +<P> +"The big, splendid boy was yours, Carteret; the +poor, puny mite mine," said Cyril Blakeney, bitterly. +"Well done, Denise! When a foolish girl was +hysterical, foolish, as women are at these times, you +advised her well. Lord! I know what she felt when +I've seen her looking, looking at her own boy, with +heartbreak in her eyes. I've wondered, but did not +understand then. It was a pretty plot, milady, to +fool me back to an untrue wife. Carteret, we are no +judges to blame these two, but one has known her +punishment, and one has not." +</P> + +<P> +"Cyril!" sobbed Denise, "have pity! It was +for you." +</P> + +<P> +"For me? Pardon me, for my name and my +position, knowing that I meant to rid myself of you," +he answered coldly. "Carteret, Miss Reynolds is +with your dead wife—go to her." +</P> + +<P> +"Cyril," moaned Denise again. "You'll not +expose me, for the boy's sake." +</P> + +<P> +She was on her knees by Cyril's side, sobbing, +entreating. +</P> + +<P> +"That is for Carteret to decide," he answered. +"Go to your room; you will only excite the child." +</P> + +<P> +In the days to come, Denise, fighting for her +delicate boy's life, knew no open disgrace. One poor +foolish woman had borne it all and died; but the +other left behind knew the misery of daily fear. She +was a cipher, given no trust or belief; and with her +always was the dread that as Cecil grew older he +would be taken from her. +</P> + +<P> +Cyril Blakeney, an embittered man, never forgave +her. +</P> + +<P> +Denise came to him the evening of Esmé's death to +ask what he would do. +</P> + +<P> +He was writing, making arrangements for the +funeral. +</P> + +<P> +"You let a woman be disgraced before the world, +you let that boy whom you disliked go into danger +where no baby should have gone," he said. "But +you are Cecil's mother—so keep the position you +schemed for—and no more." +</P> + +<P> +The big man went back to his loneliness; he had +loved strong Cyril, had dreamt of a boy who would +run and shoot and swim and ride; and now, Cecil, +injured by his fall from the cliff, would be lame for +life. +</P> + +<P> +Esmé sleeps in a graveyard by the sea; close by +her a little grave with "Cyril, drowned the 21st of +April," on it. And on her tombstone is the inscription: +"She gave her life to save a child's." +</P> + +<P> +Estelle and Bertie, living in the quiet country, +happy, yet with a shadow of regret ever with them, +guessed, as they came often to the grave, what the +weak girl must have suffered. +</P> + +<P> +"Judge no human being until you know the +truth," said Bertie once, "for misery rode poor Esmé +with a sharp spur across the thorns of recklessness. +Poor Butterfly, whose day of fluttering in the sunlight +was so short." +</P> + +<P> +Yet, even with the shadow behind them, two of +the players are happy, every-day man and woman +with troubles and joys. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +COLSTONS LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<HR> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +March, 1914 +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 200%"> +JOHN LONG'S ANNOUNCEMENTS +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +All JOHN LONG'S Books are published in their +Colonial Library as nearly as possible simultaneously +with the English Editions +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +SIX SHILLING NOVELS +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +Crown 8vo., Cloth Gilt. Many in Three-Colour Wrappers +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE GREATER LAW.</b> By Victoria Cross, Author of +"Anna Lombard," "Five Nights," "The Life Sentence," +"Life of My Heart," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +"The Greater Law" is a story that touches the deepest currents of +human feeling, vibrating with power and intensity perhaps even more +than those which have previously emanated from the pen of this intrepid +writer. The many episodes of a brief romance are treated naturally and +sincerely and with masterly ability. It is, indeed, a typical Victoria +Cross novel. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>SUNRISE VALLEY.</b> By Marion Hill, Author of "The +Lure of Crooning Water," etc. [Not supplied to Canada.] +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +"The Lure of Crooning Water," by Marion Hill, was one of the +fictional landmarks of last year, consequently her succeeding book is bound +to evoke more than ordinary interest. "Sunrise Valley" involves a +contrast between the ideals of Town and Country; the wealth of Stanley +Ballantyne, manliest of millionaires, is confronted with the independence +of Blanche Dering, sweetest of heroines. The novel should set the seal +upon a victorious beginning. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE WOMAN RUTH.</b> By Curtis Yorke, Author of +"The Vision of the Years," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Readers of Curtis Yorke do not need to be commended to her latest +novel. The secret of her continued success is that she never gives us less +than her best. "The Woman Ruth" epitomises the qualities of head and +heart to which she has accustomed us. An optimistic view of life—tenderness, +humour, human sympathy—these are the main weapons in this gifted +author's bright and shining armoury. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>SYLVIA.</b> By Upton Sinclair, Author of "The Jungle," +"The Moneychangers," etc. [Not supplied to Australia or +Canada.] +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +"Sylvia" is the greatest work that has come from the pen of this +brilliant author, surpassing "The Jungle" both in the bigness of its +theme and in its dramatic intensity. Just as the timeliness of "The +Jungle" promoted its great success, so "Sylvia" appears at the psychological +moment when social questions are to the front. It is a fascinating +story, presenting a girl-character more charming, more powerful, more +remarkable in every way than Mr. Sinclair has yet drawn, while beneath +lies a vein of serious purpose, a criticism of contemporary ethics which +ranks it among the profoundest moral forces of the day. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>DESMOND O'CONNOR.</b> By George H. Jessop, +Author of "His American Wife," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Desmond O'Connor was a good fighter, a brisk wooer, and a breezy +companion on the march or in the bivouac. He was one of the many +wandering Irishmen who drew the sword for France after the siege of +Limerick. It was while in the service of Louis XIV., in Flanders, that +he met the lovely Countess Margaret, and surrendered to her charms. +One will find a no more romantic story of love and war than is contained +in these pages. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>BLESSINGTON'S FOLLY.</b> By Theodore Goodridge +Roberts, Author of "Love on Smoky River," etc. [Not +supplied to Canada.] +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The qualities which made "Love on Smoky River" such an +instantaneous and unqualified success are again brought into play in the +present novel. The author unfolds his theme with skill and power, and +fully maintains the reputation he has gained for telling a good story well. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE</b>. By Violet Tweedale, +Author of "The House of the Other World," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This is a book of a very unusual type. It is a powerful novel dealing +with Satanism, an evil cult which is making great headway in Europe. +The man who forms the unholy alliance is Canon Gilchrist, who has been +unfairly deprived of a peerage, and hopes to regain his position by the +help of the Powers of Darkness. There is a charming love element, and +the story shows the author at her best. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>A GAMBLE FOR LOVE</b>. By Nat Gould. (For Complete +List of Nat Gould's Novels see pages 12 and 13). +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This novel follows "A Fortune at Stake," the first novel by Nat Gould +to be issued at the outset at 6<i>s</i>. The innovation was an immediate +success. The new tale, "A Gamble for Love," should undoubtedly win +for itself many admirers. The hero and heroine have strong dominating +personalities, and the love interest is well sustained. The element of +sport of course prevails, and the book may fairly be said to be as thrilling +as any Mr. Nat Gould has written. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE SECRET CALLING.</b>. By Olivia Ramsey, Author +of "Callista in Revolt," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This is a love story of unusual charm dealing with the fortunes of two +girls. An artist falls in love with one; the other rejects the brilliant +marriage arranged for her by her worldly aunt. Each girl seeks safety +in flight. How both are finally won by the men who love them is +convincingly described by the author. In this book she again displays +her acknowledged skill as a clever novelist. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE SNAKE GARDEN.</b> By Amy J. Baker, Author of +"I Too Have Known," "The Impenitent Prayer," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +As with her two previous successes the scene is laid in South Africa. +Miss Baker writes with a realism that is the outcome of personal experience. +Theo, the heroine, is an unusual type of girl, and how she +straightens out her life is told with rare humour and psychological +insight. The book is remarkable for its clear-cut pictures of Colonial +life. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE BELOVED PREMIER.</b> By H. Maxwell, Author +of "Mary in the Market," "The Paramount Shop," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The author imagines what would happen in England were the authorities +to govern with absolute disinterestedness and singleness of purpose. +The picture thus drawn depicts a topsy-turvy world indeed. The story is +told with much humour and many shrewd thrusts at our most cherished +institutions. It is an unusual book replete with good things. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THREE SUMMERS.</b> By Victor L. Whitechurch, Author +of "The Canon in Residence," "Left in Charge," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Here is a book that will appeal to all who love a good plot and plenty +of incident. It runs along fresh and sparkling and true to the end. The +hero and heroine are cleverly depicted in this charming romance, which +teems with lovable characters. It is a novel which enhances the reputation +of this popular author. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE RESIDENCY.</b> By Henry Bruce, Author of "The +Eurasian," "The Native Wife," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The previous novels by Henry Bruce have secured for him an +appreciative following. Like its predecessors, "The Residency" is a +story of life in India. The heroine is a beautiful Eurasian who, +after twenty-two years of sheltered life in England, rashly returns to +India. The novel is an account of the passionate attachment she forms +for a Native of rank. Mr. Bruce has a power of humour all too rare in +these days. He tells the narrative in a masterly way. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>PAUL MOORHOUSE.</b> By George Wouil, Author of +"Sowing Clover." +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<i>The Morning Post</i> said, in reviewing the author's first novel, "Sowing +Clover": "We shall look for Mr. Wouil's future with every anticipation +of continuous and increasing delight." The second novel is another +Black Country study, but of much greater dramatic power. It depicts +the central character, reared in poverty, without influence or promise; of +the struggles of youth; of artisan life, the prospect of a "little 'ome" and +drab respectability; of ambition; of the coming of love; of the making +of a gentleman, and the battle with environment. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE WIDOW OF GLOANE.</b> By D. H. Dennis, Author +of "Crossroads," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. D. H. Dennis is one of the most promising exponents of the +modern school of fiction. His new Work contains a capital idea. +Phyllis, the heroine, who is a charming young widow when the story +opens, meets and marries the playmate of her childhood. The narrative +is full of good things, of wit as well as wisdom, and readers who like +their fiction to be brainy as well as human will thoroughly enjoy its pages. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE BARBARIANS.</b> By James Blyth, Author of +"Rubina," "Amazement," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The marital relationship is the keynote of "The Barbarians" +Original, virile, human, bold and sympathetic, the novel, both in +interest and craftsmanship, is a worthy successor of a sequence of +brilliantly limned portraits of the feminine character. It is the tale that +matters, and as a story teller Mr. Blyth may well challenge comparison. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>UNDER COVER OF NIGHT.</b> By R. Murray Gilchrist, +Author of "Weird Wedlock," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +A book of vivid atmosphere, probably the best of this author's novels +of incident. Throughout, the strange country background, with its +swiftly moving folk, gentle and simple, reminds one of a weird and +fascinating drama. The contrast between the quiet inn house, and the +dilapidated hall with its guilty secret, is admirably depicted. The plot +is excellently fashioned and the unfolding of the mystery done with +admirable restraint. The author understands to perfection the art of +thrilling his readers. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>MAIDS OF SALEM.</b> By K. L. Montgomery, Author of +"The Gate-Openers," "The Cardinal's Pawn," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The witch-persecution of New England, one of the most dramatic +chapters of American history, is the theme of K. L. Montgomery's new +novel. The scene is Salem, Massachusetts Bay. The story is one of +tragedy and romance, told in the inimitable way with which the author's +admirers have been so charmed by her previous books. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE DICE OF LOVE.</b> By Edmund Bosanquet +Author of "A Society Mother," "Mary's Marriage," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Since the days of "A Society Mother," Mr. Edmund Bosanquet has +gone far, and this, his latest romance, will more than satisfy the expectations +of his admirers. The characters are never insipid, and have the +happy knack of getting on the right side of the reader immediately. +There is a sustained brilliance about the book which augurs well for its +success. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE MEMOIRS OF PRINCESS ARNULF.</b> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +These reminiscences form the record of the intimate life of the +Princess Arnulf and her royal relatives. Not for many years has a work +of such extraordinary interest been given to the reading public. It is the +mart of news, of scandal, of rumour, of intrigue, of a galaxy of princes, +courtiers, men and women of rank and fashion, of sullied virtue and +invidious attachments. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>WHY SHE LEFT HIM.</b> By Florence Warden, Author +of "Love's Sentinel," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Miss Warden's gypsy heroine forms a very interesting study. It would +be unfair to explain the plot of the story, but behind it is tragedy. The +hero, Lord Tregaron, is a well-drawn personage, and so, indeed, are the +other characters clustered around the charming heroine. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE MAZE.</b> By A. L. Stewart. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +"The Maze" is the love story of a famous operatic singer who marries +her protégé, a violinist considerably younger than herself. As is +inevitable, their gifts clash and jealousy ensues. The plot is cleverly +unfolded, and the book reaches a satisfactory conclusion. The scene is +laid in London, Paris, and the West of England. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE OYSTER.</b> By a Peer, Author of "The Hard Way," +"The Decoy Duck," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The Novels of a Peer are distinguished among present-day fiction by +their brilliant literary qualities and their deep emotional appeal to human +hearts and sympathies. They are addressed to men and women who know +the world and the significance of life: their keynote is strength. The +<i>motif</i> of this enthralling story is centred upon the maternal instinct—the +profoundest of all human feelings. An idea of consummate originality is +presented in a manner free from reproach or any suspicion of pruriency. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>A MILLION FOR A SOUL.</b> By Mrs. C. E. Phillimore, +Author of "Two Women and a Maharajah." +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +An Irish patriot bequeaths to his child, as her sole inheritance, his love +for drink. She marries in India and through constant strain succumbs to +the degrading habit. Cast off by her husband, her lover seeks to regain +her and effect her regeneration. The story ends with this achieved, +though the manner of its accomplishment is by way of the unexpected. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE WHITE VAMPIRE.</b> By A. M. Judd, Author of +"Lot's Wife," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This is a powerful story of love, hate, revolution, and revenge, woven +around the central figure of a beautiful, fascinating, unscrupulous woman +who lures men to ruin and then dooms them to a horrible fate. Retribution +overtakes her at last through the love of one of her victims. The +book contains many thrilling episodes, and the ending is highly dramatic. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>LAW THE WRECKER.</b> By Charles Igglesden, +Author of "Clouds," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Is it feasible that a sane man may be sent to a lunatic asylum? This +vital question is answered by Mr. Igglesden in "Law the Wrecker." +The author is especially qualified to deal with the subject, as he has +acted as certifying magistrate for many years and been a governor of a +county lunatic asylum. Life in a lunatic asylum is vividly and truthfully +described. The plot is an exciting one with many dramatic situations, +a young Colonial trying against heavy odds to prove his sanity to the girl +he loves, and she in turn struggling with the doubt that racks her mind. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>MARY'S MARRIAGE.</b> By Edmund Bosanquet, Author +of "A Society Mother," "Catching a Coronet," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Securing public favour at the first time of asking—such is this author's +almost unique record. That he has come to stay may be gathered from +the progressive successes he has achieved since the days of "A Society +Mother." This novel follows its predecessors in that it makes the same +direct appeal to the average human heart. Readers in their thousands and +tens of thousands will rejoice to know something about the heroine and +her wayward marriage. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE ENCHANTING DISTANCE.</b> By Lilian Arnold, +Author of "The Storm-Dog," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This is a love story, in the development of which it becomes apparent +that things are seldom what they seem and that the most passionate +attachments are rarely based on pure reason. The adventures of the +heroine in search of a life of her own in London are told with much +humour. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>A BESPOKEN BRIDE.</b> By Fred Whishaw, Author of +"Nathalia," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. Fred Whishaw's description in this novel of the gallant little +nation, Finland, fighting to a man and woman against inevitable +absorption by the irresistible giant at the threshold, is moving and holds +the reader. Every Finn is a resister, active or passive. Some fight +wisely, some foolishly, but all fight and all sacrifice self for the sake of +the Motherland and her disappearing rights and privileges. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>SALAD DAYS.</b> By the Author of "Improper Prue," "The +Price of Possession," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This amusing novel can well be called a comedy of youth, for it depicts +the invasion of a well-ordered English bachelor by a good-intentioned +humourless Irish girl and twin young men of free and easy disposition. +The bachelors are Mr. Weatherby, most chivalrous of victims, and his +nephew, Richard Torr, an Oxford exquisite, who tries hard to save his +own and his uncle's dignity under the most trying conditions. It is a +book that men and women will laugh at and enjoy. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>FROM PILLAR TO POST.</b> By Alice M. Diehl, Author +of "Incomparable Joan," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +For the many readers of Mrs. Diehl's novels the present story will be +rather a new departure in female portraiture. The heroine's aristocratic +descent, conflicting with her father's democratic ideas, is the pivot on +which much of the tale turns. Her experiences as a wife, and yet all the +time no wife, go to make up a very fascinating romance which shows +that the author has lost none of her power. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>CALLISTA IN REVOLT.</b> By Olivia Ramsey, Author +of "A Girl of No Importance," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This dainty love-story is told with great charm and skill. A beautiful +girl is forced, through adverse circumstances, to lead a monotonous existence +in an isolated village. It is here that she is discovered by the +wealthy Bruce Armadale, whose force of character is powerfully drawn. +A dazzling dancer of London fame is introduced as a dangerous rival for +his affection, and her plot to separate the lovers is convincingly told. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE RANSOM FOR LONDON.</b> By J. S. Fletcher, +Author of "The Bartenstein Case," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This is one of the most enthralling conceptions that has yet appeared in +realistic fiction. From the advent of the stranger at the week-end retreat +of the Prime Minister, with his demand for ten millions sterling as the +ransom for London, right through to the end, the narrative compels +attention. Mr. Fletcher has in this story surpassed himself. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>ANGELS IN WALES.</b> By Margam Jones, Author of +"The Stars of the Revival," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +A tale of Welsh life in the last century, describing faithfully and vividly, +in the glow of a sympathetic imagination, the joys and sorrows of the +Celtic soul, and having for its central theme the all-important problem of +true life. Here the lover of fiction will be continually charmed by a +mysterious revelation of hidden life clothed in a new dress of spiritual +psychology. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE PRICE OF CONQUEST.</b> By Ellen Ada Smith, +Author of "The Only Prison," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The story has its setting partly in the west country and partly amidst +the changes and chances of London musical life. As a risen Star, +Sigismund Wirth is happy as only the successful can be. How at last +his weakness is discovered and his final victory over self achieved is shown +in this clever novel. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>FAITH AND UNFAITH.</b> By James Blyth, Author of +"Rubina," "Amazement," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +This novel is the study of a woman's love. The theme is developed +with the certainty of touch and the clearness of vision which are the gifts +of experience in life and art. It is as engrossing as the author's previous +works, and a notable addition to his gallery of brilliant pen portraits of +beautiful, frail women. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE RED WEDDING.</b> By E. Scott Gillies, Author +of "A Spark on Steel," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The novel deals with one of the stormiest periods of history and +of the fierce feud between two Highland Clans, each so powerful +that Queen Elizabeth sought to gain their friendship for England against +the Scottish Sovereign, James IV. It is a story of love and jealousy +and the gradual success of the true lover in the face of all obstacles. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>ENVIRONMENT.</b> By Mrs. A. M. Floyer. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The story illustrates the influence of environment upon character. +The plot consists of episodes, amatory, humorous and otherwise, in the +lives of people who are not always in their proper element. It should +appeal to all who like something out of the beaten track. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 150%"> +RECENT POPULAR NOVELS +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +SIX SHILLINGS EACH +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Several of these novels were the successes of last year. Some reached +the distinction of a Second Edition and even a Third Edition, whilst with +"The Lure of Crooning Water" a Thirteenth Edition was called for. +</P> + +<PRE> + LOVE ON SMOKY RIVER Theodore G. Roberts + SOWING CLOVER George Wouil + THE PARAMOUNT SHOP H. Maxwell + A FORTUNE AT STAKE Nat Gould + THE EURASIAN Henry Bruce + MAZE OF SCILLY E. J. Tiddy + ETELKA Stanley Ford + A SOCIAL INNOCENT R. St. John Colthurst + GREEN GIRL Mrs. Henry Tippett + THE WISDOM OF THE FOOL By "coronet" + THE ELUSIVE WIFE R. Penley + LOT'S WIFE A. M. Judd + AN OFFICER AND A— E. D. Henderson + YOUNG EVE AND OLD ADAM Tom Gallon + THE VAUDEVILLIANS Anonymous + A HANDFUL OF DAYS Hal D'arcy + CROSSROADS D. H. Dennis + LIGHT FINGERS AND DARK EYES Vincent Collier + THE MAN IN THE CAR Alan Raleigh + THE LURE OF CROONING WATER Marion Hill + THE DECOY DUCK By a Peer + LEVITY HICKS Tom Gallon + OUR ALTY M. E. Francis + QUEER LITTLE JANE Curtis Yorke + CATCHING A CORONET Edmund Bosanquet + THE HOUSE OF THE OTHER WORLD Violet Tweedale + THE ONLY PRISON Ellen Ada Smith + A GIRL OF NO IMPORTANCE Olivia Ramsey + UNQUENCHED FIRE Alice Gerstenberg + MARY IN THE MARKET H. Maxwell + THE IMPENITENT PRAYER Amy J. Baker + THE LITTLE MAISTER R. H. Forster + LOVE'S SENTINEL Florence Warden + INCOMPARABLE JOAN Alice M. Diehl + THE VISION OF THE YEARS Curtis Yorke + HIS AMERICAN WIFE George H. Jessop + WEIRD WEDLOCK R. Murray Gilchrist + THIN ICE Anne Weaver + A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE Charles Löwenthal + (Low Lathen) +</PRE> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 150%"> +THE WORLD'S FAVOURITE AUTHOR +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +ATHENĆUM, June +10th, 1911, says:—"All +living writers +are headed by Mr. +Nat Gould, and of +the great of the past, +Dumas only surpasses +his popularity." +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +TRUTH, Jan. 22nd, +1913, says:—"Who is +the most popular of +living novelists? Mr. +Nat Gould easily and +indisputably takes the +first place." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 150%"> +The Novels of Nat Gould +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +Sales now exceed NINE MILLION Copies! +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +NAT GOULD'S NEW 6/- NOVEL +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 150%"> +A GAMBLE FOR LOVE +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +[Ready in April, 1914] +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +All Mr. Nat Gould's NEW Novels will now be issued at the outset at 6s., +Crown 8vo., in handsome Cloth Gilt, over 300 pages, with Wrapper in Three +Colours. They will also be issued simultaneously in John Long's Colonial +Library at 3s. 6d., Cloth, with Special design, also Wrapper in Three Colours; +and 2s. 6d. with Stiff Paper Covers in Three Colours. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +RECENTLY PUBLISHED AND UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +A FORTUNE AT STAKE +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +[Third Edition.] +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Remarkable success attended the publication of this, Mr. Nat Gould's First +Novel to be issued at the outset at 6s. The large First Edition was soon +exhausted, and Second and Third Editions have been called for, thus proving +that Mr. Nat Gould has a very big following in the Library and Colonial form. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +N.B.—Messrs. JOHN LONG are the SOLE Publishers of all Mr. +Nat Gould's New Novels and control the output. To ensure a long run +with the Library and Colonial Editions they will not publish the 1s. net +Edition until at least a year, and the 6d. Edition until over two years, +after the publication of the more expensive Edition. But in the meantime +there will be the usual periodical 6d. issues of Novels by Mr. Nat +Gould that have already appeared at 2s. and 1s. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +NAT GOULD'S NOVELS at 1s. and 2s. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +Crown 8vo. Paper Cover, three colours, 1s. net; cloth gilt, 2s. +</P> + +<PRE> + THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME + THE KING'S FAVOURITE + A CAST OFF + *THE PHANTOM HORSE + *LEFT IN THE LURCH + *THE BEST OF THE SEASON + GOOD AT THE GAME + A MEMBER OF TATT'S + THE TRAINER'S TREASURE + THE HEAD LAD + +* Nat Gould's Annual, 1911, '12, '13 respectively. +</PRE> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +NAT GOULD'S NOVELS at 6d. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +In large demy 8vo., thread sewn. Striking cover in three colours +</P> + +<PRE> + #A GREAT COUP January 21st, 1914 + + *ONE OF A MOB + *THE SELLING PLATER + A BIT OF A ROGUE + *THE LADY TRAINER + *A STRAIGHT GOER + *A HUNDRED TO ONE CHANCE + *A SPORTING SQUATTER + THE PET OF THE PUBLIC + *CHARGER AND CHASER + THE LOTTERY COLT + A STROKE OF LUCK + *THE TOP WEIGHT + #THE KING'S FAVOURITE April, 1914 + *THE DAPPLE GREY + *WHIRLWIND'S YEAR + *THE LITTLE WONDER + A BIRD IN HAND + *THE BUCKJUMPER + *THE JOCKEY'S REVENGE + THE PICK OF THE STABLE + #THE STOLEN RACER + #A RECKLESS OWNER + #THE ROARER + #THE LUCKY SHOE + QUEEN OF THE TURF + #A CAST OFF July, 1914 + +* Also at 2s. picture boards, and 2s, 6d. cloth gilt. + +# Also at 2s. cloth gilt, and 1s. net paper. +</PRE> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +NAT GOULD'S ANNUAL, 1914 +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +THE FLYER +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +(Twelfth Year) +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +Cleverly illustrated. Cover in three colours. Paper, thread sewn, 1s. Large demy 8vo. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +READY FOR EXPORT END OF AUGUST. ORDER NOW. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +THE MAGIC OF SPORT +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +Being the LIFE STORY OF NAT GOULD, written by himself +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +With over 50 Illustrations of Notable Sportsmen, Places and Horses and Photogravure +Portrait of the Author. Demy 8vo. 370 pages, handsomely bound, Gilt Top. Price +12s. 6d. net. [A few Copies only left +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +For further List of Nat Gould's Novels see page facing +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +<b>JOHN LONG'S FAMOUS 1/- NET SERIES</b> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +N.B.—All the Volumes in this Series are most attractively bound in three-colour +covers, art paper, thread sewn +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +<b>NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914</b> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>LIFE OF MY HEART.</b> By VICTORIA CROSS. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<i>Now first published in 1/- form.</i> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Victoria Cross's immense popularity rests on the fame she achieved +with "Anna Lombard" and "Five Nights," and in "Life of My Heart" +we have a worthy successor. It is a story of intense passion and dramatic +interest. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE STORY OF MY LIFE</b>. By EVELYN THAW. With 8 +portraits of the principal characters. <i>Now first published.</i> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +In this remarkable book Evelyn Thaw unbosoms herself to the world, +and now for the first time gives her full life history in all its vivid details. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE LIFE OF LENA.</b> By W. N. WILLIS, ex-M.P. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +(Australia), Author of "Why Girls Go Wrong," "The White +Slave Market," etc. <i>Now first published.</i> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Few tales within recent years have been so realistic, and the book from +its sincerity should appeal to the hearts of all thinking men and women. +Mr. W. N. Willis is an author whose books sell in tens of thousands. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>SONNICA.</b> By VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ, Author of "Blood +and Sand," "The Shadow of the Cathedral," etc. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<i>Now first published.</i> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Vicente Blasco Ibanez is the most brilliant author of the modern school +of Spanish fiction, and in this daring novel he is probably seen at his best. +In "Sonnica" the publishers believe they have discovered a second +"Quo Vadis." +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<b>Volumes already published</b> +</P> + +<PRE> + THE LIFE SENTENCE Victoria Cross + FIVE NIGHTS Victoria Cross + ANNA LOMBARD Victoria Cross + A WIFE IMPERATIVE By a Peer + THEO By a Peer + TO JUSTIFY THE MEANS By a Peer + THE HARD WAY By a Peer + THE SPINSTER Hubert Wales + CYNTHIA IN THE WILDERNESS Hubert Wales + MR. AND MRS. VILLIERS Hubert Wales + THE WIFE OF COLONEL HUGHES Hubert Wales + HILARY THORNTON Hubert Wales + A PRIESTESS OF HUMANITY Mrs. Stanley Wrench + A PERFECT PASSION Mrs. Stanley Wrench + BURNT WINGS Mrs. Stanley Wrench + LOVE'S FOOL Mrs. Stanley Wrench + FOLLY'S GATE James Blyth + A COMPLEX LOVE AFFAIR James Blyth + THE MEMBER FOR EASTERBY James Blyth + THORA'S CONVERSION James Blyth + THE PENALTY James Blyth + AMAZEMENT James Blyth + RUBINA James Blyth + CHICANE Oliver Sandys + THE WOMAN IN THE FIRELIGHT Oliver Sandys + DECREE Lady X + THE DIARY OF MY HONEYMOON Lady X + THE STORM OF LONDON F. Dickberry + A SOCIETY MOTHER Edmund Bosanquet + I TOO HAVE KNOWN Amy J. Baker + THE DUPLICATE DEATH A. C. Fox-Davies + A HOUSEHOLD Jerrard Syrett + CONFESSIONS OF CLEODORA Carlton Dawe + SECRET HISTORY OF THE COURT OF BERLIN Henry W. Fischer + MIGHTY MAYFAIR "Coronet" + CONFESSIONS OF A PRINCESS Anonymous + IMPROPER PRUE Anonymous + THE PRICE OF POSSESSION Author of "Improper Prue" + THE PROGRESS OF PAULINE KESSLER Author of "The Adventures of John Johns" +</PRE> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +JOHN LONG'S 1/- NET (CLOTH) NOVELS +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<i>Crown 8vo. Cloth gilt. Wrappers in three colours</i> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914 +</P> + +<PRE> + THE LURE OF CROONING WATER Marion Hill + OFF THE MAIN ROAD Victor L. Whitechurch + THE STORM-DOG Lilian Arnold + THE REALIST E. Temple Thurston +</PRE> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<i>Volumes already published</i> +</P> + +<PRE> + THE GREAT GAY ROAD Tom Gallon + HIS MASTER PURPOSE Harold Bindloss + THE MASK William Le Queux + FOR FAITH AND NAVARRE May Wynne + KISSING CUP THE SECOND Campbell Rae-Brown + THE GREAT NEWMARKET MYSTERY Campbell Rae-Brown + A JILT'S JOURNAL Rita + ADA VERNHAM—ACTRESS Richard Marsh + SWEET "DOLL" OF HADDON HALL J. E. Muddock + THE OLD ALLEGIANCE Hubert Wales +</PRE> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +<b>JOHN LONG'S 7d. NET (CLOTH) NOVELS</b> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +A New Series of copyright Novels which, in more expensive form, have achieved +marked success. They are printed in clear type, newly set, on good paper, tastefully +bound in Red Cloth, full gilt back, with attractive pictorial wrapper in three colours. +Each volume has a decorative title-page with frontispiece, both on Art paper. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 110%"> +<b><i>NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914</i></b> +</P> + +<PRE> + 19 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA (2nd Feb.) Guy Boothby + 33 THE GOLD RAIL (2nd Feb.) Harold Bindloss + 23 THE GRASS WIDOW (2nd Mar.) Dorothea Gerard + 25 THE GIRL IN GREY (2nd Mar.) Curtis Yorke + 24 THRICE ARMED (1st Apr.) Harold Bindloss + 38 OUR ALTY (1st Apr.) M. E. Francis + 34 MOLLIE DEVERILL (4th May) Curtis Yorke + 39 MEMORY CORNER (4th May) Tom Gallon + 35 A GLORIOUS LIE (25th May) Dorothea Gerard + 40 THE BARTENSTEIN CASE (25th May) J. S. Fletcher + 36 ALTON OF SOMASCO (22nd June) Harold Bindloss + 37 IRRESPONSIBLE KITTY (22nd June) Curtis Yorke +</PRE> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 110%"> +<b><i>VOLUMES NOW READY</i></b> +</P> + +<PRE> + 1 FATHER ANTHONY Robert Buchanan + 2 DELILAH OF THE SNOWS Harold Bindloss + 3 ONLY BETTY Curtis Yorke + 4 THE GARDEN OF MYSTERY Richard Marsh + 5 IN SPITE OF THE CZAR Guy Boothby + 6 THE VEILED MAN William le Queux + 7 THE SIN OF JASPER STANDISH Rita + 8 A BORDER SCOURGE Bertram Mitford + 9 WAYWARD ANNE Curtis Yorke + 10 THE GREATER POWER Harold Bindloss + 11 A CABINET SECRET Guy Boothby + 12 THE EYE OF ISTAR William le Queux + 13 A WOMAN PERFECTED Richard Marsh + 14 HYPOCRITES AND SINNERS Violet Tweedale + 15 THE SILENT HOUSE Fergus Hume + 16 BY RIGHT OF PURCHASE Harold Bindloss + 17 THE OTHER SARA Curtis Yorke + 18 LITTLE JOSEPHINE L.T. Meade + 20 THE MAGNETIC GIRL Richard Marsh + 21 THE MATHESON MONEY Florence Warden + 22 CRIMSON LILIES May Crommelin + 26 THE LADY OF THE ISLAND Guy Boothby + 27 THE WHITE HAND AND THE BLACK Bertram Mitford + 28 THE STOLEN EMPEROR Mrs. Hugh Fraser + 29 A MAN OF TO-DAY Helen Mathers + 30 THE PENNILESS MILLIONAIRE David C. Murray + 31 LINKS IN THE CHAIN Headon Hill + 32 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR Maxwell Gray +</PRE> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +<b>JOHN LONG'S NEW 6d. (PAPER) NOVELS</b> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The new, up-to-date Cover Designs by leading Artists, printed +in three colours on Art paper, are the most effective that have +ever adorned a Sixpenny Series. This, combined with the +established popularity of the authors, will ensure for JOHN +LONG'S 6d. (Paper) Novels first place in the public esteem. +Good paper, clear type. Thread sewn. Size 9 inches by 6. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 110%"> +Volumes for 1914 +</P> + +<PRE> + 1. SOMETHING IN THE CITY Florence Warden + 2. THE TURNPIKE HOUSE Fergus Hume + 3. MIDSUMMER MADNESS Mrs. Lovett Cameron + 4. MRS. MUSGRAVE AND HER HUSBAND Richard Marsh + 5. THE SIN OF HAGAR Helen Mathers + 6. DELPHINE Curtis Yorke + 7. TRAITOR AND TRUE John Bloundelle-burton + 8. THE OTHER MRS. JACOBS Mrs. Campbell Praed + 9. THE COUNTESS OF MOUNTENOY John Strange Winter + 10. THE WOOING OF MONICA L. T. Meade + 11. THE WORLD MASTERS George Griffith + 12. HIS ITALIAN WIFE Lucas Cleeve + 13. No. 3, THE SQUARE Florence Warden + 14. MISS ARNOTT'S MARRIAGE Richard Marsh + 15. THE THREE DAYS' TERROR J. S. Fletcher + 16. THE JUGGLER AND THE SOUL Helen Mathers + 17. THE HARVEST OF LOVE C. Ranger Gull + 18. BITTER FRUIT Mrs. Lovett Cameron + 19. BENEATH THE VEIL Adeline Sergeant + 20. THE BRANGWYN MYSTERY David Christie Murray + 21. FUGITIVE ANNE Mrs. Campbell Praed + 22. IN SUMMER SHADE Mary E. Mann + 23. A JILT'S JOURNAL Rita + 24. THE SCARLET SEAL Dick Donovan +</PRE> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +N.B.—The first Eight will be published March 16th. There will +then be an interval of one month, when, commencing April 20th, the +volumes will appear fortnightly, two at a time, until July 27th. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +GENERAL LITERATURE +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>OSCAR WILDE AND MYSELF.</b> By Lord Alfred +Douglas. With rare Portraits and Illustrations. Demy +8vo. Price 10s. 6<i>d.</i> net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Some of Oscar Wilde's biographers are persons who had only a nodding +acquaintance with him, and others had no acquaintance at all. But in +their writings there is one name which is linked with Wilde's and is second +only in importance to it—the name of Lord Alfred Douglas. After long +years Lord Alfred has decided to break the silence and to give the real +facts about his relations with Wilde from the period when Wilde was at +the top of his fame to the time of his tragedy and death. "Oscar Wilde +and Myself" contains a serious side inasmuch as it deals with the grave +disasters which this friendship has brought upon Lord Alfred. It possesses +another side in the analysis of the purely literary aspect of Wilde's work; +and a large number of anecdotes and sayings of Wilde are included which +have never before been printed. It gives also an account of the Wilde +circle, which included the most prominent persons of the period. Of +Lord Alfred Douglas's literary gifts his worst enemy is in no doubt, and +this work, apart from its great personal import, will give the quietus to +much that is false which has grown round the Oscar Wilde tradition. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>BELGIUM, HER KINGS, KINGDOM, AND PEOPLE.</b> +By John de Courcy Macdonnell. Fully illustrated. +Demy 8vo. Price 15<i>s.</i> net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The lives of Leopold I., Leopold II., and King Albert told with a wealth +of intimate detail which up till now has been withheld, the true story of the +Belgian Revolution, untold by any English writer ere this, and much that +is new and interesting about all the leading people in Belgium, from +Royalties to Anarchists. The author describes the Belgian people, their +mode of living, their thrift, their industry—the country itself, the forests, +the mining districts, the crowded cities—and throws fresh light on many +aspects of Belgian politics. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE BONDS OF AFRICA.</b> By Owen Letcher, F.R.G.S., +Author of "Big Game Hunting in North-Eastern Rhodesia." +With 50 Illustrations from Photographs and a Map. Demy +8vo. Price 12<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. Owen Letcher is a young Englishman who has spent the past +eleven years in Africa and has wandered into well-nigh unknown portions +of the Dark Continent to hunt big game and to pry into the lives of the +natives inhabitant of the remotest corners of it. Quite apart from its +value to the traveller, the sportsman, and the student of natural history, +the book possesses a remarkable human interest. Mr. Letcher knows +Africa from Cape Town to the City of the Pharaohs, and, as the work +covers an enormous field of but little known land in Southern, North-Western +and North-Eastern Rhodesia, Nyasaland, British East Africa, +and Uganda, its merits from a geographical point of view are undoubted. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>MADAME DU BARRY.</b> By Edmond and Jules de +Goncourt. With Photogravure and numerous other +Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 12<i>s</i>. 6<i>d</i>. net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +One of the most marvellously minute and realistic specimens of biography +to be found. No pains have been spared to obtain all the +information available with reference to the extraordinary woman who, +born out of wedlock in the little French town of Vaucouleurs, became +the mistress of Louis XV., and after a career of reckless extravagance, +perished on the guillotine. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>STORIES OF SOCIETY.</b> By Charles E. Jerningham +("Marmaduke" of <i>Truth</i>). With numerous Portraits. +Demy 8vo. Price 10<i>s</i>. 6<i>d</i>. net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +In his life spent amongst the clubs and the drawing-rooms of Mayfair the +author (for more than twenty years "Marmaduke" of <i>Truth</i>) has become +familiar with the skeletons lurking in the cupboards of Society, and there +is no writer of to-day who is more fully or happily equipped to fulfil the +function of a social satirist. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>THE PURPOSE: Reflections and Digressions.</b> By +Hubert Wales. With Portrait. Crown 8vo. Price 5<i>s</i>. net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. Hubert Wales' object in this book is to discuss serious subjects in a +style and within a compass compatible with modern exigencies and habits. +No longer the hidden operator pulling the strings that move his puppets, +he draws aside the curtain, appears in his own person, and talks +familiarly with his readers upon such absorbing and vital topics as Life +and Death, Ethics, Sex and Beauty. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>HOUNDS.</b> By Frank Townend Barton, M.R.C.V.S. With +37 Illustrations from Photographs. Crown 8vo. Price 5<i>s</i>. net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +An entirely new and original work dealing with the most important +varieties of hounds. Each variety is exhaustively dealt with, not only in +relation to the conformation, but in matters appertaining to feeding, +breeding, rearing, showing, health and sport, etc., etc. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>ARTEGAL: a Drama; Poems and Ballads.</b> By B. C. +Hardy, Author of "Philippa of Hainault and Her Times," +"The Princesse de Lamballe," etc. Crown 8vo. Price +3<i>s</i>. 6<i>d</i>. net. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>BEQUEATHED MID-OCEAN.</b> By Blanche Adelaide +Brock, Author of "Fire Fantasies," etc. Crown 8vo. +Price 3<i>s</i>, 6<i>d</i>. net. A Story in Verse. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>GOLF FOR THE LATE BEGINNER.</b> By Henry +Hughes (One of Them). With Thirty-two Illustrations +from Photographs specially taken for the Work. Fcap. 8vo. +Price 1<i>s</i>. net. Third and Revised Edition. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<i>World of Golf</i> says: "Every stroke and club are carefully explained. +An excellent shillingsworth." +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center" STYLE="font-size: 120%"> +<i>RECENTLY PUBLISHED</i> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>EUGČNE DE BEAUHARNAIS: the Adopted Son</b> +of Napoleon. By Violette M. Montagu, Author of +"Sophie Dawes, Queen of Chantilly," "The Scottish College +in Paris," etc. With 24 Portraits and Illustrations. Demy 8vo. +Price 15<i>s</i>. net. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>ROBESPIERRE AND THE WOMEN HE LOVED.</b> +By Hector Fleischmann, English Version by Dr. A.S. +Rappoport. With Photogravure and 19 other Portraits. +Demy 8vo. Price 13<i>s</i>. 6<i>d</i>. net. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>ROSE BERTIN: the Creator of Fashion at the +Court of Marie Antoinette.</b> By Émile Langlade. English +Version by Dr. A. S. Rappoport. With Photogravure and +24 Portraits. Demy 8vo. Price 12<i>s</i>. 6<i>d</i>. net. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>BOHEMIAN DAYS IN FLEET STREET.</b> By a +Journalist. Demy 8vo. Price 10<i>s</i>. 6<i>d</i>. net. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>TRAVELS IN THE PYRENEES: including Andorra +and the Coast from Barcelona to Carcassonne.</b> By V. C. +Scott O'Connor, Author of "The Silken East," "Mandalay," +etc. With 4 Illustrations in colour, 158 other Illustrations, and a +Map. Demy 8vo. Price 10<i>s</i>. 6<i>d</i>. net. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>GUN DOGS.</b> By Frank Townend Barton, M.R.C.V.S., +Author of "Terriers: Their Points and Management." +With 46 Illustrations from Photographs. Crown 8vo. +Price 5<i>s</i>. net. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<b>HOME EXERCISE AND HEALTH: Five Minutes' +Care to the Nerves.</b> The Rational System of Exercising for +Health rather than mere Strength. By Percival G. Masters, +B.A. Cantab. With 32 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Oyster + +Author: A Peer + +Release Date: February 8, 2011 [EBook #35217] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OYSTER *** + + + + +Produced by Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + + +The Oyster + + +By + +a Peer + + + + +London + +John Long, Limited + +Norris Street, Haymarket + +[_All rights reserved_] + + + + +_First Published in 1914_ + + + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + +In Two Editions, 6s. and 1s. net. + + Theo + The Hard Way + The Decoy Duck + A Wife Imperative + To Justify the Means + The Ordeal of Silence + +_All Published by_ + +JOHN LONG, LIMITED, London + + + + +The Oyster + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Gleams of bright sunshine came through the windows of the trim little +flat into the drawing-room furnished in miniature aping of luxury. The +chairs and tables were Sheraton--Sheraton passably imitated--the +covering rich brocade. Soft white cushion covers, fine as cobwebs, +clothed the big squares stuffed with feathers. Late narcissi and early +roses made the air heavy with scent. The place was small, but it +carried the air of comfort; it was a miniature of its roomy brothers +and sisters in big town houses. The door of the dining-room, standing +open, showed the same taste. Polished inlaid mahogany, good silver, +embroidered table linen. Early as it was there had been strawberries +for breakfast, and cream, and hot bread. + +"Luncheon at the Berkeley. It will be a good one too. I'm driving with +Denise to that show at the Duchess's. Tea at the Carlton. Dining with +Robbie at his club; the Gay Delight afterwards; supper at Jules. Oh! +the days are not half long enough." + +Long-limbed, slender, gracefully pretty, Esme Carteret turned over the +leaves of her engagement-book. Her blue eyes sparkled behind dark +lashes; her skin was fair and carefully looked after. She was so +bright, so dazzling, that at first sight one missed the selfishness of +the weak, red-lipped mouth, the shallowness of the blue eyes. + +"Not half long enough," she repeated. "Oh, Bertie, you--" + +A flashing smile, a hand held out, yet in the greeting no look of the +real love some women feel for their husbands. + +"Well, Butterfly." Bertie Carteret had a bundle of letters in his +hands; he was opening them methodically with an ivory cutter. + +A dark man, with a quiet, strong face. Dazzled, attracted by this fair +piece of womanhood, loving her as men love when they do not stop to +look further than the flesh and blood they covet, and so, married. And +now, loving her still, but with eyes which were no longer blinded, with +little lines of thought crinkling round his eyes when he looked at her, +yet still her slave if she ordered him, thrilling to the satin softness +of her skin, the scented masses of her hair. + +"Well, my Butterfly," he said, opening another letter. + +Esme did not pay her own bills. She had not as yet sufficient wisdom to +keep the house accounts. It saved trouble to let Bertie take them. + +"Esme child!" He looked at the total written under a long line of +figures. "Esme! those cushion covers are not made of gold, are they?" + +"No--hand embroidery," she said carelessly. "Everyone gets them." + +"They seem to represent gold, you extravagant child." + +"Dollie Maynard had them; she kind of crowed over mine last day we had +bridge here. I must have things same as other people, Bert. I can't be +shabby and dowdy." + +"So it seems." He opened several other letters. "Well, we can just do +it, girlie, so it doesn't matter. Breakfast now. I was working hard +this morning." + +"And I was eating strawberries. Bobbie sent them. There are eggs for +you." + +"Once upon a time laid by a hen," he said resignedly. "Got the stalls +for to-night. That blue gown suits you, Butterfly." + +"It ought to," she said, coming in to give him his breakfast. "It cost +fifteen guineas." + +Bertie Carteret was adjutant of volunteers in London; he had taken it +to please Esme, who would not endure the idea of a country station in +Ireland. + +Now Carteret was going abroad, his adjutancy over. His battalion was in +South Africa; he was to join it there until he got something else to +do. Esme flashed out at the thought of the place. + +"Dust and bottled butter; black servants and white ants. No thank you, +Bertie--I won't go." + +No one expected sacrifice from Esme; she was too pretty, too brilliant, +to endure worry or trouble. Bertie Carteret smiled at her. She should +stay at home. They would soon get something else to do, and he would +come back. + +Esme bent across to him that day, her face set in unwonted thought. + +"Just think if your Uncle Hugh had no sons," she said, "he'd leave you +everything. We'd be rich then." + +Bertie laughed. Two boys made barrier between him and hopes of the +Carteret money. + +A pleasure-loving pair, absolutely happy in their way. Well enough off +to have all they wanted, and pleasant enough to get the rest from their +friends. + +They chattered through breakfast of engagements, parties, trips, of +days filled to the brim. Bertie was lunching at the Bath Club. Esme, +with her friend, Denise Blakeney, at the Carlton. + +"And oh, Bert--ring up those fruiterer people. Dollie dines here +to-morrow. We must have strawberries, and asparagus--the fat kind--and +peas, Bert. She had them--Dollie. I don't want her to go away and talk +of 'those poor Carterets and their mutton chops'--and send in matron +glaces, Bert, and sweets from Buzzard's, will you, and some Petit Fours +for tea." + +"Anything else?" he said. "Esme, do you know, my Butterfly, that we +spend every penny we have, and a little more?" + +With a laugh she slipped a supple arm about his neck. "And why not?" +she said lightly--"why not, Sir Croaker?" + +He drew her to his knee, kissing her firm neck, her soft arms--on fire +to her touch. + +"She was a witch," he told her, "and a Butterfly, hovering over a man's +heart." She should have her strawberries, her sweeties. "And--what is +it?" + +For Esme had turned white, put her hand to her throat, a sudden nausea +seizing her. + +"I've been like that twice before," she said; "it's the racket. Bertie, +I don't feel up to luncheon now, and I like to be hungry when I lunch +with Denise. Oh, thank you, dear." + +For he brought smelling-salts, holding the fragrant, pungent, scented +stuff to her nostrils. He was genuinely anxious. + +"It's nothing," she said lightly; "something disagreed with me." + +"Lunching with Denise?" He lighted his pipe. Carteret was not a +cigarette-smoker. "Ever see Blakeney with her now, girlie?" + +"No-o," she said reluctantly. + +"H'm! I hear they're not too good pals. Denise has been playing the +fool with young Jerry Roche--the 'wily fish' as they call him. She'd +better not go too far with Cyril Blakeney. I was at school with +him--came just when he left. But I knew his brother there also. I tell +you, Esme, they're a bad lot to vex." + +Esme shook her head thoughtfully. + +"Hope Jimmie Helmsley won't be at luncheon," Carteret went on. "Steer +clear of him, old dear." + +"I'm lunching with him on Saturday, Bert." + +"Well, don't again. He's a beast. Of course there's no fear of you, but +there was the Grange Stukeley girl, poor soul, married off to a parson +cousin; and Lettice Greene, and--oh, heaps of his victims." + +There are some women who create trust. The dazzle about Esme was not +one of warmth. It was cold as she was selfish. Her husband, without +realizing this, yet knew that he might trust her implicitly, that +beyond mere careless flirtation nothing amused her. + +"Well, good-bye, Esme. I must go to do a few things which don't want +doing, even as this morning I paraded unwilling youths at seven." + +Carteret strolled out. Esme picked up the salts bottle, sniffing at it. +She rang for a trim, superior maid to take away, going back herself to +the pretty drawing-room to write a few notes. + +"I'm feeling rotten," wrote Esme to a girl friend, "slack and seedy--" +and then she jumped up, crying out aloud. + +"Not that! Not that! Not the end of their dual in the treble. Not the +real cares of life forced on her. Oh, it could not be--it could not!" +Esme raged round the room, crying hysterically, fighting off an +imaginary enemy with her hands. + +It would mean a move from the little expensive flat. Doctors, nurses, +extra maids swallowing their income. + +"It can't be!" she stormed. "I'm mad!" and rushed off to dress. + +She looked hungrily at her slim figure in her glass, watched her maid +fasten hooks and buttons until the perfectly-cut early summer gown +seemed to cling to the slender figure. There was that, too--a figure +spoilt. Dowdy, disfiguring clothes, and fear, the fear of the +inevitable. She was counting, calculating as the maid finished +fastening her dress, brought her a cloudy feather wrap, deep brown over +the creamy gown, long white gloves, a scented handkerchief, a bunch of +deep pink roses. + +"Shall I alter Madame's yellow gown?" Marie wondered at Esme's silence. +"Madame is weary of its present aspect, with silver and violet. I can +make it new--and the waist, it seemed a little tight last evening for +Madame." + +"It wasn't," Esme flung out. "It's quite right. Get me new corsets, +Marie--these are old. A taxi, yes." + +Speeding westward swiftly, but with dread flying as swiftly. Not +that--not the ending of her careless, selfish life. + +"Why, Esme, what a pretty gown; but you look pale, dear." + +Lady Blakeney was at the Berkeley. A big, soft woman, with a weak, +pretty face, palpably face-creamed, powdered, tinted, yet the whole +effect that of a carefully-done picture, harmonizing, never clashing. +With her brown hair, her deep brown eyes, she was a foil to flashing, +dazzling Esme. + +"Just four, you see," Lady Blakeney sauntered to her table. She was in +dull rose, exquisitely dressed. + +"Yes, Jerry and Jimmie Helmsley." + +Lord Gerald Roche, slim, distinctly young, just getting over being +deeply in love, and still trying to think he was a victim to it, more +impressive, as if to whip his jaded fancy, came in; a bunch of rare +mauve orchids, fresh from a florist's, in his hand. Behind him, Jimmie +Gore Helmsley, a tall man, dark, with satyr's ears, thick, sensual +lips, and black eyes of cool determination. No one realized Jimmie's +fascination until they spoke to him. It was in his manner, his power of +subtle flattery, of making the woman he spoke to feel herself someone +apart, not of common attraction, but a goddess, an allurement. + +Unkind men, unfascinated, called Jimmie's black eyes boiled sloes, and +swore that he rouged his cheeks; but women raved about him. + +Jimmie was a pursuer of many women, a relentless one if his fancy were +touched; there were girls--girls of his own rank of life--who whispered +his name bitterly. The plucking of a bird sometimes amused him more +than the wearing of a full-blown rose. + +"Ah you! the sunshine is here now." He bent over Esme's hands, and his +flattery was as water pattering off polished marble. Esme had no use +for the Gore Helmsleys of life; she had laughed when he had given her a +flower as though it were made of diamonds. Jimmie made things as cheap +for himself as he could. + +But Esme talked to him now. Jerry was almost whispering to Denise +Blakeney, making his adoration foolishly conspicuous. + +The restaurant was filling. Denise had ordered luncheon; she never +trusted to chance. A soufflet of fish, asparagus, grilled fillets of +beef. + +As the fish was handed to them, Denise Blakeney started and flushed +painfully. Her young admirer had been showing her a jewel flashing in a +tiny box--a pear-shaped pink pearl. + +"Oh!" she cried sharply, and pushed the box away. + +A bluff man, with heavy features, had gone up the room and sat down at +a small table. His companion was an elderly woman, dowdy, rather +fussily impressed. + +"It's Cyrrie!" said Denise. "Cyrrie and his old Aunt Grace. He asked me +to have her at Grosvenor Square to-day, and I told him a fib to +escape." Denise fidgeted uneasily, her colour changing. "I told one +fib," she said, "now it will take a dozen more to make it credible." + +"The fib is a mental fly," said Jimmie, laughing; "he's grown large +quickly. Cheer up, Milady, don't look tragic." + +The big man nodded to his wife with a careless smile. It is an +Englishman's need to be outwardly pleasant, to glaze a volcano with a +laugh--in public. + +"He hasn't scolded me enough lately," said Denise, grimly. "And the +nature of husbands being to scold, it makes me nervous." She watched +Cyrrie narrowly. + +"Aunt Grace is having boiled chicken, specially ordered for her; she +will finish up with stewed fruit and rice. It makes it so difficult +when she comes. My cook is uncertain as to boiling chickens plainly." +Lady Blakeney tried to fling off her depression, to do her duty as +hostess. She muttered something sharply to Lord Gerald, she talked a +little too fast, a little too gaily. + +Esme would flash smiles, planning some future gaiety, forget for a +moment, and then, across her happiness, a cloud rose looming, +threatening. Oh! it could not be! It must not be! There were so many +things she meant to do. Bertie's appointment was up; he was going to +South Africa until they got something else, or his other battalion came +to Aldershot. Exchanges could always be managed. And Esme was due at +Trouville in August; she was going on to Scotland; she had been asked +to Cheshire to hunt for two months. It must not be! + +Once, in a spasm of fear, she clenched her hand, crushing her glass in +her fingers, spilling her champagne. Esme drank champagne on a hot May +day because it looked well to see it there, because it brightened her +wits, made pleasure keener. She liked expensive dishes, ordering +them recklessly when she was asked out, taking the best of everything. +She was never tired, never knew sleeplessness; could dance until four +and be out riding next morning, with her bright colour undimmed. +Perfect health makes perfect temper. Esme was an unruffled companion, +provided she got her own way. Down in the country, without amusement, +she would have fretted, beaten against bars of dulness. + +"Oh, Mrs Carteret!" she heard Jimmie exclaim as the amber liquid +vanished, as the broken glass tinkled together on the cloth. "What +dream moved you?" he whispered, bending close. "What, lady fair?" + +A man who could throw meaning into his lightest word, here it was +implied, had she thought of hidden things; the eyes burning into hers +expressed that she had thought of him. Though every road in the map of +love was known to Jimmie Gore Helmsley, he hinted at unknown turns, at +heights unclimbed to each fresh companion he took by the route, knowing +how women love mystery and hate the flat, soft paths they can see too +well. + +"Of what?" he whispered. "If I dared to think. It would make Friday--" + +"Don't dare," Esme flashed at him mockingly. "And Friday--where do we +lunch on Friday?" she asked carelessly. "Let it be near Dover Street; I +must be at the club at half-past two." + +Esme looked shrewdly at the man, wondered what women saw in the +sloe-black eyes, the high-coloured cheeks; wondered why girls had made +fools of themselves for him. + +"I heard of an old friend of yours to-day," she said--"Gracie +Stukeley--I forget her married name." + +Jimmie nodded carelessly; there were no chinks in his armour. He gave +no thought to a little fool who had come flying to his rooms because +someone vexed her, who prattled to him of divorce; he was rather fond, +in a way, of his big, swearing, hard-riding wife. He remembered that +Grace Stukeley had to be married off to save her people's name. + +"Nice girl," he said carelessly; "but a fool." + +"Ah, Denise! You did not lunch with Eva? She put you off an hour ago; I +see." + +Big Cyril paused as he passed his wife. Denise made sweetly-drawled +apology to Aunt Grace. + +"I see," said Sir Cyril, his big face set a little grimly; "and now, +whither away, Denise? To drive--to the cloth show? Well--we meet at +dinner." + +"Yes--to drive;" but first Denise knew that she had meant to go home to +spend an hour with Jerry in her boudoir. And now she was afraid; she +faltered and flushed. Would not Aunt Grace drive? Esme could come any +day. + +Aunt Grace, easily flattered, gravely believing the previous +engagement, accepted willingly. + +She quite understood how difficult it was to find time to receive +visitors from the country. Engagements were sacred. The vicar had never +forgiven her once because she forgot to go to tea to meet the bishop's +wife, and the hot buns were overcooked waiting for her. Mrs Lemon made +a speciality of hot buns. Grace Bullingham chattered on, delighted with +her luncheon, her day in London; but Sir Cyril stood silent, a curious +smile on his lips. + +"You're coming, Cyrrie? Denise, isn't Cyrrie coming?" + +"The electric limousine of the moment has only room for two--and an +interloper," said Blakeney. "No, I'm not coming, Aunt Grace. I should +be the interloper. But I'll meet you at four at the station, the car +can take you there, and--" + +Denise was still flustered; still talking nervously. She arranged to +meet Esme again; she fussed uneasily, afraid that Jerry might be openly +impressive, that he might try to whisper his regret. + +"Now, auntie, come along. Au revoir, Esme. Good-bye, Lord Gerald. See +you some time next week--to luncheon on Sunday if there's no other +attraction." + +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 Leicestershire 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 sunshine, 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 gods 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 flashing 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 pricks 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." + +"And then"--Denise Blakeney lighted another cigarette--"then, my Esme, +you might pray for the child you want--in vain." + +She got up, her weak mouth set slackly, her blue eyes shining. + +"Es--I'm in mortal fear--fear of Cyril." + +Esme stopped crying to listen. + +"He'll divorce me," said Denise, dully. "He's off to Central Africa or +somewhere now, but I know he means to, and what troubles you is the one +thing which would save me. He told me once that if his wife had +children he would never disgrace their mother. He meant it. Cyrrie says +very little, and he means it all. He's so quiet, Es, so big. I'm +afraid!" + +"But surely," Esme queried, "there's no evidence?" + +"Oh! evidence!" Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I've been reckless +lately, Es--a fool. I've stayed with those Bellew people near Ascot. +I've been a fool with Jerry; he was such a boy that I was too open; +being very little harm in it, I judged the opinion of onlookers by my +own feelings; and Cyrrie's found out. He knows the mad things I've +done. The boy was so proud of being my belonging--bah! I know! I can +see Cyrrie look at me with a threat behind his eyes. Think of it, Esme! +The disgrace! Those vile papers reporting; poor Jerry defending; and +then the after life. Oh! if one could only see in time. If I had +stopped to think two years ago--it may be too late now. I've been +absolutely making love to Cyrrie lately, and he looks at me with such a +smile on his big face. You see, there's the title--it's as old as the +world, almost--and all the money; and we have no heir; that vexes +Cyrrie horribly. He'll get rid of me and marry Anne Bellairs, his +cousin, a great, healthy, bovine country girl, while I sit in outer +darkness and gnash my teeth." + +"Oh, Denise! Oh! if we could change--" Esme's voice rang so shrilly +that Lady Blakeney dropped her cigarette and picked it up again from +the skirt of her rich white dress. + +"Esme," she said, "it's burnt a hole in it. Heavens! yes! if we could!" +She threw away the cigarette. "If we could!" + +In her heart she knew she ought to tell Esme not to be foolishly +hysterical. Talk quietly and soothe her. Instead, with her eyes alight, +she fed the flame of the fear of loss of fun. Talked of how a baby was +a nuisance in London, of how much they cost. + +"If you could give me yours," she said, "and pretend that it was mine. +Lord! what a difference it would make for me." + +Esme sat staring at her, puzzled. + +"Oh! I suppose it's too melodramatic to think of," Denise said, getting +up. "It's still pouring, and I'm going home. We have people to dinner +to-night. Cheer up, dear." + +She left Esme sitting brooding alone; she had been so happy with her +husband; there was just enough--enough for amusement, for entertaining +mildly, for paying visits. Her pretty face won many friends; people +were kind to so pleasant a guest. + +"Oh! I can't afford it! I'd love to go!" and then someone found an +outsider at ten to one, or a stock which was safe to rise, and someone +else sent wine at wholesale prices; someone else fruit and flowers. +They were such a merry pair; they ought to enjoy themselves, was the +world's verdict. + +Esme knew the value of smiles; in shops, in Society they were current +coinage to her. She did not want to be tied, to have to weary over a +something more important than she was. + +"If we could only change," said Esme, dolefully. "Denise quite sees how +it will spoil everything." + +"Call a taxi, Marie. I'll go to the club to tea." + +Denise went to pay some calls, and then to her house in Grosvenor +Square. The scent of flowers drifted from the hall; she loved to fill +it with anything sweet. The butler handed her her letters as she +passed--invitations, notes. + +She went into her boudoir at the back of the drawing-room, a nest of +blue, background for her fair beauty, with flowers everywhere. + +Denise shivered; she was a Someone--a well-known hostess in society; a +personage in her way; she went to dull house-parties, where royalty was +entertained; and she yawned sorely but yet was glad to go. Where one +ate simple food and had to smoke in the conservatories, because a very +great lady was an advocate for simplicity. + +"And if--if--" her fears were not unfounded. + +Denise knew what it would mean. A few loyal friends writing kindly +letters before they slipped away from her. Cold, evasive nods from +people who would not cut her; the delighted, uplifted noses of the +people she had ignored. + +A hole-and-corner marriage somewhere with young Jerry, who was already +wearying of his chains; a marriage reft of all things which makes +marriage a joy. Life in some poky place abroad or in the country, +received on sufferance or not at all. + +Denise flung out her hands as if to ward off an enemy. She heard her +husband coming in; his heavy step on the stairs; his deep, even voice. + +"Her ladyship in? Yes? A message from Lord Hugh Landseer; wished Sir +Cyril to lunch there to-morrow to discuss guns, etc. Yes. Dinner at +eight or half-past? At eight-fifteen? The champagne? Better have two +sorts out, Lady St Clare didn't like Bollinger." + +There was a cool reserve of strength in Cyril Blakeney's trivial words; +he thought slowly, spoke slowly, but seldom idly. He was a man who +could wait. Wait for a day which he believed would be good, wait for a +young dog which he thought might improve. "Give him a year--we'll see +then." And if at the end of the time the setter was still hopeless, he +was not seen again. Cyril Blakeney would not sell a dog to be beaten +into submission--and the end was swift and painless. A vicious horse, a +bad jumper, went the same way. People did not dispute his opinions; if +they could not agree they listened to the arguments and wondered at +their quiet shrewdness. + +Denise heard the heavy step go on; he did not come into her boudoir. +She went up herself, fidgeting over her dresses, coming down at last in +shimmering opal satin, a crown of pearls in her soft hair, pearls at +her throat, and in the lace on her bodice one pear-shaped and pink. +Stanley, her maid, had fastened it in, picking it out of several jewels. + +Denise looked at them and shivered again. Her diamonds were +magnificent, but they were not hers; they were heirlooms of the +Blakeneys; she thought of the old house in Yorkshire, big, heavy, solid +as her husband himself; full of carved panels, of cold, stately rooms; +a home which Cyril delighted in. She dreaded the keen moorland air, the +loneliness of the country; but they spent the winter there hunting and +shooting; and she knew how Cyril longed for a boy to come after him. + +"That will do, Stanley. What do you say?--That I told you to remind me +of new dresses for Stranray Park. Yes. Anything will do for the +mornings, and tea-gowns are forbidden; but I'll want six evening gowns. +Oh! Cyrrie!" + +Catch of nervousness in her voice; she met her husband on the stairs; +put out a hand and touched his arm. Quietly he lifted it, held it out, +and laid it lightly where her wedding ring gleamed behind a blaze of +diamonds. + +"Had a pleasant day?" he asked. + +Denise recounted it almost eagerly. The big man listened, held her hand +still as they came to the drawing-room. + +"And you gave up Ranelagh--stayed talking to Esme Carteret." She saw +him smile finely. "Friends, Denise, to waste an afternoon. I was at +Ranelagh and missed you. Dollie Maynard told me she left you just +starting. I wondered where you were. Oh! here is Elsie." + +They were a merry little party of four, taking an evening off until it +was time for one or two balls. + +Elsie St Clare, her husband, and a Baron de Reville. + +Denise was a charming hostess; she knew how to order a dinner; there +was no hint of the fluttering wings of trouble as the four talked and +laughed. + +"Stanley would not let me rest in peace to-night," she said, "she +reminded me of Stranray in October. Cyril will not be there; it will be +worse than ever. No smoking there after dinner," laughed Denise, "and +it all seems standing up and taking the weather's temperature with our +tongues; we are so bored we talk of nothing else. And H.R.H. likes the +Stranray babies down to breakfast. One of them upset an egg over her +one day, on purpose; they are outwardly mild, and inwardly demons. And +when we are not out we work, because it looks domestic. I put three +stitches in last time, because I saw eyes upon me. I shall never forget +the day we found the three babies playing when we came in. Jinnie, the +eldest, gravely smoking paper cigarettes. Just as state entry was made, +she shrieked out: + +"'That's when they're gone to bed; that's what we do. _I_ saw over the +bannisters. Now you're so loud, Nettie; and you, Tim, you say thank +goodness.' But H.R.H. was quite nice about it; and only laughed and +kissed them all. + +"'I expect it's what you all do and say,' she said, and kissed Nettie +again." + +"I shall disport myself at Swords," Elsie St Clare laughed. "I couldn't +stand the strain of behaving perfectly for a week. Prince Wilhelm goes +to you at White Friars some time, doesn't he?" + +"Next spring for the races," said Denise. "But she's a dear, and if you +give her a chair to sleep in she bothers no one; the only thing which +worries her is that Wilhelm will play the bridge game. + +"'It hass my orphanage ruined,' she told me last time." + +After dinner they played bridge. Denise forgot her fears a little, +though her luck was against her; she could not hold a card. + +"How I hate paying you, Cyrrie," she said, laughing, as she took gold +from her purse. + +"Women always hate the day of reckoning." Something in his quiet voice +made her heart thump. "The game is full of excitement, but it must +end--and your sex dislikes the ending." + +The guests went on to a big dance; the Blakeneys were left alone; they +were not going out. + +Quite quietly Sir Cyril came across to his wife, stood looking at her. + +"A lovely gown," he said. "But--do you need new jewels, Denise?" + +His fingers, big, strong, deft, fell on the pink pearl, undid the +fastening. + +Denise turned pale, stood stammering, seeking excuse. + +"Don't bother," he said smoothly. "I saw the boy give it you. You've +been foolish there, Denise--foolish. Well, I'm off for months, and when +I come back--" + +"Yes?" she said, dry-lipped, or rather tried to say yes and merely made +some sound. + +"If we had had a child, Denise," he said, his head bent. "They make a +difference--one makes allowances then." + +"If we had--now," she said. "Now, Cyrrie!" her voice rang shrilly. + +He laughed. "If we had--you might be thankful," he said. "Come, you +look tired out. Go to bed." + +"I have not been feeling well," she faltered. + +If she was to be saved, something must be managed. + +Esme was still in her wrapper of silk and lace, when Lady Blakeney came +to her next day. Came, white and excited, her eyes blazing, her face +tense. For half an hour Esme sat almost silent, listening to an +outpouring of plot and plan. The weak, flighty woman developed +undreamt-of powers of organization. + +Esme wanted money, freedom. Oh! it had often been done before. She +flung out its simplicity. Away in some remote part of the Continent the +child which was to come should be born as a Blakeney. + +What was easier than a change of names? + +"See, Esme--I'll give you a thousand a year always. Honour! Think of +it! Five hundred pounds every six months, and you and Bertie can be +happy when he comes back. And I--it will save me. We'll go away +together in the autumn; we are always together. We'll go without maids. +Oh--do--do!" + +Esme flung up her pretty head. + +"I'll do it," she said, "but I must have a doctor. I must not die." + +"A doctor to attend Lady Blakeney. Why not? Strange servants, a strange +place, who would know?" Denise remembered everything. + +"Yet it is wonderful how people do know," said Esme, shrewdly, half +afraid now that she had agreed; wondering what might happen. Yet she +looked round her flat with a little sigh of relief. She could live her +merry, careless life, live it more easily than before, and she did not +want a child. She hated children, hated their responsibility. + +"Some day," said Esme, "I won't mind; then there can be another." + +May had given way to a dismal June. Cold winds and showers swept over +the world. Flowers were dragged from grates and fires put in. Esme had +lighted hers; sat over it, as her husband came in; they were lunching +out. + +He hung over her, delighting in her soft beauty, crying out at her pale +cheeks. + +"You're tired, girlie; we're always out. And now that I must leave you +alone you'll do much more." + +She leant back against him, ruffling her cloud of fair hair. + +"We're absolutely happy, aren't we, Bertie? I'll be here when you come. +I can let the flat until the spring, and you must leave that stupid +army and live here all summer in dear London." + +He held her close, sat silent for a time. + +"I was at Evie's yesterday," he said. "Eve Gresham's my cousin. I saw +her boy." + +"Horrid little things at that age," said Esme, unsympathetically. + +"It wasn't--it was fat and bonny; and Eve is so proud of it. If we had +a sonny, Butterfly, you and I, I'd like him to be like Eve's." + +Esme sat astonished. Bertie wishing for a third in their lives. Bertie! +knowing the difference it would make. + +She jumped up, almost angrily. "If we had, we couldn't hunt, or do half +what we do," she said. "And you've got me, Bertie. Do you want more?" + +She began to cry suddenly, broke down, overwrought by her morning's +plot, by this new idea of Carteret's. + +Something, stronger for the moment than her selfish love of amusement, +fought with her. If she gave up their mad scheme, told him now, he +would not go to Africa; he would stay, watching her, guarding her. Esme +wavered. + +"I looked at those emeralds too, yesterday," Bertie said; he was +staring into the fire; had not noticed her agitation. "You know that +queer old clasp. Fifty pounds. I couldn't manage it, girlie, for you." + +"I wanted it," said Esme, fretfully. + +"A note from Lady Blakeney, madame." + +Marie brought the letter up, wondering at its plump softness, feeling +the wad which the notes made. The chauffeur had bidden her be careful; +refused to give it to the porter of the flats. + +"Oh!" Esme opened it, her back to her husband. There were bank notes, +crisp, delightful; she saw five of them; five for fifty pounds each. +Denise was beginning the payment already. + +"Milady Blakeney also wishes to know if Madame will use the car to +drive to luncheon. It is at Madame's service until five," Marie said. + +"Denise is very good to you," Carteret turned round. "You have a lot of +friends, my Butterfly." + +Esme crushed the notes up. The impulse to tell was gone. She wanted +money, comfort, ease; the chance was hers, and she would take it. + +The luncheon party was a big one, given by Luke Holbrook, the wine +merchant. He paid his cook a clerk's income, and she earned her salary +elaborately. What her dishes lacked in taste they made up for in +ornament; if a white sauce be merely smoothly flour-like, who shall +grumble if it is flecked with truffles, cocks-combs and pistachio nuts. +No gourmet enjoyed eating at the Holbrooks', but ordinary people who +are impressed by magnificence talked in hushed tones of the cook. + +The house was as heavily expensive as the meal; gold plate shone on the +vast sideboard; orchids decorated the tables; one's feet sank into deep +carpeting. Mrs Holbrook, a plumply foolish little woman who had married +the big man obediently that he might have a wife who claimed the prefix +of "honourable" on her letters, accepted the magnificence placidly. She +had a shrewd idea that outward show helped the business, and that they +were not as rich as they seemed to be. + +The dining-room had been opened into the study so that it ran right +across the house, and to increase the apparent size at the end wall was +a huge mirror reflecting the room. + +They lunched at small tables. Sylvia Holbrook knew how to divide her +guests. Esme found herself one of four with Jimmie Gore Helmsley, Sybil +Chauntsey, a soft-hued debutante, and a dark young soldier vividly in +love with the girl. + +"Going to the Bellews? Lord! I'm weary of cream pies done up in +colours." Jimmie waved a sweet away. "Going, Mrs Carteret?" + +"Bertie has to go home." Esme had eaten nothing; she was feeling sick +and tired. "He doesn't like my going there." + +"To Thames Cottage? Oh, how I'd love to go," Sybil Chauntsey broke in. +"They have such fun there." + +Her peach bloom deepened; the beauty of youth, which is as no other +beauty, sparkled in her deep grey eyes. + +The big dark man looked at her, his own eyes taking fire. These men +delight in rosebuds, find an unflagging zest in seeing the tender +petals unfold to their hot admiration. + +"Easily managed," he said. "If Madame the mother permits." + +Captain Knox, a mere no one, son of a hunting Irishman, flushed. + +"It's not a nice house," he said. "I've heard of it. Don't go, Miss +Chauntsey." + +"Lila Navotsky will be there"--Jimmie turned to the girl, carelessly +ignoring the man--"she'll dance. It will be rather a bright party. +Prince Fritz of Grosse Holbein is going, Lady Deverelle, and Loftus +Laking, the actor. We'll have a moonlight dance, all costumes home +made." + +Fresh from the country, doing her first season, the great names dazzled +the child. Mother's friends were so dull; the peach-bloom flush +deepened, the sweet eyes flashed for Jimmie, who had watched so many +flushes, seen so many bright eyes flash into his. Sybil was very +pretty, soft and fresh as fruit just ripe; sun-kissed, unpowdered, +roundly contoured. + +With a smile Esme saw that the conqueror's glances were no longer for +her. He was growing fascinated by Sybil. Even the best of women hate to +lose an admirer; no one knew better than Gore Helmsley how they will +suddenly put good resolves aside to keep the slipping fancy. How many +are morally lost because they fear to lose. + +Young Knox turned to talk to Esme, his handsome face troubled. A mere +ordinary young fellow, capable of ordinary love, cleanly bred, cleanly +minded, with nothing to offer the girl but the life of a marching +soldier's wife, and some day a house on the shores of a lake far away +in the west. + +"It's--it's _very_ rowdy, isn't it?" he asked. + +But Esme was not thinking of him. + +"Oh, sometimes not," she said absently, eating a forced nectarine; +"depends on the party there. Now they're moving." + +Up to a drawing-room of oppressive luxury; the Staffordshire groups, +the Dresden shepherdesses seemed larger than other people's; the +brocades gleamed in their richness, the flowers stood in Venetian +glasses; the whole room seemed to shake its wealth in your face, and to +glitter and shine with colour. Coffee came in Dresden cups set in gold +holders; sugar candy peeped from a gilt basin studded with dull stones. +The cigarettes had their name blazoned over them in diamonds. + +Luke Holbrook came among his guests, big, kind, frankly vulgar, +redeemed by his good-natured eyes. Openly proud of seeing a Duchess in +his drawing-room, pointing out to her a pair of historical figures +which stood on the mantel-shelf. + +"Wonderful they tell me," he said. "I don't know, but I like size when +I buy." + +"Yes," said the Duchess, blandly, looking round the room. "Yes. If you +must pay thousands better pay them for two feet of glaze and colour +than for two inches, no doubt." + +"That's it," he said gaily, "that's it. Of course, you've such heaps of +the stuff at Blenkalle. But my boy's collection has to be gathered now." + +Holbrook's pure wines gained many orders in his own house. He had +stored away, kept for customers with palates, a few casks of port which +was not branded and flavoured for the English taste, some good hock and +claret. But the pure wines he made his millions off did not deserve +their title. + +Esme, sipping Turkish coffee, saw Sybil Chauntsey come hurrying to her +mother. The girl was fresh and sweet, heads turned as she passed. + +"Oh, Mumsie, Captain Gore Helmsley has telephoned. Oh, Mumsie, they've +asked me to the Bellews for Saturday to Monday. Oh, may I go?" + +"But alone, Sybil," said her mother. + +"Mrs Carteret will take me. I'll ask her. Oh, Mumsie. Prince Fritz of +Grosse Holbein will be there, and Madame Navotsky, Lord Ralph Crellton, +Lady Deverelle. Mumsie, I might be asked to Deverelle if I meet her." + +Princes, countesses, dancers. Might not Sybil attract the attention of +Lord Ralph, who would one day be a Marquis. "But, aren't there +stories?" Mrs Chauntsey wavered. + +Jimmie strolled across. "Mrs Bellew is so anxious for your daughter to +go to her," he said. "It's rather an honour, they are generally full +up, and there's a dance this time." + +He omitted to remark that his reply down the telephone had been: "Who? +I don't know the brat. Oh, send her along; I'll invite. Suppose you'd +sulk and wouldn't manage the cotillon if I refused. Can't you let girls +alone, Jimmie? Yes, I've got the address--I'll invite--bother her!" + +Mrs Chauntsey wavered, gave way, turned to a stout lady who was +anxiously waiting for the brougham she still clung to, and told her. + +"I wouldn't let my girls walk past the garden wall," said Lady +Adderley, grimly. "Sybil's a child, too." + +Mrs Chauntsey grew doubtful again. This stout and dowdy woman held the +keys of the dullest and most exclusive houses. And Sybil had once been +asked to luncheon there on Sunday; but a Prince, and a future +Marquis--one must give a girl her chance. + +Esme was going on to a tea-party. She sat down by the open window, +looking out at the Park, a dull place now, its afternoon hour not yet +upon it. + +"Rather full here." Jimmie Gore Helmsley's dark face appeared close to +her; he pulled up a chair and sat down. "Feel as if we're all Aunt +Sallies being pelted with gold; the riches jump out and hit you in the +face." + +"He's kind," said Esme, remembering her hock. + +"Kind? Oh, yes! he can be! Appreciate," he muttered, "what I've done +coming here--to meet you, eh? I've talked to Lady Susan and Lady Hebe +Ploddy for ten minutes, and I've only just escaped from the horns of +Lady Hebe's jersey cattle. They have been going out for ten years," +said Jimmie, "and Mamma, her grace, still calls them 'my baby girls.' +They are coming this way," he added, "with the pigs and cows in the +leash of their minds. Are you off it--hipped?" he whispered softly, +"you look pale." + +Whispers had gained him many things in life; a sudden drop of voice, a +change of tone, an intimacy as it were of sympathy. But Esme scarcely +noticed it. She was too carelessly selfish to dream of the +inconveniences of a lover, even if she had not been fond of Bertie. + +"Coming Saturday," he asked, "to the Bungalow?" + +"Oh, I suppose so. I've promised that child. Where am I going to? To +buy a toy which has taken my fancy. Yes, you may come with me." + +Half an hour later one of the new crisp notes had gone for the emerald +clasp, and the Ladies Susan and Hebe Ploddy, coming by chance into the +shop, told all their friends that Captain Gore Helmsley had given it to +that Mrs Carteret. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Esme Carteret had chosen her own picture in the _tableaux vivants_ at +the Leigh-Dilneys. It was called Joy. + +"I'm so happy," she had said merrily, "it will suit me." + +The Leigh-Dilneys gave entertainments in the name of charity, and since +charity is all-powerful, and the pheasants at Leigh Grange were as +flies in summer, everyone who was anyone in London gasped for air in +the big drawing-room. + +Faint breaths of summer breeze eddying over scarlet geraniums and white +marguerites were powerless to stir the heat generated by the crowd +which packed itself in resignation on hired chairs and dreamt of +getting away. Lady Delilah Leigh-Dilney looked as though she spent life +trying to live down her name. A high-nosed, earnest woman, with an +insatiable appetite for organized entertainment. Her bridge winnings +went to support missions in distant China; an invitation to tea was +certain to plunge the accepter into the dusty uncertainty of a bran pie +at five shillings a dip, proceeds for something; or the obligatory +buying of tickets for a vase or cushion which was too ugly ever to be +used. + +Electric fans, Lady Delilah said, were noisy, useless and merely +fashionable. Her guests sweltered on hard chairs as an overheated stage +manager scrabbled the blue curtains of the miniature stage to and fro +and wished he had never seen a tableaux. + +And Esme was Joy. Merely herself, dressed in a cloud of rosy pink, her +setting an ordinary room; her hands outstretched to, as it were, meet +Life; her radiant face lighted by smiles; her burnished hair fluffed +out softly. + +"Yet not so much Joy as self-satisfaction," murmured a panting cynic as +he finished applauding. "For true Joy is a simple thing--its smile of +the eyes and not of the teeth." + +Esme had chosen the scene because she was really so happy. She seemed +to have everything she wanted. Popular, young, helped by a dozen kindly +friends, with Bertie as lover and husband satisfying every whim. + +The audience fled from sandwiches and thin coffee to amuse themselves +after self-sacrifice. Esme, in her pink gown, had danced the night away +at two balls. + +She had not felt ill again; she put her secret fear away, hoping +eagerly that she was mistaken. Went out next morning to shop. Was there +not always something one wanted? + +Joy! She had acted her part yesterday, flashed her dazzling smile at +the world. To-day discontent walked with her on the hot pavement. + +She had been contented, happy, in her little flat, childishly pleased +with her new life, her pretty clothes, her gaieties. And now she wanted +more. Electric motors glided by, silent, powerful; wealth which would +not have missed the Carterets' yearly income for a day passed her on +all sides. + +A fat woman got out of a car; the Pekingese dog she carried had cost +two hundred pounds. + +"Oh! Mrs Carteret!" Mrs Holbrook held out a fat hand. "Hot, isn't it? +I'm just going in to Benhusan's here. This necklace Luke gave me +yesterday has a bad clasp. So dangerous! I want a pendant for it too. +Come in and advise me--_do_!" + +Into the shop with its sombre splendour. Background to pearl and ruby, +to diamond and opal and sapphire and emerald. + +These spread before this merchant's wife, dazzling toys of pink and +blue and sparkling white. + +Esme wanted them. Mere youth ceased to content her. She could not buy +even one of these things. She must look and long. + +"This one is two hundred guineas, madam." + +"Oh! Luke said I might go to that. Mrs Carteret, do advise me. This +pearl, the pear shaped; or the circle of opals--or what do you think of +the sapphires? I am so stupid." + +Sapphires would not go with the pearl and diamond necklace. Esme's slim +fingers picked up the pearl pendant, held it longingly. + +It was the only possible thing, and even then not quite right, but it +would do, she said. + +"You've such perfect taste, child. Luke always says so. So _glad_ I met +you. Well, see you soon again--to-morrow. We've a large party." + +Men and women buying lovely--perhaps unneeded--jewels, spending +hundreds, thousands, that they might see someone turn to look at their +adornments. A millionaire American grumbled over the merits of pearls +spread on purple velvet. + +He wanted something extra. "Get these anywhere. Mrs Cyrus J. Markly was +going to Court. He'd promised she should have a string to knock +creation. No, these wouldn't do." + +Hurried calling on heads of departments, rooting into hidden safes. +Fresh glistening treasures laid out. + +Mr Markly might trust Benhusan's. The rope with its diamond links and +clasps should be magnificent. He might leave it in their hands. They +would ransack London for perfect pearls. + +With a little gasp of impatience Esme Carteret went out. + +She wanted money. Mere comfort was nothing to her to-day. + +Furs are neglected in summer, but Esme strolled into the great Bond +Street store. She was sending a coat for alteration and storage. + +Denise Blakeney was there, a stole of black fox spread before her. + +"Summer prices, my lady. See, a rare bargain." + +"And out of fashion by September or October; but it _is_ good." Denise +held up the soft fur. "Oh! you, Esme! See, shall I have it? These +things are always useful." + +Esme stroked the supple softness of the furs, held the wrap longingly. + +"Twenty pounds off our winter prices, madam. And perfection. Skins such +as one seldom sees. The price a mere bagatelle--seventy guineas." + +"Oh! put it with my other things then. Store it. Are you +bargain-hunting, Es?" + +"No--_I_ have no money." Esme looked almost sullenly at the stole which +Denise did not want and bought so carelessly. "No, I cannot +bargain-hunt. I came to see about my one coat." + +"What is it, my Joy? You are out of spirits to-day. You looked so +lovely yesterday, dear." + +Lady Blakeney touched Esme's arm affectionately. + +"Tired of genteel poverty, Denise. I paddle on the edge of the world's +sea, where you people swim. Yes--we'll meet at the Holbrooks' lunch. +Will their new gold plate have diamond crests on it? Good-bye." + +Left alone again in the fur shop, envying, longing for the treasures +there. + +Out into the crowded streets. A flower-shop caught her eyes. One sheaf +of roses and orchids, pale cream and scarlet and mauve, made her stop +and long. Denise could take these home if she wanted them. + +Esme went in, paid five shillings for a spray of carnations. + +"Those orchids and roses? Oh! they were ten guineas. Mr Benhusan had +just bought them for his table that evening." + +So on again with this new discontent hurting her. She went on to +another shop; saw a painted, loud-voiced girl buying silk lingerie, +taking models carelessly, without thought of price. Her dog, a +pathetic-looking white poodle, had on a gold collar set with jewels. +The girl struck him once, roughly, across the nose, making him howl. + +"Straighten him up," she said carelessly. "There, that's all. You know +the address. Enter the lot; send 'em with the other things." + +Esme knew the girl by sight; had seen her dancing at the Olympic. She +knew, too, who would pay for those cobwebby things of silk and real +lace. + +The spirit of discontent held Esme Carteret with his cruel claws, +rending her, hurting her mentally. + +She was Joy no longer. Her little flat, her merry, careless life, could +not content her. + +Her mood led her to her dressmaker's to look at model gowns, and on to +Jay's and Fenwick's. Discontent urging her to look at rich things which +she could not buy; the blended beauty of Venetian glass, jewels, laces, +silks, all seemed to come before her with a new meaning. + +And then the sudden fear; stopping as if a blow had been struck at her. +She was not safe; hope was not realization. The flat and the life she +grumbled at might--would--pass to something smaller. To a house in a +cheaper district, to money spent on cabs and dinners going to keep the +child she dreaded. + +Esme hurried on, faster and faster, as if she would escape the fears +which followed her. She wheeled, panting, into Oxford Street; turned +from its crush and flurry, and went again down Bond Street, her colour +high as she raced on. + +"Dear lady, is it a walking race or a wager?" Esme cannoned into Gore +Helmsley. He stopped her, holding her hand impressively. + +A handsome man, if sloe-black eyes and high colour constituted good +looks. Women admired him. Men shrugged their shoulders impatiently. + +"Neither. I was running away from my own thoughts." + +"Ah!" He drew a soft breath. When women hurried to escape their +thoughts Gore Helmsley thought he could guess at the meaning. + +"I feel lost to-day." Esme was glad to find a friend to speak to. +"Poor, an outcast amid the wealth of London." + +"Joy," he said caressingly, "looked yesterday as though the world +denied her nothing." + +"A week ago she would have said so. To-day--" Esme frowned. + +The dark man used his own dictionary. He had grown to admire this +dazzling woman. Discontent on married lips generally meant the fruit +grew weary of its tree and would come lightly to the hand stretched to +pick it. + +"Lunch with me," he said. "I can break a dull engagement. To-morrow we +shall endeavour to assail eight courses at the Holbrooks. To-day we +might try the Berkeley, or the Carlton, or the Ritz." + +Esme had promised to meet Bertie at his club; the club was dull; she +wanted to play at being rich to-day, to look enviously at the people +who spent money. + +"The Ritz," she said. "If you'll tempt me with quails and asparagus. +And if you can get a table." + +Jimmie was not given to extravagance, but this was worth it. + +They strolled across seething Piccadilly, with its riot of noise and +traffic; they went into the big hotel. + +An ordered luncheon takes time. They sat in the hall waiting, watching +the tide of wealth sweep in. The glass doors swung and flashed as +motors and taxis brought the luncheon-goers to their destination. + +Jimmie knew everyone. + +"Coraline de Vine." He nodded at the girl whom Esme had seen buying. +"And Trent. He says he does not know what his income is. People say he +may marry her--he's infatuated. Did you see her new car? It cost two +thousand. I saw him buying it for her. That emerald she's wearing is +the celebrated Cenci stone. He got it at Christie's for her last +week--outbid everyone." + +Thousands--thousands. Esme's eyes glittered hungrily. She opened her +pretty mouth as if she were thirsty for all this gold, as if she would +bathe herself in it, drink it if she could. + +"And see Lord Ellis and the bride. She was no one--his parson's +daughter. She has probably spent more on that frock than papa has for +half a year's income." + +A big, rather cunning-looking girl, healthy and young. + +"Mamma wanted to send the two children up to me this week," she said, +as she paused near Esme. "I said it was absurd, in the season. They can +slip up in July before we shut up the house. Doris wants to see a +dentist, mamma says; they _are_ so expensive up here. I have +discouraged her; the man at home is much cheaper." + +Already anxious to keep her prize money to herself. Not to share it +with her sisters. Later, when they grew up, she would give them a +chance, not now. Already a _grande dame_, spending only where it +pleased her. + +Wealth everywhere, and with Esme this new discontent. + +The table next to theirs was half smothered in orchids. The American +millionaire was giving a luncheon party. A duchess honoured him, a +slender, dark little lady, shrugging mental shoulders at the +ostentation. Lady Lila Gore, heavily beautiful, was one of the party. +The sallow master of millions devoured her with his shrewd, sunken +eyes. This splendid pink-and-white piece of true English beauty made +his own thin, vivacious wife nothing to him. + +He had bought Mrs Markly a rope of pearls that she might shine at the +Court, but he was prepared to pay ten times their price for a smile +from the big blonde Englishwoman, who knew it, and considered the +question. + +The quails were tasteless to Esme. She could not eat. The fear returned +as she felt a distaste for her food, as she refused the ice which she +had specially ordered. + +She grew restless, tired of Jimmie Helmsley's caressing manner, of the +undercurrent of meaning in his voice. + +"I shall see you to-morrow at Luke's," he said. "You are looking pale, +fair lady. What is it? Can I help? You know I'd do anything for you." + +"I've not been well," she said irritably. "We're so far out. The flat's +so poky and stuffy. Oh! I shall be all right in a day or two." + +She would be. Hope spread his wings again. + +She telephoned to Bertie and met him for tea. + +For a few hours she was content again. The flat looked its prettiest. +Her flowers were lovely. Denise Blakeney had sent her a sheaf of roses; +their fragrance filled the air. Marie had put them in the vases. + +Esme tried to love it all, to realize that in her way she wanted +nothing. She had been so happy with Bertie in their careless life. + +She sat on the arm of his chair. He was allowed one big one in the +flat. She laughed as he did accounts. + +"Butterfly, we spend every penny we have got, and a little more +besides." He looked up into her radiant face. "We seem--we seem to buy +a lot of things, Es." + +"Not half as many things as we ought to." She put her cheek to his. "We +want _all_ new chair coverings, Bert, and I got the old ones cleaned." + +"Oh! model of economy," he said gravely. + +"And I bought a new hat instead. I should have to have got the hat in +any case, you see. And if I do spend a little, am I not worth it, boy?" + +With the fragrance of her hair so close to him, with her soft cheek +against his own, could he say or think so? He was losing time up there, +rusting when he ought to have been with his regiment, all for Esme's +sake, because she loved London. But if it made her happy it was enough. + +He told her so, holding her closely. Told her how everyone loved her; +poured out the flattery she was never tired of. + +"We can't do anything for these people; they are content to see you. +Your face is repayment," he said. "No one would bother about me without +you, sweetheart. You were born for society." + +"Yes." Esme's voice grew strained. If Fate had sent her Arthur Ellis +and his coal mines! How she would have loved to act hostess in the big +town house, in Ellis Court, and Dungredy Lodge; she put the thought +away, almost angrily, for she loved Bertie. + +Yet, clinging to him, his arms about her, his lips on hers, she missed +something. Was she growing older that kisses failed to thrill? + +"I am so tired, Bertie," she said suddenly. "I have not been well all +day." + +Fear and discontent swept love aside. In a moment she was querulous, +irritable, all the evening's happiness gone again. + +It was time to dress. People were coming to dine; there would be new +salad; iced rice cunningly flavoured. But the thought of food made Esme +wretched. + +"I _want_ to be happy. Why cannot the Fates let me be?" she almost +whimpered to her glass. + +Brilliantly pretty, slim, young, she wanted to lose nothing. + +"If I were happy again I would not fret for all the impossible things +as I did to-day," she said aloud, with the idea--too common with +humanity--that one may strike a bargain with Fate. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Once a mere cottage, now a long ornate bungalow jutting into angles, +full of unexpected rooms, the Bellews' river-side house is more +luxurious than many big structures of brick and mortar. + +"We run down to picnic here," but Belle Bellew knew that picnicking +without everything out of season, and a _chef_ of quality, could not +appeal to the people she gathered about her. The picnic element was +kept up by breakfast-tables laid under trees, things deserted and +unused--man likes his breakfast free from fly and midge. The ideal, +talked of in the gleam of electric light, is fresh air, the plash of +old Father Thames, morning sunshine; the real is that we prefer +tempered light, copper heaters, and a roof. + +The long low house jutted out in two wings, all the windows opening +onto a covered veranda. + +Dull people turned their heads aside when they rowed past on Sunday +evenings, for the flash of lights, the sound of raised voices, could be +seen and heard from the river. + +The chairs were wicker, but the rugs on the stained floors Persian. It +was wealth, less ostentatious than the Holbrooks'; light, frothy, +merry, careless wealth, with pleasure for its high priest. + +Jimmie Gore Helmsley motored Denise and Sybil down; the place seemed +empty when they came, but looking closer one could see groups here and +there, see flutter of light dresses; hear tinkle of light laughter, +bass of man's deeper note. + +A thin, svelte woman, green-eyed, ferret-faced, came out of the open +door. Mousie Cavendish said she found her ugliness more powerful than +other women's beauty. A bitter-tongued little creature, stirring every +surface maliciously to point out something foul below it. But clever, +moderately rich, perfectly gowned; gaining what income she lacked +through her too keen power of observation. + +You sat with her, sweetly pulling some reputation to pieces; you left +full-fed with evil spice; and then you shivered. Were not the same thin +fingers pulling out your secrets now, those secrets you foolishly +hinted at? + +"Ah! pretty Esme!" Mousie blew a kiss from her reddened lips. "You +here! Where's Mrs Bellew, Miss Chauntsey? We may see her at +dinner-time; we may not, if she has taken a tea-basket to the backwater +close by." Mousie laughed at Sybil. "Does your young mind run upon +hostesses who wait to receive their guests? You will not find them +here, my child. Tell the men to get tea, Jimmie; we'll have it here." + +The veranda was a series of outdoor rooms, wooden partitions, +rose-grown, dividing it. + +Sybil's grey eyes were sparkling; this was so different from tea in +decorous drawing-rooms, from a stately week-end spent at Ascot with her +mother. + +"Tea?" Mousie turned to the footman. "Cream sandwiches and fruit. This +riverside hotel," said Mrs Cavendish, "is an excellent one. Why, fair +Esme, you look pallid. And what pretty emeralds, cherie. Oh! the +rewards of beauty!" + +The keen little eyes were frankly malicious, frankly open as to what +they meant. + +Esme flushed a little; she saw the green eyes flash on at Gore +Helmsley. Esme was almost crudely virtuous; the hint offended. + +Servants were preparing the lawn for the night's revel. Temporary +lights were being hung on strings, the turf swept and rolled; a great +mirror was set up. + +"For the cotillon?" Esme asked. + +"For the cotillon. We begin at nine. So that at twelve the cock shall +crow and we shall all--not go to bed." + +"More people coming. Mrs Bellew," said Sybil, "was not out; she is +coming into the garden now." + +"Ah! tiens, my child! it was my kindness to say that she was out, +knowing it was the hour of electricity. Once the knell of forty sounds +we must have our faces recharged daily. The Prince is coming--look ye!" + +Prince Fritz--young, fat, extremely volatile, a thorn in the side of +his august mother and his wife--came tripping across the grass. He +talked English with a strong accent, and he bemoaned the future when he +must go home. + +Yet, though Belle Bellew might box his ears later in a romp, she must +bob to him now discreetly as she greeted him. + +Prince Fritz boomed out content and delight. "There is no place such as +this river house," he said, "none, fair lady." Then he looked round for +the dancer, who was his special attraction. + +"Don't be alarmed, sir--she arrives," mocked Mousie from her balcony, +"she arrives. The revenues can continue to be squandered, and a nice +little woman's heart torn by the snapshots she sees of you in the +picture papers." + +Prince Fritz grinned equably; he was not dignified. + +"Like to see the river?" Gore Helmsley asked Sybil. + +The girl was charming in her simple dress. Fresh and sweet and +unspoiled, eagerly delighted with everything. + +But down by gliding, stately Thames, Jimmie was fatherly. She must be +careful here, keep quiet; a good deal of romping went on--and girls +could not behave as married women could. + +"I'm your godfather here, you see." His dark face came close to hers, +showing the crinkles round his eyes, the hard lines near his mouth; but +he was at the age girls delight to worship. Someone who knows the +mysteries they only dream of; someone so different to honest, pleasant +boys, who thought more of sport than their companions. + +Friendship! It was Jimmie Gore Helmsley's deadly weapon; there was +nothing to frighten the maid--he was only a pal--a pal to win her +confidences, to tell her how sweet she looked, to point out the perfect +smoothness of her fresh young skin, to find beauty in the lights in her +hair, the curves of her dimpled neck; to take her about discreetly in +town, to walk and talk with her at country houses; to listen, with a +face set a little wistfully, about some boy who adored her. Frank or +Tom was a good sort, a brick; youth went to youth; heaven send she +would be happy, and--appreciated--that the blind boy would see plainly +the perfection of the treasure he was winning. Ah! if someone who could +see could win it! + +After this, next day, meeting her young lover, mademoiselle the +debutante would fret and sulk because Frank or Tom talked of his last +score at cricket, or his great day with the Team, instead of +worshipping her beauty. + +And, later, the confidences would grow fewer; would come a day when the +boy's image faded; when a fool's heart beat for the world-worn man who +set her up as goddess, and then.... There were broken hearts and lives +in high society which could tell the rest. There were women, married +now, who shivered angrily at one hidden corner in their lives. + +This nut-brown maid, with her grey eyes and cloud of dusky hair, +appealed to Jimmie. He came with a careless zest to each new conquest. +But first there was bright, flashing Esme, paid court to now for half a +year. The girl attracted vaguely as yet. Esme's careless coldness had +made him the more determined, but to-day he felt more confident. + +Dinner was in two rooms, divided by an arch; the clatter of voices, the +flash of lights at the little tables, made it like a restaurant. + +Belle Bellew, slim and tall, perfectly preserved, sorted her more +important guests, took scant trouble with the others. + +The drawing-room almost dazzled Sybil. Lights glowed through rose +petals; jewels flashed on women's dresses and necks and arms; silks +shimmered; chiffons floated round cleverly-outlined forms. + +The finger-bowls at dinner all held stephanotis flowers; the cloying, +heavy scent floated through the hot air. + +Navotsky, the dancer, was in black, dead and unrelieved, clinging to +her sensuous limbs, outlining her white skin, and when she moved the +sombre draperies parted, with flash of orange and silver underneath, +sheath fitting, brilliantly gorgeous. A great band of diamonds outlined +her small, sleek head. + +"More taxes on Grosse Holbein," murmured Mousie Cavendish. "Oh, what a +joy to dine where there is a cook and not a preparer of defunct meats." + +There was no ostentation here, but a cunning which reached perfection. + +"Laying up for ourselves water-drinking in Homburg," remarked Jimmie, +as he finished fish smothered in a sauce compound of many things, and +went on with a soufflet of asparagus. "Well, it's worth it. Look at our +Fritz, he's longing for stewed pork and plums; the butler tells me he +has cold galantine and bread and pickles left in his room at night to +assuage his hunger." + +As the blue smoke haze drifted, and black coffee and liqueurs came to +interfere with digestion, Jimmie had dropped his voice to the note +_intime_ which women recognize. He half whispered to Esme; his +admiration for her was more open than usual. + +Sybil talked to a clean-shaven youth who found her very dull, and +almost showed it. Who stared when she chattered and admired, and seemed +to think it provincial not to take all the world for granted. + +"Think her lovely, that dancer woman. All right in her way, I imagine. +What a lovely ice, did you say? S'pose it's all right. Nevah eat 'em +myself." + +Lord Francis Lennon got up with a sigh of relief to confide to the fair +lady of forty who amused him that he hated "dinin' in the nursery." + +Outside a new moon lay silver on her azure, star-spangled bed. The +lights in the garden were making a glittering circle. + +Mr Bellew, a sleek, dark man, who was occasionally recognized by his +own guests as their host, rang a bell and read out some rules. + +Twenty minutes were given, and then every guest must have assumed a +character, and only used what materials they could find in the heap +prepared in the hall. Prizes to be given. + +"Think us fools," said Mousie, pulling a green overdress from under a +cushion and becoming Undine. + +But the picnic had begun. Men pinned on newspapers, rushed for +cardboard to cut out armour, rifled the linen cupboards for +tablecloths. Journals, sandwich men, knights, ghosts, came laughing to +the garden, odd ends fluttering, pins proving unstable friends. + +Women got at the heap of odds and ends--gauzes, tinsel crowns, veils +and lace, tying great sashes over their evening dresses, shrieking for +inspiration. + +With a ripple of laughter, Lady Deverelle, wife of the tenth earl, +flung off her long green skirt, and stood forth audaciously in a froth +of green silk reaching not far below her knees; put a paper crown on +her head, and called herself a fairy. + +Echo of their laughter drifted to the river. Boats massed outside as +people peered through the shrubs. + +"Those dreadful people at the Bungalow," said Lady Susan Ploddy to her +sister; they were on a houseboat a short way off. + +Into the circle of light ran a crowd of laughing people, snatching at +enjoyment. Out on the velvet turf, dancing to the music of hidden +musicians. + +"Idyllic but exhausting," said Undine to her partner. "There will be +more fun to-night in looking on." + +The dance would not last long; it was only an excuse for a romp. + +Prince Fritz, his stout person hung about with dusters, calling himself +a cheque, held the dancer in his arms, whirling her round. Navotsky +shrugged her shoulders. "She was Night," she said, and merely put on a +black veil, floating from her crown of diamond stars. + +The great mirror reflected them all; they danced the cotillon, taking +up handsome presents carelessly; scarfs, pins, studs, a hundred pounds' +worth of toys which no one wanted. + +Sybil Chauntsey had picked up roses, pinned them in her hair and in her +dress, wrote on her card "Summer." She was left alone as they danced, +until some man, seeing her, whirled her noisily round and laughed and +dropped her. The girl felt that she was not one of this romping crowd; +her pleasure began to taste bitterly to her. + +Esme, forgetting her troubles, had tied a sash round her dress, twisted +some stuff into a head-dress, and called herself a Spaniard. The yellow +gown and scarlet sash suited her. + +She only did one figure in the cotillon; she liked looking on. Then +they formed up for the prize before the judges. + +Lady Deverelle, in her green underskirt, took first easily. They gave +the Prince the next. + +The musicians thrummed, but the dancers were weary of fooling; +shadow-like, they melted away into nooks and summer-houses, until from +every corner echoed the hushed treble of women's voices, the hushed +depth of men's. + +"See, I have marked down my corner." Captain Gore Helmsley tore off a +shield of paper off his arm and took Esme's arm. She felt his fingers +press on her warm, soft flesh. "See here." He had the key of a small +outdoor room, a glorified summer-house hung about with fragrant roses, +furnished with lounge chairs and soft cushions. Darkness wrapped it, +but with a click Esme turned on a shaded light, giving a faint glimmer +through the gloom. + +Gore Helmsley pulled the chairs to one side, so that to curious +passers-by they were in shade. The dim glow fell on Esme, on her +shining hair, her brilliantly pretty face. + +"So, it was good of you to come down," Jimmie said. "I was afraid you +wouldn't. And once here--" he said. + +"And here," Esme's voice, interrupting, was not lowered. "Here we can +be amused for two days--no more." + +"No more," he whispered. + +His hands pressing hers, his voice was more eloquent than words. + +"No more? After all these months, Esme," he said. "Here, where no one +watches, where it is so easy to arrange--where--" + +Esme Carteret sat up in her chair, impatient, annoyed; she interrupted +again sharply. + +"Where people make awful fools of themselves," she said. + +Gore Helmsley moved nearer to her. "Sweet fools," he muttered, and +stooping suddenly, he kissed her. + +Esme got up; she neither started nor showed emotion. "My husband said +no woman could trust you," she said coldly. "Come--I am going in." + +Captain Gore Helmsley stammered as he realized that Esme would never be +pieced into the puzzle of his loves. Then, being extremely offended, he +endeavoured to hide it, and Esme's faint malicious smile made him her +enemy for life. + +Except for the kiss he had not committed himself in any way, and except +for her one sharp speech Esme had said nothing to show resentment; they +talked carelessly going in. He knew that he had thrown and lost. + +Sybil Chauntsey, overlooked in the prize-giving, while she had been +involved in a romping dance, came towards the veranda. The partitions +each held its Jack and Jill; she could hear rustles, whispers, +low-toned laughter. + +From one Prince Fritz's guttural was unmistakable, as indiscreetly he +muttered his adoration. + +"Mein angel," said Prince Fritz, as Sybil passed. "You shall haf the +pearl--so that I clasp it on your neck." + +A big, squarely-built man stood at the lighted doorway; Sybil had met +him in London--Lord Innistenne. He whistled as he saw her. + +"What the--why are you here, Miss Chauntsey?" he said slowly. + +"I came to see it all." Sybil's voice brightened. "It was fun, wasn't +it? I made mother let me come." + +She was panting, her rose crown crooked, one of her chiffon sleeves +torn. + +"Fun, for grown-ups," he said shortly. "I thought your mother"--he +paused--"did not know the Bellews." + +"Captain Gore Helmsley got them to ask me. He wanted me to come down to +see it all." + +Innistenne frowned. "Look here," he said. "Let me motor you up to town +to-morrow. Leave this place." + +Sybil shook her head, doubtfully. She was not enjoying herself. + +There was no solemn meeting at breakfast at the Bellews. People who +liked to come down strolled in to a meal which was kept hot until +twelve. Others breakfasted outside their bedrooms; pretty women in +silken wrappers might send invitations to a friend to join them in the +rose-covered partitions outside their windows. + +The fresh air of a June day came whispering across the water and the +shaven lawns. Later it would be very hot, but as yet the coolness of +the dew was on the grass; the sun beamed softly gold through fresh +green leaves. + +Esme smiled a little, for, coming into the breakfast-room, she saw that +Jimmie Gore Helmsley meant to have no more to do with her. He did not +come to her table, get her fruit, hang over her lovingly. Sybil, fresh +as the day itself, was listening to his caressing voice, tasting her +first plate of delicately-flavoured flattery. + +Feminine eighteen comes gaily to its breakfast. It has had no weary +thoughts to trouble it, no fading skin to cream and powder. + +What was she going to do to-day? Oh! anything and everything; boat, +play tennis, idle, watch the people. + +The silver sweetness of the morning called to Sybil. She would have +breakfast out, under the trees. She saw tables ready there. Cool damp +of dew, a gentle cloud of midges and flies did not deter Sybil. Cold +tea and a narrow choice of breakfast, brought by a languid footman, +were enough for her. Gore Helmsley, with the morning peevishness which +comes when we are forty, brushed mosquitoes from his hair, stabbed +irritably at congealing bacon and leathery egg, listened with tempered +enthusiasm to Sybil's picture of ideal life. + +Out in the woods somewhere, breakfast and lunch and dinner with the +lovely trees overhead, and the lovely grass at one's feet, and no +stuffy rooms and cold roast beef, but eggs and fish and tea, she +chattered. + +Captain Gore Helmsley said, "With pneumonia sauce," and said it +irritably. He sat watching the girl's fresh face, the sparkle of her +grey eyes, and presently deemed her worth even outdoor breakfast. + +As cigarettes banished midges his voice grew soft again; he knew how to +listen, how to make youth talk of itself. He planned the day out; he +bought a box of sweets for Sybil to crunch. + +The girl was excited, pleased by her conquest. She had seen Jimmie in +attendance on well-known beauties; had never dreamt the black eyes +would look at her with open admiration; or that the man would talk of +lunches together, of a drive somewhere in his car, of singling her out. + +She thanked him warmly, with flushed cheeks which made her lovely. +"Take her to Brighton some day, down to the sea, for a picnic! Oh, how +lovely, and how good of him; he had so much to do, so many friends." + +Lord Innistenne, strolling across the gardens, saw the two under the +big beech tree--saw Esme reading alone on the veranda. + +He walked down to the river, where two long chairs were hidden in a +nook of shrubs, a slight, brown-eyed woman sitting in one, sitting +palpably waiting. + +"Joan, would you do good works?" he said. "Let this day slip for it." + +She looked up at him quickly. + +"Come with me, use persuasion, get the Chauntsey child back to London +to her mother. I'll drive her up." + +Joan Blacker looked at the river, seen dimly through the trees, at the +wall of shrubs about the hidden nook. They had not many days like this. +Then wistfully she looked at Innistenne's strong, rugged face--a look +with a shade of fear in it, the fear which must haunt each woman who +has sold her birthright, purity, that what is so much to her may be +mere pastime to the man she loves. Joan Blacker might have been +moderately unhappy, moderately lonely all her life, if Innistenne had +not come across her path. + +"The dark Adonis is fitting arrows to his bow," said Innistenne. "He +delights in the bringing to earth of foolish, half-fledged birdlings. +We shall be back early, Joan. Come--help me." + +She had counted on her morning; on a few hours of the talking women +delight in, of tender memories referred to, of future plans discussed. +But without a word she got up. + +"She is very pretty, Fred." Joan Blacker stopped once, looked up at +Innistenne. + +"She may be," he said carelessly. "There is a brick wall named Joan +built across my vision, you see." + +It was her reward--she was satisfied. + +Jimmie Gore Helmsley's black eyes did not smile at a pair of intruders. +He was taking Sybil out in a punt after lunch, with a tea-basket for a +picnic. He strolled off now with a last low word to Sybil. "Come to the +rose garden. I'll wait there. Bother these people!" + +Joan Blacker did not fail in her good deed. She said some simple things +to Sybil--told her quietly that the Bungalow was not fit for her; that +if her mother realized, or heard, it might stop liberty for evermore. + +"To go back to London," cried Sybil, "to the house in Lancaster Gate, +to the dreariness of a dull dinner there. Navotsky was to dance +to-night. Besides--Mrs Bellew--" + +"The servants may tell her that there is a vacant room," said Joan, +equably, "otherwise she will not know. And for to-night--we'll take you +out somewhere if you like, in London. I warn you your mother does not +understand." + +When Gore Helmsley, attractive to those who admired him in his +flannels, strolled back to look for a Sybil who came not, he only saw +the dust of a motor on the road at the back of the house. + +"Miss Chauntsey has gone back to London," said Esme. "Her mother, I +think, telephoned." + +Gore Helmsley nodded carelessly. But Esme, looking drearily out across +the gardens, trying hard not to think, had made a bitter enemy. + +She was rung up by Denise Blakeney later. + +"Yes. Cyril leaves next week. I tell you, Esme, I am afraid--afraid of +when he comes back. Be careful of cross lines. No one will know. +Dismiss your maid at once. Come to me here and write to her if you +think it best." + +Esme hung up the receiver with a sigh. The great scheme was becoming +greater, looming before her. But money and liberty and an allowance +made it all feasible. + +A week later Bertie Carteret sailed for South Africa, and on the same +day a broad, quiet man left London for a year's shooting. Both thought +of their wives as the big steamers began to churn up the water. But one +with wistful longing, looking back at a figure on the quay which waved +and waved until it was lost, a blur among other figures; and one whose +mouth set grimly as he recalled a good-bye in a luxurious dining-room, +arms which he had put away from his neck, and an unsteady voice which +had hinted of some confession which he would not hear. + +"Later," said Cyril Blakeney, "later." But his eyes were full of bitter +hatred for the thing which, for his name's sake, he meant to do. + +Some hours after the steamer had left port Marie Leroy was rung up on +the telephone. + +She stood listening, a curious expression on her dark face, her lips +murmuring, "Oui, madame. Oui, certainement, madame." + +Esme was dismissing her, was going away with Lady Blakeney, wanted no +maid. Marie was to receive extra wages, a superfine character; to pack +Madame's things. + +Marie walked away, her slim brown fingers pressed together. + +"And--what means it?" said the Frenchwoman, softly. "That would I like +to know. What means it?" + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Winter came softly across Italy. There were hours of sunlight, breaths +of wind which carried no chill dampness. Here on a sheltered slope, its +back to the hills, its windows overlooking stretches of olive groves, a +villa had been built. Once a country home for a prince, now patched and +painted when a strange tenant took it. + +The _Morning Post_ had announced that "Lady Blakeney and Mrs Carteret +had left London together for the Continent. Lady Blakeney, having found +the strain of the season too much this year, was going to rest by the +sea in some quiet part of France." Later, a rumour crept out; there was +a reason for the delicacy. After all these years! Denise had just +whispered a hint before she left. She was coming home in the spring. + +The difficulty of losing oneself was soon forced upon the two +wanderers. They had gone without maids; they packed abominably; they +were helpless without the attendance they had been used to. + +Denise remarked tearfully that she had never put on her own stockings +except once, when she was paddling. Esme, less helpless, helped her, +but was querulous, full of fancies, ill-pleased with life. + +After a time Denise changed her trim dresses for loose coats and +skirts. The two moved to Dinard, met a few friends there. Observant +people looked shrewdly significant. + +It was time then! When? they asked. Oh! some time in the spring. March, +Denise said. Yes, it was quite true. + +They wrote to friends at home. + +Then came a time when they tried to vanish, went to small towns and +fretted in dull hotels. + +Denise had made inquiries, found out where there was a good doctor. One +day the two came to Riccione, a little Italian town, built on a gentle +slope, spying at the distant mountains, able, with powerful glasses, to +catch a shimmer of the distant sea. + +Luigi Frascatelle, slight and dark, a man immersed in his art of +curing, was startled by the visit of two English ladies. + +They were taking the Villa Picciani, ten miles out; they were coming in +December. One asked for advice, for attendance if necessary. + +Frascatelle's dark eyes read the sign words of wealth; the woman who +did spokeswoman was brown, slender, distinguished, but wrapped in a +long cloak; the other dazzlingly fair, younger, black circles under her +brilliant blue eyes. + +"Would the signor tell them where to procure servants--men and women? +They would hire a motor. Was there a nurse, a trained one, available +for some time? Lady Blakeney was nervous." + +"Lady Blakeney!" Luigi looked at the fair girl curiously. "But, +Madame," he spoke French, "will not Madame return for the event to +England--to the great physicians there--to her own home?" + +"Sir Cyril is away; her ladyship is lonely in England; has a fancy for +sunshine and for solitude." + +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 amusement," 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 ladyship 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 sturdy 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 ladyship to meet me." + +Sir Cyril was boyish as he sat dreaming. Big people have the power to +put the past behind them, to see sunshine 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." + +"He hates Italy. This was my fancy--this coming here." + +Her fancy! The big, bare rooms had made Esme nervous and irritable; she +had chafed during the dullness of waiting; had grown fretful and +afraid. She hated the big room she had lain sick in, with its ornate +bed, its bare, polished boards; the fire of chestnut wood. How often +she had woken in terror, dreading what must come to her in it. Then +there was constant need of caution; the strain of remembering had told +on the woman who ought to have been with her own people, with her hours +full, her time taken up. + +She could have played bridge, grumbled to her friends, learnt comfort, +been with her husband. + +"No, Madame is nervous; not well," said the little Italian, "run down. +Better if Sir Blakeney came here to take Madame the journey. Madame +does not know that there were difficulties which have weakened her." + +Esme went away irritably. Denise, laughing, excited, came in. + +"She will be all right," she said impatiently. "It is nothing, surely, +mere natural strain." + +"Che lo sa?" said Frascatelle, half to himself. "There is a +nervousness, Madame, as if from mental strain--and there were +complications at the birth." + +"It's this Italy," Denise said carelessly, "so depressing." + +"But I thought," Luigi looked up in astonishment, "that Italy was +Miladi's whim--" + +"But of course," Denise flushed, "but whims, signor, are not always +wise. The place was lonely." + +When Luigi Frascatelle came next day to the villa it was empty. The +Italian men and maids had been paid off liberally. Beatrice, weeping +for her charge, had come in the motor to the station and seen the +ladies off. They were both thickly veiled, both muffled up. + +The little doctor drove back to the town and on to the station, to meet +the old woman returning from the station. + +"From here to Paris, without maids, without a nurse," he cried, "and +with a baby of four weeks. They are strange, these English." + +"They who know not how to feed it," groaned Beatrice. "All is not +right, signor." + +He drove back to his house; he piled fragrant chestnut wood upon the +fire; he applied himself thoughtfully to a dish of golden risotto. + +"There is something strange about this miladi," he said to his +favourite almond pudding. "No, all is not right." + +It was a weary journey. Little Cyril learnt to weep upon it, torn from +kindly arms who knew how to hold him; he learnt the meaning of pain and +hunger. He voiced his protest as best he could. + +"Oh! stop him, Esme. Stop the brat!" + +Denise woke at the fretful wailing. "Make a bed for him there, a bed on +the seat," she said. + +"He might fall off." Esme held the whimpering bundle in her arms, sat +wearily, afraid she might drop off to sleep. + +"Feed him then; he wants milk. Oh, what a terrible journey!" + +Yet she did nothing on it; for Esme, curiously silent, saw to the child. + +A tall woman, kindly-faced, hurried through the crowd at the Gare; +cried out as she saw the baby in Esme's arms. + +"Lady Blakeney, is it not? I am the nurse, Mrs Stanson, engaged for +your ladyship. Oh, milady, have you come alone--without a nurse?" + +"The nurse was useless, insolent, neglecting baby," said Lady Blakeney, +carelessly. "Take him now. He is so naughty. The woman neglected him." + +"As those foreigners would do; yet he looks splendid. One moment, +milady, while I gather these things." + +She put the baby into Denise's arms, turning to pick up some of the +tiny traveller's luggage. "Oh, not like that, milady," she cried, for +the small head flopped on a stiffly-held arm and the boy wailed +fretfully. + +"H'm!" Esme swept the mite out of Denise's hold. "Here! give him to me. +H'sh, baby, hush!" + +The nurse looked puzzled. She had seen Lady Blakeney once in London, +but she blinked now, afraid her memory had played her false. + +"Excuse me," she began, "I understood that this was her ladyship." She +looked at Denise. + +"_I_ am Lady Blakeney," said Denise, angrily. "Oh! two taxis, please. I +am tired of crying babies. Take him in one." + +Mrs Stanson looked grave. + +Esme's eyes followed the tall woman who carried a little bundle down +the platform. A sudden fierce ache of regret came to her--regret and +anger. This little, white-limbed thing was hers. She would not have +sent it off alone. + +"Her ladyship," said Mrs Stanson, later, as she put her charge to +sleep, "does not seem to care for children, ma'am." + +"Some people do not." Esme looked at the sleeping face. "He is happier +now that you have him, nurse." + +Downstairs the God of Chance was working wonders. + +Denise, coming into the hall of the Bristol, cried out in astonishment. + +A big man was registering at the bureau. Her name was written before +his. He swung round with a cry as he looked at it. + +"Denise!" his hands were on hers. He held them hard. "Denise, I got a +paper at Marseilles. My poor child, out away there in Italy. Were you +ill? It was two months too soon." + +With a little sob Denise held to the big strong hands, knew then what +she had so nearly lost; this man's protection, his name; his kind eyes +looked into hers. + +The past was past; she knew that. Some women make resolutions and keep +them. Denise did then. For the future, the future she had made by +fraud, Sir Cyril Blakeney's wife should be above suspicion. + +"Oh, Denny, why didn't you tell me--keep me here?" + +"I was afraid," she faltered. "You were cross then. And I was not sure." + +"I was cross then." He took her away to a quiet corner. "That's over, +my wife. And the boy? Come up to see him. Our boy! He's not delicate, I +hope?" + +"Oh, not yet--he'll be asleep now." Denise was gay, radiant, her colour +bright. "I'm hungry, Cyrrie. Let's have dinner now--and talk--talk!" + +"Talk," he laughed. "Why didn't you wire for Sir Herman to go out? Were +you bad? I never saw you looking stronger." + +"Oh, no, I was not bad. I'm very strong," she said, a little uneasily. + +"And you came on so soon. There's nothing wrong with him, is there? Oh, +Denise, tell me." + +"Wrong with him? No!" she said, laughing carelessly. "He's a great +baby." + +Denise was looking through a door of life which she had never tried to +open, that of love and trust. She was too shallow to regret the use of +the false key which she had forced it open with. She was safe; Cyril +would never bring up the past to the boy's mother. + +"Come then, and see a sleeping bundle of flannels," she said. + +The boy had just gone to sleep. Sir Cyril's first view of him was with +Esme stooping over the cot, looking wistfully down at the tiny face. + +"Mrs Carteret has quite a way with a child," said the nurse, +graciously. "He's a splendid boy, Sir Cyril." + +Sir Cyril had had shy ideas of a something whispered across the new +hope in his life, of a promise for the future or regrets for the past. +As it was, he could only stand almost awkwardly, afraid that a clumsy +movement might wake the child. + +"Great fellow, isn't he?" he said sheepishly. + +"A splendid boy, Sir Cyril--really splendid; fair, sir, as you are; he +has a curious mark, a regular small plum, on his shoulder." + +Esme started. Just on her shoulder she had a round, purple mark, shaped +as a plum; she had never dreamt of the baby inheriting it. + +A true Blakeney, big and strong, cleanly made, Sir Cyril stood by the +cot, with the pride of this heir to his big in him. + +"He's just wonderful, Den," he said simply. "I thought that, coming too +soon, he might be puny, delicate--but he's fine." + +Esme turned away. It was her boy they praised, and she knew the +bitterness of jealousy. + +If gold could have been fried for dinner, and diamonds used for sauce, +Sir Cyril would have ordered them that night. He was too big and quiet +to be openly hilarious, but its very quiet made it more marked. He +ordered a special dinner, special wines, fruit, boxes of sweets. The +table was littered as if it were one at Maxim's. To-morrow they would +search Paris for a memento, for something to mark this meeting. + +Esme, listening, felt as some mortal who, standing in the cold, looks +through clear glass at a blazing fire yet cannot warm himself. They +shut a door on her; she had no boy lying upstairs; no husband to +rejoice in his heir. + +The cold stung bitterly; it loosed dull pangs of envy, of futile wrath. +For what had brought these two together was hers, and she had sold it. +Sometimes they turned to her vaguely, bringing her into their plans. +Esme would come shopping in the morning, of course, help to choose +jewels; Esme had been such a friend--so devoted. + +"I'll never forget it, Mrs Carteret," Sir Cyril said once. "You lost +half a year to keep my wife company. Lord! you're a real friend!" + +"Yes." Esme crunched a silvered bonbon, a cunning mixture of almonds +and fruit and sugar. She picked another up, looking at it. Had she not +looked on life as a bonbon, to crunch prettily and enjoy, a painted, +flavoured piece of sugar? + +She had money; she could go to the hidden shops on the second storeys, +and buy the dainty fripperies that Paris knows how to produce; she +wanted a fur coat, new frocks, hats, a dozen things. + +Sir Cyril was bending close to his wife, holding her out a glass of +Chartreuse, clinking it against hers. + +"Den," his voice was stirred by deep emotion, "some day we'll go, you +and I, and take that villa for a month, and I can see where my boy was +born." + +The glassful of amber syrup fell on the table, the glass splinters +dulled by the oily liquid. + +"Oh, some day," said Denise, trembling. "How stupid of me! But it was a +dull spot, Cyrrie. It was only fancy, nerves, which took me there. +Wasn't it dull, Den"--she stopped--"Esme?" + +"I never hated any place so much in my life," said Esme, dully. + +That night she crept along the corridor, stood listening at a door. + +Primitive instinct was stronger than the power of money. Her boy lay +sleeping in that quiet room. + +"Oh, Esme!"--Denise called her into her room next day--"Esme! Come +here! You can go, Summers." + +Her new maid, sent from England with the nurse, went quietly out. + +"Esme!" Denise lowered her voice. "About that money. I owe you some +now. I can't write cheques, you see, every half-year; but this time I +can explain." She threw a slip of paper across to Esme. + +"Thank you. And the boy?" said Esme. + +"Oh! he's all right. I saw Mrs Stanson. He slept well. Don't mess about +him, Esme! It would only look silly--better not. Will you meet us at +the Ritz for _dejeuner_?" + +Esme excused herself. She might be late. She would come back to the +hotel. + +She went out into the crisp, stinging cold of early February. Touch of +frost on Paris, drift of hot air from shop doors, clear sunlight +overhead, people hurrying along the dry pavements. Furs everywhere, +outlining piquant French faces; from solid sombre imitation to the +sheen of Russian sable and the coarse richness of silver fox. + +A fur coat--Esme wanted one--went restlessly into a shop, tried on, +priced, gloried in their soft richness, their linings of mauve and +white; saw her fair beauty framed by dark sable, by light-hued mink, by +rich fox skin, and knew again disappointment. + +The three coats she wanted were splendid things; each one would take +almost all her money, leave nothing for frocks and hats. + +Impatiently, almost angrily, she stood frowning at the glass. + +"Oh! yes, the coat was lovely; but the price! Four hundred pounds of +English money; and this other was five!" There was the little coat of +mink priced at a mere bagatelle. + +"Yes, but Madame must see that it was coarse beside the others." + +Cunningly the shopman put the two together; showed the rare sheen of +the sable, the cravat of real lace, the exquisite tinting of the blue +and silver brocade lining, and laid against it a coat which would have +looked rich alone, but here, against this, was a mere outcast. + +"Madame sees; the coat is cheap--a bargain. We sold one to-day, almost +like it. Ah! here it is!" + +"I must take the cheap one," Esme muttered. "I--" + +"See, this one was sold to Milady Blakeney. And this which we wish +Madame to have is almost as good. Milady's has remained for slight +alteration." + +Truly a gorgeous garment this--sables black in their splendour; clasps +of jade and silver and paste; lining such as fairy princesses might +wear. A ruffle of old Mechlin. + +"This is of English money nine hundred pounds. Unique, exquisite. And +this other looks as well." + +Sudden bitter resentment choked Esme. Denise could have this coat and +go on to other shops to buy jewels, laces, unneeded follies. What was +five hundred pounds? Denise might easily have taken her out to-day, +bought her furs or given her twice the stipulated money; this time +might have been generous. + +"Oh! I'll take this one." Esme touched the sable coat. After all, she +had money in the bank; she had lived free for six months. "Yes, I'll +pay for it now." + +She had to wait while they went to the bank; then she went out in the +rich mantle. It was heavy, a little difficult to walk in, but she could +see her fair face against the dark furs as she peered into mirrors. + +At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why again should all she +wanted be so dear? That soft wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere +rag in the hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded limbs, +setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's feet; that tea-gown of +opal velvet; that severe coat and skirt of blue, were all beyond her +now that the coat was hers. Yet Esme bought recklessly, a sullen anger +driving her. Madame Arielle would copy and create others, these three +she must have. And this--and this blouse; another dress and scarf. + +Esme had ordered there before, but never in this style. Madame looked +dubious. + +"I'll pay you fifty now on account." And so only fifty left of a +half-yearly price. "That brown--you'll copy it at once?" + +"Ah, yes--shortly." But Madame was pressed. "Milady Blakeney had been +in ordering a dozen frocks, but of a beauty," gushed Madame, "one all +of real lace and silver crepe. Ah, yes." + +Denise again before her, dwarfing her, Esme's, orders. The coat seemed +heavier now. She bought hats almost languidly; passed a jeweller's +window, saw a necklace, a thing of diamonds and emeralds exquisite in +its fine work, with one great diamond swinging from the fret of green +and white. + +"How much?" Esme shrugged her shoulders. "It would have gone so well +with her new gown." She bought a tiny brooch of enamel and went out. + +It was dull at lunch at the Cafe de la Paix. She did not go back for +it. It was stupid to eat alone; the omelette tasted leathery; the +little fillets tough; the place was overheated; she would have taken +off her coat, but the dress underneath was last year's, therefore a +thing to be hidden. + +Men stared at the beautiful English woman in her daring green hat and +gorgeous furs. + +Sipping her liqueur, Esme tried to lose her irritation in dreams of the +future. Bertie would be home; they would take up their old happy life; +but even more happily. She would be so well off now. Able to buy her +own frocks, to help in many ways. When she got back she would go off to +hunt somewhere. Esme looked at her hands; they were so much thinner. +Would she be strong enough to hunt? She had lost her rounded contours; +she knew that there were new lines on her fair skin, that she had lost +some of her youth. + +These things age one. And yet--"L'addition," she said sharply. Yet she +thought of a little soft thing lying in the big upstairs room at the +Bristol, and something hurt her sharply again. + +She was tired of shopping, she would go back there now. It was lonely +in Paris. + +Mrs Stanson, writing letters to engage a variety of nursemaids--she +considered a person of her position must be thoroughly waited on--was +surprised by a visit from Esme. + +The baby was splendid after all his trials and his journey. Mrs Stanson +did not hold with infants travelling; she dreaded the cold journey back +to England. + +"Nor do I hold with the heat of these here rooms," said the English +nurse, "and with the cold a-rushing in like a mad dog with its mouth +open if one stirs a window. Give me air for a child, Mrs Carteret, air +and warmth; but above all, air." + +An autocrat of the nursery, this Mrs Stanson, who had nursed heirs of +great houses and loved her charges. A death now, the passing of pretty +delicate Lady de Powers and her infant son, had set the woman free. + +"You'll love him, Mrs Stanson--be good to him?" Esme flung out the +words in sudden impulse; she took the smiling baby up. + +"I declare, Mrs Carteret, he might be yours instead of her ladyship's," +laughed the nurse. "She came in for five minutes, and asked if I wanted +anything, and to order what I wanted. I made it two nursery-maids +to-day. Like many young mothers, she's careless. It's the ladies +without that would give their eyes for one," said Mrs Stanson, softly. + +"Without." A slur on her, Esme, whose child was in her arms. Something +hurt in her throat; she turned red and then white. She sat for an hour +in the big bright room, listening to all the ills which lurk in wait +for infant life, related with gusto by the nurse. A little chill, a +spoon of soured food, and poof! out goes the life; then later, +chicken-pox, measles, whooping-cough; wet feet. It seemed wonderful to +think that there were any children left alive. Little Cyril, dribbling +thoughtfully, had no idea of what was before him. + +But at the end, comfort. "And yet they lives," said Mrs Stanson, "lives +on, on beer and dripping, which I am informed is used as baby food by +the very poor." + +Denise came in for tea, fresh, radiant, wrapped in a great stole of +fox. Big Sir Cyril pulling little boxes innumerable from his pockets. + +They had a sitting-room. Denise called Esme in to her, spread purchases +on the table. + +"See, Esme--this pendant, isn't it sweet? And this enamel clasp--and +this brooch--and that diamond heart." The table glittered with the +things. "Oh, Cyril could not buy enough for me. He is so good." + +Almost sullenly Esme looked down at the stone of green, white and red; +the pendant and necklace was the one which she had coveted. Denise +might offer to give her some of these; she might ask her if there was +nothing she wanted. + +"And I got you something, Es--just as remembrance. Cyril wished me to. +Summers! bring in the parcels. Yes, there it is." + +Esme knew the label--that of a huge shop close to the Place de l'Opera; +good, but bourgeois, cheap. + +"See! I hate that musquash thing you wear. It's too dark for you." +Denise pulled out a stole of brown fox--a huge thing, covered with +tails, but meretricious, showy; the satin of the lining crackled as she +touched it. This for all she had done for her friend. + +"Thank you, Denise." Esme took up the fur. "How pretty. It was nice of +you to think of me, now that I am of no further use." + +Denise looked up, startled by momentary fear. Surely Esme was more than +content with her share of the bargain. Was glad to be rid of her +unwanted brat; to have ample allowance and be free. For a minute she +saw what it might be if Esme failed her. + +But Denise was shallowly optimistic; she laughed the fears away; she +kissed Esme affectionately. + +"It was a great thought, and it's splendidly over," she +whispered--"over for us both." + +"And you? You really begin to feel that he is yours?" whispered Esme +back, almost fiercely. + +"I believe I do. I shall have forgotten it completely in ten years' +time," laughed Lady Blakeney. + +"And--shall I?" said Esme to herself. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +"Some people," said Mousie Cavendish, "appear to have come into a +fortune." + +She touched Esme Carteret's sable coat, stroking the soft fur, her +small greenish eyes looking up wickedly. + +"Friends ... are nice things," said Mousie, softly. "Hey, my pretty +Esme." + +Esme flushed. Five minutes before she had grumbled at her poverty, now +she came down in her splendid wrap waiting for the motor. + +Money had never seemed to go so fast. The half-year's allowance from +Denise had been spent in a day. More new frocks, new habits had seemed +necessary. A restlessness haunted Esme; she was not satisfied with +anything, she was nervous, lacked appetite, had grown thin. + +She was doing the last of the hunting season at Coombe Regis now, an +old Elizabethan house taken by the Holbrooks. + +Their only difficulty, as Mousie said sweetly, is "that they cannot +remake the bricks with gold dust, it's so ordinary to have one's house +made of clay and straw and water, otherwise bricks." + +There were horses in the stables, sleek, shining hunters, belonging to +friends who came to stay. Esme hired from a local stable. She rode hard +and straight, but came in tired after her day; her old perfect health +had deserted her. + +"There," said Mousie, looking out onto the chill March day, "is Luke, +our host, seeking for something he may spend money on. He wants to be a +peer next birthday, and his hopes are high." + +The flowers in the old-fashioned flower-garden were a blaze of +magnificence. Mr Holbrook was looking at them, greatly interested in +one patch of pure white daffodils because he had paid ten pounds a +piece for the bulbs. The Cabinet minister who was coming to stay was a +florist. A gift of some of these might please him greatly. + +The Holbrooks had made Coombe Regis into a passable imitation of a +Hotel de Luxe. The old hall was now a palm court, heated by hot air, +its great open fireplace offended by a new grate which held coals; the +drawing-room was magnificent in dull blue and gold; stiffly hideous, +with great mirrors shining everywhere. + +The dining-room was a mass of mechanical devices, of lifts and electric +heaters and telephones to everywhere, the small tables were all +polished wood spread with slips of real lace. One dined scratchily off +luke-warm silver, one's breakfast cup was Crown Derby set in filigree. + +"So annoying of the hens not to learn to lay golden eggs," remarked Mrs +Cavendish one morning when she had examined half a dozen things smoking +over the electric heaters. "What's the use of this pure gold Orpington +here sitting on a silver nest when she only hatches things which can be +purchased at a penny and twopence each. No, I refuse to eat truffles +and cream and salmon for breakfast, nor do I require ham and champagne +sauce." + +A big party had assembled for the ball of Regis Hunt races. Dull people +and smart people, who ate their meals together with regret, and drifted +apart directly afterwards. The dull people ate the ornamented dishes +and sighed inwardly for roast mutton, the smart people picked at them +and wanted the French cookery their greedy souls adored. + +But Mr Holbrook was content. He was getting on. He did kind things +which he concealed rigorously, and he did generous things for his own +benefit, and his peerage loomed ahead. + +"My dear love," said Holbrook, coming into the library. He had +furnished the shelves with first editions of various authors whom no +one ever read. Statues stood, coldly graceful in corners, gleaming +white against the brown background. The library table carried a writing +set of leather worked in gold. Grace Holbrook was dictating letters to +her secretary, a slim girl with a pink nose and an irritated expression. + +"My dear," said Holbrook. "Do you think--?" He paused. + +"You can go, Miss Harris," said Mrs Holbrook. + +"Do you think," he said--"hum, Critennery has a little weakness ... she +dances at the Magnificent, in some gauze ... that we could have her +down. Lady Ermyntrude is not coming." + +"We couldn't," said Mrs Holbrook, hastily. "The Duchess is coming." + +"Well, it's quite his little weakness and he can do as he likes," said +Holbrook, mournfully. "I do want Henry to be Lord Regis, my love. It's +just to dance on Saturday. I would arrange with Hewson of the +Magnificent. And dancers are so fashionable." + +"My dear Luke, the Duchess of Dullshire will be here," said his wife, +firmly, "and the Trents, and Lord Frensham. We couldn't. The Duchess +was at the Magnificent, I remember seeing it mentioned--she must have +seen the woman without any ... that is dancing." + +"She is so very graceful," said Luke. "Well, my love, of course if we +cannot. But artistes do go everywhere now. She lunches with Lady +Ermyntrude, and I thought that her presence, combined with a present of +those Angel bulb roots; but if you object ... well, it's quite a little +weakness, my love. Critennery would have liked to talk to Mavis Moover." + +Mrs Holbrook wavered visibly. "If the Duchess had not been in front," +she said; "still, she's very blind and won't wear glasses; she may not +have noticed the gauze. I don't want our party to be spoilt, Luke, +but--" + +"Think it over, my love," said Holbrook, going out. "Think it over. And +there's Jimmie Gore Helmsley coming. I see his name down. I don't like +him, Gracie. He's a bad 'un, my love." + +"He goes everywhere. He's running a horse," said Mrs Holbrook. "That +long-legged bay thing we saw galloping to-day. People say it will win. +He goes everywhere, Luke." + +"So much the worse," said Mr Holbrook, "for everywhere." + +Something had happened to the motor Esme was going out in--a tyre had +punctured as it was starting and the chauffeur gave warning of an +hour's delay. Esme yawned, waiting in the over-heated hall. + +Bertie would be home in a week; she would want more wine at cost price +from her host. Seeing him come out she flashed a friendly smile at him. +She asked him to send her some. + +But Luke Holbrook, who had been glad to help a pretty girl in a tiny +flat, saw no reason for losing a profit to a woman in magnificent +sables. + +"Want more hock?" he said. "The same as last, eh? Yes, I told you to +ask me--but it's gone up--gone up, and whisky too, and port.... I'll +send it on to you. Kind of me. It's my business, pretty lady, my +business. No bother at all." + +Esme did not realize that he meant to charge her full price. + +"We've had such a hunt, we came back early." Sybil Chauntsey ran into +the hall in her habit, young Knox close behind her. Mrs Holbrook +approved of love. She had asked them together. "Oh, such a run," +babbled Sybil. "And my chestnut was glorious, the dear." + +"Jimmie always said that the chestnut was his best horse." Mousie +Cavendish's thin lips curved in a spiteful smile. + +Young Knox started, looked at Sybil. + +"I thought it was your own horse," he said gravely. + +"Captain Gore Helmsley lent him to me for the season. I call him mine. +I thought that you knew." + +"No, I did not." The young soldier seemed to have forgotten his gallop; +he looked tired and put out. + +"The car, madam, is ready." A butler who bore the mark of experience +stamped upon his impassive face came forward. Esme fastened her coat, +asked for a companion--Mrs Cavendish would come. Her spiteful tongue +made light strokes at reputations as the car hummed along. No one +escaped. No one was immune. She had come to drive to find out who had +given Esme the coat, for the fair girl had never made herself +auspicious. + +"Met heaps of nice things abroad, I s'pose.... Why didn't you order a +limousine, Esme? I hate the wind in these open things ... heaps of +princes, I suppose, and rich potentates, didn't you, in your travels?" + +"Heaps," said Esme. "At least we must have seen them sometimes." + +"Funniest thing rushing off like that for all these months, so unlike +Denise Blakeney. It didn't agree with you, Esme; it made you thin, and +different somehow." + +"The climate," Esme said, flushing a little. + +"And fancy Denise not coming home for the event, trusting herself to +foreign doctors and nurses." + +"She did not intend to stay," Esme answered. "She meant to be back." + +"I saw the son and heir. A great fat thing, fair like Cyril. Well, it +settles all the difficulties then. Denise doesn't play the _role_ of +devoted mother; she says the baby bores her." + +A sudden wave of anger shook Esme--fear for her child--it might be +neglected, grow up unloved. Then they stopped at the toy shop at Regis. + +"A parcel for Mrs Holbrook," she said to the man. Obsequious assistants +ran out to the Coombe Regis motors. + +A hunting man, still in his splashed pink, stopped them. He, too, was +full of the great run. + +"Coming out to-morrow to Welcombe," he said. "We're all training down." + +Esme's face clouded. + +"I can't afford it. I owe the man twenty pounds. I've done two days +this week." + +A year ago Esme would have almost expected a horse offered to her. +Major Jackson had fifteen of them; she had only to look appealing then, +talked of poverty, and horses came as from the clouds. + +Now he too looked at her coat. Its owner could not want help. + +"Other engagements," he chaffed lightly. "You're losing your keenness, +Mrs Carteret. Fact." + +Esme turned away ill-humouredly. They drove back to Coombe Regis, the +open car humming through the cool spring afternoon. Mousie Cavendish +questioning, surmising, as they went. + +The palm court was crowded now, partitions had been knocked away, a +room thrown in to make it large enough; there was no gathering round +for tea. Trays were placed on the little glass-topped satinwood tables. +Hot biscuits and scones were kept hot on electric heaters. The butler +laid a species of buffet covered with huge iced cakes, and relays of +sandwiches if the supplies on each tray were not sufficient. + +"Only one thing required--cold roast beef and plum pudding," Mousie +said ill-naturedly, as she looked at it. The tea-pots were all silver +gilt, the little piles of cakes and sandwiches rested on real lace. In +the drawing-room Mrs Holbrook gathered her dullest guests at a table, +where she poured out tea herself, away from the more clouded atmosphere +of the hall. + +Several expensive toy dogs sat about on the blue and gold brocade and +ate scraps of cake merely to oblige the guests. + +They dined off minced chicken and fillet of beef, and breakfasted off +cream and grape nuts. Mr Holbrook liked them because he had paid three +hundred for Li Chi the pug, and two for Holboin Santoi the pomeranian. + +"Luke," said Mrs Holbrook, taking her second cup of chilly tea. "Luke, +I think we could do it; the Duchess may never know who she is." + +"Do you really, my love?" said Holbrook, briskly. "Then I'll write to +her manager and to her, enclosing a note from you. She will go so well +with the bulbs--Critennery must be pleased." + +Esme had found a pile of letters waiting for her, long envelopes +containing accounts rendered. She did not know where her money had gone +to. Nothing seemed paid for. + +She was going to her room, walking on carpets so thick that her feet +sank into them, with all the silence of riches round her, doors which +opened and shut noiselessly, deadened footsteps, when she stopped +startled. + +"Ah, Madame!" Marie, her late maid, smiled at her. "Ah, Madame." Marie +was enchanted. She had regretted so that Madame had been obliged to +part with her. + +"I am with Milady Goold, Madame, and I see Madame has not been well; +she is looking delicate, then." + +"It was Italy." Esme was nervous before the Frenchwoman, whose brown +eyes looked at her with a curious shrewdness. + +"Madame had much travelling with Milady Blakeney? I have been to +Reggio, Madame; I have a cousin there." + +Esme turned swiftly to her door to hide her white cheeks. She recovered +in a moment. Even if Marie did write or go there, there was nothing to +find out. "Yes--it's a dull place, Marie," she said. "And when you're +out of a place come back to me. Watson cannot do hair, Marie." + +Marie went away smiling--a curious little smile. "There was something +curious in all that," she said softly. "Something, but yes, +strange--and one day I, Marie, will find it out." + +The races were to be on Tuesday. Saturday saw Coombe Regis with every +room full. The Cabinet minister felt himself over-honoured in one of +the huge state rooms, where the old carved bedstead had been left, and +all the electric lights did not seem to dispel the shadows. + +"Kind of thing queens died in," said the minister as he took a long +walk from his bed to the dressing-table. + +The Duchess occupied another vast chamber, made incongruously modern by +a low bedstead representing a lily, and bought for a fabulous sum from +France. "Absurd," said Her Grace, as she poked into the down pillows +and lace-edged sheets arrayed among the inlaid petals. "Also it can't +have proper springs." + +Her Grace of Dullshire was a large lady of philanthropic tendencies. +She kept a herd of prize cows which she sold to her friends for large +sums, and prize hens, and she knew a horse when she saw one, so had +come for the races. She also liked bridge, when she won. The Duchess +was a leader of society, one fully aware of the fact. Her deep voice +had power to slide an ambitious clamberer back over the edge of the +cliff which she had scaled with difficulty. To be asked to Dullengla +Court, where one dined off beef soup, boiled cod, roast mutton, cabbage +or turnips, and rice moulds, was to be marked as with an order. The +Duke never visited, and the Marquis of Boredom, their son, had so far +not been allowed to marry. He had, greatly against his will, been +included in this house-party, it being an unfortunate fact that his +taste was for attractive ladies on the stage. "I would allow you to +marry Lady Sukey Ploddy," said his mother when they got to the door of +Coombe Regis; "she will be here." The palm court was brilliant +to-night. Shaded lights glowed through the artificial leaves, showing +chiffons and satins, laces and silks, and the black-and-white dinner +armour of mankind. Rare jewels flashed, faint scents made the air +fragrant. + +The Cabinet minister, coming down just before dinner, stood on the +Duchess's toe in his surprise at catching sight of a dark moving face +and a supple, slight form. + +"Mavis," said the minister, blankly.... "Oh, so sorry, Duchess. I hope +it didn't hurt. Did Homburg last year, y'know. Now if it had been +before that...." + +The Duchess's hop to a chair shook the palm court. Her only son, coming +down in almost painfully well-made clothes, was confiding his woes to a +friend. "Absolutely rotten bein' caught for it. Scarcely a girl to +speak to, and if there is she'll be off with some Johnny she knew +before. Nothin' but Ploddys and that spiteful Cavendish, and oh, hang, +rot all round, y'know. Yes, mamma." + +"Who?" said the Duchess, "who, Francis, is that nice-looking girl in +black?" + +"Gracious!" said Lord Boredom. "Lord! it isn't," he paused ... "her +name is Moover, mother," he said blandly--"Moover." + +"American," summed up the Duchess, accepting her host's arm. Mrs +Holbrook sorted the vast party every evening and paired them off for +dinner. + +Lord Boredom received Lady Sukey Ploddy's substantial hand upon his +coat sleeve, and intelligently remarked, "Eh oh, Imagin," when she told +him she was looking forward to the races. + +The minister took in his hostess, and found the dancer at their table +for four. "I like this," said Miss Moover contentedly, taking caviare. +"Nice of 'em to ask me, wasn't it? Old Luke--" + +"That's your hostess," said the minister, hurriedly. The magnificence +of dinner descended upon them and the food. One reached for fish +beneath a truffle-spangled vest of sauce; one poked at a snowy tower +and found that upon the menu it was harmless chicken in disguise. If +the cook did not earn her salary by spending money on elaboration she +would be speedily replaced. + +Gay voices, light laughter, rang up to the vaulted roof. Armies of +powdered footmen moved deftly among the tables. The celebrated Holbrook +wines were poured out lavishly. + +One finished with bad coffee and took choice of a dozen liqueurs, the +blue haze of smoke floating around the heated air. Huge golden boxes, +initialled and becrested, stood on the tables, filled with cigars and +cigarettes; the butler, faintly proud of so much wasted money, stood +for a moment before he left. Red bars gleamed along the shining +mahogany from the rich ruby of the port. + +The dull people drifted away with their hostess to the drawing-room to +read and work and gossip, but the Duchess lingered in the palm court +waiting for her son. + +"A very nice-looking girl," said Her Grace. "Miss Moover, I think I +have seen you somewhere." + +"Perhaps," said Mavis, civilly. "Perhaps, Duchess." + +Lord Boredom, who had quite woke up, sniggered softly; for the rest of +the evening the Cabinet minister, who was a philosopher, realized the +power of youth over mere prestige as he watched the Marquis of Boredom +devote himself to a demure-looking girl in black, with the manifest +approval of his mother. + +A gentle feeler to Miss Moover, whose real name was Harris, had +resulted in a frank avowal from that young lady that at present her +income was several hundreds a week. "And all my own," said Mavis, a +little sadly, for she had come to London to work for a mother who had +died before her daughter grew famous. + +There were a dozen little dramas played out under the high +roof--comedy, tragedy, drama, to each its caste, its players and its +audience. + +Young Oliver Knox's bright face had lost its gaiety. He was a mere +everyday soldier, awkward of speech because he loved deeply and pitted +against Gore Helmsley, who woke to the game because there was a new +chance of losing it. With his black eyes full of the admiration he knew +how to throw into them, his words laden with subtle compliment, he +followed pretty Sybil, slipped her away from her fretting lover, took +her to play bridge, and praised her mistakes as flashes of genius. + +The girl was flustered as she found herself playing against Mrs +Cavendish and Dolly Frensham, two gamblers of repute. She saw the +scores added and settled, heard Jimmie say carelessly that she could +settle with him next day, and scarcely knew what she had lost. Esme +flashed careless answer to Gore Helmsley's cool greeting; he had done +with her, and yet his coolness hurt. Comedy was played in the palm +court, played next day after breakfast, with Miss Mavis Moover as its +heroine. The Duchess was quite charmed with her, accepting certain +little frivolities as merely transatlantic. Mavis displayed a worthy +interest in cows, and was not averse to philanthropy. "You'd be happy +in a simple country place," said the Duchess, referring to the vast +house with at least ten sitting-rooms, in three of which they camped +out. + +"I think so," said Mavis, quietly. "I guess so, if I liked the people." + +"My love," said Luke Holbrook on Monday morning. "It hasn't quite +worked, my love. I fear our hope in the Cabinet has not had the time we +intended him to. I fear that nosey boy of the Duchess's has put his +foot in the pie," said Luke, sadly. + +"Luke!" said his wife. + +"Fallen into the dish. All the same, my love. Critennery is leaving +to-day." + +"He can travel by the same train as his fancy," said Mrs Holbrook, +placidly. + +The great man, urbanely gracious, came to make his adieux. Holbrook +looked at him apologetically. "You will travel up then with Miss +Moover," said Mrs Holbrook, brightly; "she leaves this morning." + +The Cabinet minister drew on his grey gloves carefully, then adjusted +the fingers slowly. + +"Lord Boredom," he said, "is motoring Miss Moover to Town just in time +for her performance. Good-bye again. So many thanks for a charming +visit." He turned to his host with a smile. "Come to me directly you +come up," he said. "If you want that baronetcy." + +"In the outside lot again," said Holbrook, lugubriously. "But he's a +good sort, he may understand, my love." + +The races played their part. Gore Helmsley, a splendid rider, won +easily, cantering in five lengths in front, his long figure looking its +best on horseback, his dark face glowed when he rode. Young Knox's +horse fell; the boy came in muddy, shaken, sad in mind, because it was +a jostle with his rival which had knocked him down. + +Sybil gathered some gold gaily. Jimmy had put a tenner on for her. With +a girl's folly she feasted her eyes on tinsel, turning away from the +duller mint of hall-marked gold. Here the curtains might fall on a +tragedy, fall hurriedly, for the chief actress would have to smile and +call it comedy to her audience if she was ever to appear again on +Society's stage. + +Sybil came laughing to one of the smaller sitting-rooms that evening, a +room warm, softly lighted, one ordered as one chose at Coombe Regis. +She was having tea then with Gore Helmsley. + +"No one will look for us here," he had said as he rang the bell. "Let's +have a quiet half-hour. Talk to me, little pal, I'm tired." + +Over the indifferent tea, poured out of a gilt teapot, Sybil smiled +gaily, held out her day's winnings--twenty pounds. + +"See, I owe you money for bridge, for two nights. Take it. I hope +there's enough to pay. I did play stupidly." + +Jimmie pushed back the pile of gold. "My dear, you lost eighty pounds. +What does it matter--that can stand over. I paid the Cavendish for you; +she's a cat and would talk." + +Sybil cried out, frightened and astonished. Eighty pounds! and besides +that she had played in a lady's four and lost another ten. Her mother +was not rich; she could not pay easily. + +"Keep your pennies," he mocked in lordly tones. "Some day you'll pay +me. I am glad to help a little pal." Jimmie meant the payment to be a +high one, with interest. He was a merciless human hawk, poising long, +swift to strike at the last. "We played sixpennies, you see." + +"I never dreamt," Sybil faltered; "I thought it was pennies here." + +When you owe a man eighty pounds, when he has paid rather than have you +cornered, it would be churlish to spring aside, a prude, if he kisses +you softly before you part. If he pulls you to the arm of his chair and +keeps you there, holding two small chill hands, it is surely all in +good friendship. + +Sybil went away with some of the careless youth wiped from her fresh +face, with trouble and perplexity in her frank eyes; the big dark man +fascinated her, knew how to make her feel a little queen, how to bring +the hot blood to her cheeks, but to-night she was half afraid. His +little pal! She'd cured his headache--been a brick to stay with him. +Instead of playing bridge to-night they'd play piquet in a quiet +corner, he whispered. + +"You didn't come to tea." Oliver Knox came straight to Sybil in the +hall, his face ill-humoured. "I was watching for you." + +"No, I was tired," she said, blushing a little. + +"And Gore Helmsley did not come--our black Adonis, Miss +Chauntsey--can't you see through the man?" + +A foolish speech uttered by foolishly, honestly loving youth. Sybil +tossed her head angrily and walked away offended. + +"Coming to play to-night?" Mousie Cavendish asked her. + +Sybil's lips drooped. + +"I don't think so. I've lost such a lot. You play too high for me." + +"Pooh! What matter. Jimmie doesn't mind. He's full of money now after +the race." + +"I've lost such a lot," Sybil repeated, forgetting that she was angry +with Oliver Knox, turning to him in her trouble, missing the meaning in +the woman's words. + +"You ought not to play with that crowd. Mrs Cavendish is the best +player in London--the quickest to read a face, I'll bet. It's madness, +folly." + +Another foolish speech. Sybil went off to change. This drama was being +played quickly. The girl was stirred, flattered; awakened nature made +her a lute too easily played on by a practised hand. She shrank from +decision, from promising to marry a soldier of slender fortune, and she +knew that decision was near. That night, after dinner, her young lover +followed her, took her, almost against her will, away from the others +to the library, with its rows of richly-bound volumes, its sombre +magnificence. + +"Sybil"--the boy's face was white. He was too moved for eloquence. +"Sybil, you know I love you. I can't stand by and see that other fellow +follow you, as he has followed others. Making you--you remarkable. +Sybil, I'm not rich, but I love you, marry me--I'll make you happy." + +And--she was not sure--for a moment she felt his arms close round her +and dreamt of peace and sheltered love, then again she was not sure, +she said so faltering. Give her time ... she muttered. + +"Sybil, I can't wait. It's life or death to me. Give the fellow up. +Give him back his horse. I'll hire you one. Go, tell him now. It +maddens me to see you ride the brute." + +Give back the horse, and to-morrow she was to ride the perfect chestnut +at the meet. Next day they were going back to London, they were dining +with Jimmie, motoring with him. "I'll tell you"--Sybil +faltered--"later--I don't know." + +An anxious lover is always a fool. He would have no delay, he must +know. It was a choice--a challenge to fate. If she took him it must be +altogether. She was too young to understand. Sybil was tortured by +indecision. How, owing eighty pounds, could she go to her friend and +say, I will not ride your horse--I will not dine with you. How could +she hurt him? + +"Sybil, I thought you cared," a hoarse voice roused her. + +"I believe I do. Oh, Oliver, give me time." + +"No!" he was going away, leaving next morning. "I cannot share you, +Sybil. Oh, friendship. Don't prate of that to me, but, if you want me, +send for me. If I can ever help, write or wire. I'll go on loving you +as long as I'm alive. As you don't care enough I can go." + +He flung out bruised and hurt. + +Was it chance or design which had made Jimmie Gore Helmsley talk that +day of the worries of a soldier's life? + +"Kicked about, never enough money, poky houses, a rattling two-seater, +or a dogcart, a dog's life for a pretty woman," Jimmie had said +lightly. "Stuck in some wretched country town or in some big station +where the dust reeks of the army. I've pitied so many girls who have +married soldiers. Think of your beauty now thrown away." And all the +time as young Knox pleaded Sybil had recalled these words. + +Esme went back to London next day, back to her little flat. + +A bleak wind swept along the streets, dark clouds raced across the sky. +It was dreary, intensely cold, the flat was poky, its cosiness seemed +to have deserted it, it had become a tawdry box. The furniture looked +shabby, worn, the tenants had been careless. Esme stood discontentedly +pulling at her cushions, petulantly moving back china to old places. +Her servants were new, inclined to be lazy. The cook looked blankly +unenthusiastic as to lunch. + +"Couldn't possibly have all that in time to-day, mem. They'd send round +something from Harrod's, no doubt." + +Esme lunched ill-humouredly off galantine and tinned peas. She thought +of the big houses she had been in; they must move, take a little house. +This place was out of the way, inconvenient. She ordered flowers +recklessly, telephoned to Denise inviting herself to dinner. + +The butler answered. "Yes, her ladyship would be dining in, he would +ask." There was a long pause, then an answer. "Her ladyship would be +pleased to see Mrs Carteret at eight." + +"She might have spoken herself," said Esme, angrily. + +The afternoon dragged wearily. Esme drove to one of the big shops, +ordering new cushions, new coverings, but languidly; she meant to leave +the flat and took no real interest in it. + +She went early to the Blakeneys. Denise was not dressed. No message +came asking her to go to her friend's room. Esme had to learn that an +obligation creates constraint, as the person we owe money to, however +generously given, is never a welcome guest. + +But Esme left the pretty drawing-room. Its spaciousness made her +envious, she stepped past Denise's room to the upper landings. Here Mrs +Stanson was just coming to her supper. A little lightly-breathing thing +lay asleep in his cot. + +"But, nurse, he's pale, isn't he, thin?" Esme whispered. + +"He caught a cold, Mrs Carteret. Oh, nothing. I feared croup, but it +passed. It's a trying month, you see, for tiny children." + +Lightly, so softly that the baby never stirred, Esme stooped to kiss +him, stood looking down at the child which ought to have been sleeping +in the spare room at the flat. + +But he would have been a nuisance there, an inconvenience, she told +herself insistently. + +Then fear tore at her heart. What if the child should die. "Be good to +him," she whispered, slipping a sovereign into Mrs Stanson's hand. "Be +good to him, Mrs Stanson." + +She got down before Denise did. Felt the want of warmth in her +hostess's greeting. Denise was splendidly gowned, gay, merry, looking +younger, happier. Sir Cyril's eyes followed his wife, contentment +visible in their look. + +"My dear Esme, delighted, of _course_. When you are alone always come +here. We've only a four for bridge--Susie and her husband. You can cut +in." + +"I'll look on." Esme felt that she was not wanted, she was odd man out. +She flushed unhappily. + +Denise was full of plans, each one including Cyril now. She talked +lightly of that boy Jerry. She was completely the happy wife, confident +in her position. + +"And the boy. He's had a cold," Esme said. + +"A cold has he? I think I heard him sniff?" + +"Yes, he's had a cold," Sir Cyril said. "He was quite feverish. Denise +is not a nursery bird, I fear." + +"And you've been dining off gold plate at the Holbrooks, Esme. I +wouldn't go. Cyril and I went for a few last days with the Quorn. Cyril +bought me such a lovely mare, all quality. Ah, here is Sue." Lady Susan +Almorni was not a friend of Esme's. Denise seemed to be leaving her +smart friends, to be settling among the duller, greater people. + +"Bertie will be home to-morrow. I want to leave the flat, to come more +west. It's poky, horribly stuffy. If--we could afford to." Esme +crumbled her toast, looked almost sullenly at Denise. + +"But could you? And it's such a dear little flat. Could you afford it, +Esme dear? You are so comfy there." + +The butler brought in the evening papers. Before they settled to play +bridge Sir Cyril opened them. + +"Why, Mrs Carteret," he said, "this is awful about your cousins surely. +The two Carteret boys have both been killed in a motor accident. It +makes Bertie heir, I suppose, but what a tragedy." + +Esme caught at the paper and read it feverishly. "To the title," she +said. "It's entailed. Hugh Carteret can leave his money as he +chooses--unless we have children." But she knew what a difference it +must make. + +"You'll have to follow my example and have an heir now," laughed +Denise. "To make it all certain. Eh, Esme?" + +Esme sat with the paper in her hands and did not answer. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +Spring rioting, chill and bleak, crushing the coming summer in its +impish hands. A day when cold came creeping under doors, sat even by +the fire and would not be denied. + +Looking into her draped glass Esme was struck by new lines in her face, +by a loss of her dazzling youth, by a tired look in her eyes. +Discontent, weariness, were writing their names on her skin. + +Bertie would be home early. She had been lazy and not gone to the ship +to meet him. He was coming to breakfast, the fires were smouldering in +the sitting-room, the new housemaid reasonably desirous of "gaus." +Esme, in her prettiest wrapper, shivered and grew irritable. She had +ordered an elaborate breakfast, but the new cook was a failure; the +fish was sodden, the bacon half raw, the hot bread mere heated bakers' +scones. + +Esme recalled the breakfasts at Coombe Regis, at Harlands. She flung +out at the maids. Ordered new dishes angrily. Oh, it was hateful not to +have things right. Her old gaiety had left her. She would have laughed +a year ago and boiled eggs on a spirit lamp. Bertie at last, running +up, catching her in his arms, holding her close. + +"Esme, my dear old butterfly. My sweetheart. Oh, it's good to be back +again here with you. Breakfast, Es, I'm starving." + +So big and boyish and loving. She clung to him and found discontent +even there. She had cheated her man. There was a secret to be hidden +from him for ever. And where were all the comforts she had dreamt of +with her income? Where were they? + +"Breakfast." Esme rang the bell. + +"Cook is grilling the bacon, mem. It will take ten minutes." So Bertie +had to wait, and then eat cold eggs and burnt bacon, and drink stewed +tea. But he was happy. + +"Extravagance," he said. "My silken-winged butterfly, that's a new gown +of fluff and laces." + +"You don't expect me to have all last year's, do you?" Esme almost +snapped, then leant against him. He held her closely, loving the warm +suppleness of her body, the scent of her burnished hair, his lips were +hot on the satin smoothness of her skin. + +"But, Es sweetheart, you're thinner," he whispered, "and looking sadly. +We'll have a week away, just you and I, in Paris. You must be rich now +with no house all this winter." + +Esme slipped away from him and fidgeted as she lighted a cigarette. + +"Oh, Bertie, you've seen about the accident. You're heir now." + +"The place is entailed," he said. "It's worth nothing. But the old +man's money is his own. He may leave it to me. If we had a boy he +might, no doubt he would." + +Esme flushed scarlet, turning away. The cold day grew colder. Try as +she would, the old happy intimacy, their careless happy youth, would +not come back. Before, she had told Bertie everything. Now if he knew, +if he knew. + +Her husband seemed to have grown older, graver, to be less boyish. He +talked of one or two things as extravagant. They discussed Aldershot +and he spoke of lodgings. Houses were impossible there. + +Esme grew petulant. Lodgings, she had seen them. Chops for dinner and +cold meat and salad for lunch. They must find a house. They'd heaps of +money. + +They went out to luncheon, telephoned a table at the Berkeley, ordered +their favourite dishes recklessly. Esme came down in the Paris coat, +open to show the blue and silver lining. + +"Butterfly! What a coat," her husband exclaimed at its beauty. "Where +did you get it?" + +Esme hesitated, told half the truth. + +"Denise gave it to me," she said slowly. "You see I did a lot for her." + +Bertie was his old self then, foolishly merry. They must go up Bond +Street and order a limousine to go with the coat. It couldn't sit in +taxis. When it was off in the restaurant he saw the cunning beauty of a +Paris frock, a black one, the old pendant of emeralds gleaming against +real lace. + +It was too cold, too bitter to walk about. They rang up friends, played +bridge. Esme ordered dinner at the flat, asked Dolly to come down and +bring a man, then telephoned imperiously to the new cook. + +"Dinner for four, order what you want. It must be nice, remember. It +must be. Get some forced things, sweets, have salmon. Use your wits." + +"It is a dear little hole. I'll be sorry to leave it," Bertie said, as +they came back to the brightly-lighted little drawing-room. "Why do you +want to, girlie?" + +"It's so out of the way," Esme grumbled. + +The new maid put her into a dress of clinging black. One must mourn for +first cousins. + +Dolly was full of curiosity. Bertie was heir now. It was quite a +change. "So nice, dear Esme, to come to one of your wonderful little +dinners again." + +The only wonder of this dinner was its expense. The new cook had gone +to Harrod's stores, chosen everything which cost money. Tinned turtle +soup, plain boiled salmon, tinned and truffled entree, tinned chicken, +and a bought sweet. + +Esme grew angrier as it went on. Hated the guests' lack of appetite, +their polite declaimers as she abused her food. + +"I begin to hate this place," Esme stormed to Dolly. "It's too small, +good servants won't come here. Hardness was a good chance. She's gone +to Denise Blakeney now, she can afford to pay her what she wanted, I +couldn't." + +Cards too went against Esme. She lost and lost again, made declarations +which depended on luck, and found it desert her. They did not play for +high points, but she made side bets, and it mounted up. She cut with +Bertie, saw his eyebrows raise as she went a reckless no trumper. + +"My dear, what had you got?" he asked. + +"Oh, a king and ace. I expected something above a ten from you, Bertie." + +The Midshires were coming to Aldershot at once. Esme had never been +with the regiment. She did not want to leave London. She coaxed Bertie +next day. Why not wait for another adjutancy, leave her in the flat, he +could come up so often. + +But the very weapons she used turned against her, the caress of her +lips, her clinging arms were not things to leave. No, she must come to +Aldershot. They would find a house and be happy there. + +"And the bills, sweetheart?" Bertie Carteret had always seen to them. +"I suppose you paid up all the old ones so we'll start fresh." + +Esme had forgotten her bills. She was irritable over money, cried out +that her husband had learnt miser's thoughts in South Africa. "You fell +in love with a good housewife there, Bert," she mocked, "who fried the +cold potatoes of overnight for breakfast. Come, confess.... We've heaps +of money to be foolish on, don't bother." + +"There was never a penny left over," he said. "If we were sick, or if, +well, anything happened we had no margin." Esme frowned sullenly. + +Two hours later she was rung up at her club. + +"Esme, I've seen Uncle Hugh, he wired for me. He is going to live in +London, and he wants to make arrangements. Meet me at once. Where? Oh, +the Carlton will do." + +Erratically dreaming of riches Esme left a game of bridge and flew off +to the big restaurant. It was crowded for tea-time, people gathering at +the little tables. The cold air called for furs. Their rich softness +was everywhere, and among them all Esme felt her coat attracted +admiring eyes. Over her black dress, the blue lining brilliant over the +dark, with her hair massed against a dead black hat, Esme was +remarkable. + +"An actress?" she heard a woman ask. What Esme would call a stodgy +woman, expensively dressed, a country cousin with a London friend. + +"No, a Mrs Carteret, remarkable-looking, isn't she?" + +"Well, Bertie. _What_ is it?" Esme could scarcely wait as her husband +ordered tea. "What has Uncle Hugh done?" + +"Well, nothing. It is all for your approval, but Uncle Hugh is lonely. +He wants his nephew to live near him. There is a great deal of business +to see to. The Seaford estate and the Devonshire place, he farmed both. +Uncle Hugh found the journeying trying." Briefly, he offered to pay +Bertie the same pay as he had drawn from the Army, together with +travelling expenses, if he would stay in London and go down to these +places when necessary. No more. + +"He hasn't promised to leave you the money then?" Esme asked. "Oh, it +suits me splendidly, I hated leaving town." + +"No." Bertie Carteret shook his head. "He has promised me nothing, +merely that I shall not lose through leaving the Army, nothing more." + +Esme grew angry then, abused the rich old man, forgot his trouble in +her annoyance. + +"He has so much. Why should we starve now when we are young?" she +flashed. + +"We have never quite starved, Es." Bertie Carteret laughed, then looked +grave. "I thought we were so comfortable, so happy." + +"One seems to want more and more as one lives in town." Esme looked +sullen. She too had thought the same, less than a year ago. Been so +sure of it that she hated the thought of the third being who would have +disturbed their peace. And now with so much more money she seemed +poorer. + +"That is a wonderful coat." Bertie looked admiringly at his wife. +"You're wonderful altogether, Esme, this time. With the stamp of Paris +on your frocks. But of course Denise gave you heaps of things. You did +a lot for her." + +Esme began to plan, to grow brighter. "We must take a little house, +Bertie, get away from that box, nearer our friends." + +"But we shall be no better off," he said. + +"Oh, you must get money out of the old man. We'll save the rent on +taxis. Who is it, Bertie?" + +For Bertie had jumped up and was shaking hands with a slim girl of +about twenty. Brown-haired, grey-eyed, pretty in a quiet way. + +"It's Miss Reynolds," he said. "Miss Reynolds, Esme. Mrs Reynolds was +so kind to me at Pretoria when I was ill." + +"Ill!" Esme held out a jewelled hand. "I thought it was only repentance +and indigestion." + +"It was fever." Estelle Reynolds's voice was slow and musical, restful +as her gentle face. "Captain Carteret was very ill, and my uncle tried +to cure him." + +"No idea," said Esme. "I'd no idea. But so good of you.... Bertie, you +should have told me." She was honestly fond of her husband. + +"He did not want to worry you," said Estelle Reynolds. + +Carteret was impressively glad to see Estelle. He talked eagerly of a +dinner, a theatre. + +His eagerness vexed his wife. She got up, dazzlingly handsome in her +furs, the emeralds gleaming on her black gown. + +"So sorry, Bertie, but this week is quite full, every day. Come to +luncheon on Sunday, Miss Reynolds. I'll have some people to meet you." + +Estelle laughed pleasantly. "My Sunday will be a country cousin's," she +said. "Church, a very short luncheon, and the Albert Hall. You see, +I've never been to London before." The girl looked a little hurt, a +little snubbed. + +"And I said I'd show it to you." Carteret let his wife walk on. "I'm +not engaged. Let me take you and your aunt to Daly's to-night and on to +the Savoy." + +"Comic opera." Estelle shook her brown head. "If it might be the +Shakespearian piece at His Majesty's. I should love to come." + +It did not seem to suggest itself to Estelle to ask if Bertie +Carteret's wife might wish to include him in her engagements. Esme was +one of those women who seem to stand alone. + +"Very well then. I'll get seats at once," he said. + +Making his way past little tables to the passage down the centre of the +restaurant, Bertie stood for a moment looking from one woman to another. + +Estelle Reynolds had gone back to her tea. She was not remarkable in +any way, merely a rather dowdy girl sitting alone at a little table. +Esme had stopped to speak to friends near the door. She was brilliantly +handsome, flashing out gay smiles, the mirthless smile of society, and +splendidly dressed. As it grew thinner her face gave promise of +hardness; she had replaced her lost colour very cunningly with some +rose bloom. Carteret followed her slowly. He loved his wife, her touch, +a look from her blue eyes always had power to move him, but he realized +suddenly that she was too brilliant, too well-dressed for a +foot-soldier's wife. + +She was talking to Luke Holbrook, smiling at him, but the smile had +lost its girlish charm; the kindly man who had been willing to help a +young couple not well off had no idea of losing money to this brilliant +woman. + +Holbrook was always simply open as to his trade. + +"I didn't forget your bundle of wines, fairest lady, they went on +to-day." Mr Holbrook started and put up his glasses. "My love," he +said, turning to his wife, "I see Lord Boredom taking tea with Miss +Moover, and Mr Critennery is over there alone. My love, I fear I did +not advance our interests by that most unfortunate invitation." + +"The Duchess," said Mrs Holbrook, "will have a stroke. No one ever +broke Miss Mavis Moover's occupation to her Grace." + +"Ready, Esme? You want a taxi back. Very well." Carteret went to the +door. Before he had gone away Esme had been quite content to take the +motor 'bus which set them nearly at their door, or to go by tube. He +sighed a little as he feed the gigantic person who hailed the cab for +him. + +"They've either come into some money, my love, or it is the Italian +Prince whom Dollie Cavendish hints at," said Luke Holbrook, +thoughtfully. + +"What a dowdy little friend," yawned Esme as they sped down Piccadilly. +"What clothes, Bertie. I could only ask her to a frumpy luncheon." + +"They were very good to me out there," he said quickly. "And ... I did +not notice Miss Reynolds's dowdiness." + +"No, one wouldn't. She is the kind of thing who goes with dowdiness. +All flat hair and plaintive eyes." Esme laughed. "Is she the good +housekeeper who made you careful, Bertie? Eh?" + +He looked out without answering. Something was coming between him and +his wife. A rift, opening slowly in the groundwork of their love and +happiness. She had changed. + +Carteret's papers went in. They settled in London. Esme looked for a +house, fretting because she could not find one they could afford. Esme +often fretted as cold March was pushed away by April. She was restless, +never quiet, unable to spend an hour at home by herself. Everything +seemed to cost more than it had. People gave up the little kindnesses +which she had counted. She was not paid for at theatres, nor sent +flowers and fruit. + +"The Carterets must have come into money," people said carelessly. +"Esme's simply gorgeously clothed, and they're looking for a house. Of +course he's heir to old Hugh's place now." + +More than once Bertie included Estelle Reynolds in their parties. She +came, enjoying everything almost childishly; never tired of looking at +the London streets with their roaring traffic. Hanging on every word at +theatres, openly delighted with the dishes at smart restaurants. + +"Everyone is so rich here," said Estelle in wonder. "They pay and pay +and pay all round us." + +They were lunching at Jules, and Esme had carelessly ordered one or two +things out of season. Estelle had watched the gold coins put on the +folded bill. + +"You would not be so extravagant, I imagine," Esme laughed. She neither +liked nor disliked the quiet girl, even found her useful now to do +forgotten errands at the shops, to write her letters for her while Esme +lounged back smoking, to go off in the rain for a book which must be +read immediately. For, wanting anything, Esme could never wait. She +snapped at her share of life, to fling it away barely tasted. Estelle +came oftener and oftener to the flat. Settled flowers, put out sweets +for dinner, had the bridge tables ready, and then went away. She was +always useful, always willing to help. + +"Extravagant!" Estelle answered. "No, I'd lunch at home." + +"Off chops and fried potatoes," said Esme, taking asparagus. + +"If you go to the Club mankind invariably lunches off chops and steak," +broke in Bertie. "Women are the lovers of fluffy dishes; they please +'em, I suppose, as new dresses do, because poor people can't have them." + +"Estelle would lunch at home," laughed Esme, "and go in a 'bus to see +the shops in Regent Street, or perhaps to the National Gallery or the +White City, and come home to make a new savoury which she had seen in +_Home Instructions_, and do her accounts after dinner. Eh, little home +bird?" + +"Yes," said Estelle, simply. "Only I wouldn't live in London at all. I +would make the country my stable meal, my chops and fried potatoes, and +London my occasional savoury _bonne bouche_. I should choke in a town." + +Esme laughed. "How absurd," she flashed out. "Now, be good children. I +go to sell pieces of cloth at completely ruinous prices to aid +something in distress. I know not what." + +"Shall I take you home, Estelle?" Carteret stood looking out into the +sunshine. "Lord, what I'd give to live in the country. To see green +fields all round and have a horse or two in the winter, and laze over a +big log fire when the day was done. But somehow, here, there is never +an hour to laze in." + +Hugh Carteret, grief stricken, had so far not seen his nephew's wife. +Bertie was doing his work, going down occasionally to see the big +places and look over the accounts with the stewards. + +About a month after he had come back from South Africa, Esme's first +reckoning for extravagance was upon her. Unpaid accounts littered the +table. Harrod's deposit was overdrawn. She sat frowning and petulant, +as Bertie jotted down totals. + +"We can't do it, Esme; there are all the old bills left unpaid. We +managed so well before." + +Esme smoked furiously, flung the thin papers about. People were +robbers, her cook a fool. + +"But we are not often in. You weren't even at home. It's beyond one, +Butterfly; debt won't do. And then your frocks and frills." + +"I can pay for those," Esme was going to say, then stopped. How much of +her five hundred, her scant allowance, had she anticipated. Then there +would be a visit to Scotland, and she wanted to hunt. She could not +spare much of it; fifty of it must go to the French dressmaker, another +fifty to a jeweller. "Oh, it's sickening," she flung out in sudden +petulant anger. "Sickening. Poverty is too hateful." + +Bertie had to listen to an outburst of grumbling, of fretful wrath, +because their income was not double its size. To be pinched, cramped +when one was young, to be worried by bills, bothered by meannesses. + +Bertie Carteret's face grew pale. He stood up, gathering the bills. "I +had no idea that you were unhappy, Es," he said slowly. "We used to +manage so well before I left. It was all sunshine then. I have some +money I can dig out; we'll pay the bills and start again. Give me all +yours to see." + +Indulgence made Esme penitent, almost grateful. That was right. Now +Bertie was a dear, a sweet old boy. And they'd have a lovely summer, +just as last year's had been. + +She came over and sat on Bertie's knee, her face pressed against his, +the perfume of her golden hair in his nostrils. + +But with her soft arm about his neck, her supple body in his arms, +Bertie Carteret did not hold her closer; she missed his quick sigh at +her contact, the hotness of his kisses on her neck. + +"Bertie, dear old Bert." + +But as she moved her face a little he could see between him and the +light the skilfully-applied red on her cheeks, the coating of powder +round it. It was not love for him which brought her to him, but selfish +relief at being released from worry. "Poor Butterfly," he said, kissing +her gently. "It shall flutter through its summer. But spent capital +means less income, Esme, remember that." + +"Oh, here's the wine account." He sighed again, looking at it. Esme ran +her finger down the items, there were no wholesale prices now. The hock +was at its full value, the bill a heavy one. Jumping up, she railed at +Luke Holbrook, called him traitor and mean and treacherous. Swore that +if she could help it he would not get his peerage. + +"The lilies and carnations, madam," said the tall maid, coming in with +a bundle of flowers. + +"Leave them there, Miss Reynolds will settle them for me, she is coming +to lunch. And your Uncle Hugh, Bertie, I had forgotten." + +"You'll have to take to cheaper flowers," said Carteret; "after all, +they wither just as soon." + +"I _cannot_ skimp over flowers, Bert, I cannot." Esme went off to dress. + +"What could she skimp over?" Bertie wondered. + +Estelle Reynolds came in quietly, smiled good morning, began quite +naturally to get the vases ready. "How glorious they are," she said, as +she put the long-stemmed forced carnations into slender silver vases. +"They must cost a fortune now." + +"They do." Bertie was writing to his broker. "They do, Estelle. +Everything costs a fortune here just now. But we must come to the +humble sweet peas next week, or something of its class. What a +housekeeper you would make, Estelle." + +"Would I?" She hid the pain in her soft grey eyes, turned suddenly +away. One of the foolish women whose joy lies in sacrifice, who find +stupid satisfaction in balanced accounts, in saving for the man who +works for them, who in some mysterious way stretches the weekly +allowance when the children come, and finds only happiness in the +giving up to do it. A homely little brown thrush, looking, wondering at +a world of gay-plumaged songless birds. + +"I." Estelle's eyes were under her control again. She smiled bravely. +"I am one of the dowdy people who like to mess in the kitchen and dust, +value a pleasure for what it costs ... it's childish." + +"The fault of the world's inhabitants is that they are stamping out +childishness," he said slowly. "They have forgotten to take joy in blue +skies and green fields because it costs them nothing to look at them; +they are forgetting how to enjoy themselves except in herds. If we have +Irish stew at a shooting lunch it must be spoilt by half a dozen +expensive flavourings lest my Lady Sue or Madame Sally should say we +are so poor that we can only afford mutton and potatoes and onions. +Even the children must have tea at Charbonel's and sweets from Buzzard +or Fuller, though possibly a packet of butterscotch or home-made toffee +would be much more to their taste...." + +Estelle laughed. + +"I took the Handelle children out last week," she said. "Their mother +asked me to--you remember you took me once there to sing and she's been +kind to me--and we went on the top of a 'bus, and had tea at Lyon's, +bought flowers at Piccadilly Circus, and oh, they did enjoy themselves, +but Lady Eva was quite shocked." + +"Oh, Estelle, thank you." Esme came back, radiant in clinging black, +the emeralds shining at her bare throat, a big hat framing her face. + +Hugh Carteret came just then. An old man, deep lines of sorrow drawn on +his face, shrinking visibly from any allusion to his loss, suffering +from the grief which finds no relief in words. He was cold before +Esme's gush of greeting, looked at her critically and made scant +response to her smiles. + +"It was so good of him to come, they were hidden away down here. And +oh, they did want to change and get a house farther west." + +"Why not then?" Hugh Carteret asked. + +"The dreadful rents," Esme answered. "We can't afford it. And we _do_ +want to move. The flat is so stuffy, so small." + +"It seems big enough for two," Colonel Carteret answered, looking hard +at Esme. "Of course, if you had children I could understand." + +"Oh, we couldn't afford children," she said, flinging a wistful note in +her voice. And one not altogether feigned, for as she spoke she +remembered the boy who was growing strong in the nursery at Grosvenor +Square. + +"Mrs Gresham," announced the maid. + +"I'd no idea it was a party." Colonel Carteret looked at his black +clothes and spoke reproachfully. + +"It wasn't. Dollie Gresham was not asked, uncle." + +Dollie made it plain in a minute. She knew Esme was at home; she'd +asked the maid and she came along. + +"It's about a bazaar, Esme. I want someone to help me to get one up for +that new little hospital. Denise Blakeney would help Susie Handelle. +We'd run it, you and I." + +Through an elaborate, expensive lunch old Colonel Carteret was almost +silent. The _vol au vent_ of truffled chicken had given way for forced +fruit before Estelle got him to talk to her. He thawed before her +gentle voice, a shy, troubled old man, numbed still by his loss. His +boys had been his all. He could not realize that they had left him. He +had saved, planned, improved for Cyril and George; now mechanically, +because the places were there, he carried it on. He had seen very +little of Esme; until his boys' deaths he had been wrapped up in them, +never mixing in Society. Now he looked at the expensive flowers in +Venetian glasses; he tasted elaborate made dishes, forced fruits, ices, +and once or twice he shook his head as if at some inward thoughts. + +Dollie Gresham chattered of her bazaar. It was just the time for one, +they would start it at once. Restlessly energetic, she went to the +telephone after luncheon, rang up Denise Blakeney. + +"Yes, Denise will help sell. Only think, Esme"--this after a long +pause--"Sir Cyril's given her another car, and that diamond pendant of +old Lady Gilby's, you know, the one he was selling. Since that boy +came"--Dollie hung up the receiver--"Denise gets all she wants, and a +great deal more. She is simply, tiresomely happy, adores dear Cyril, +and has a convenient memory for the past. _Tiens_, such is life." + +Esme's face was set, sullen, as she listened. Denise had everything. +Denise was not generous; there were so many things which she could have +given, yet the very tie between the two women seemed to destroy their +old friendship. + +In the flower-decked, richly-furnished little drawing-room old Hugh +Carteret talked to Estelle. He looked bewildered, puzzled. + +"Bertie told me they were not rich," he said. "Yet the place seems to +me to be almost too luxurious, that they lack nothing." + +"I think"--Estelle fidgeted a little, her grey eyes distressed--"that +Esme is very young, that she perhaps grasps at things, so to speak, +perhaps spends a little more than she ought to." + +"I am a judge of wines." Hugh Carteret nodded. "The hock was one of the +best, the old brandy cost fourteen or fifteen shillings a bottle, the +port was vintage. I tasted them all." He shook his head again. + +Esme, coming in, sat by him, tried every trick she knew of winning +glance and smile. But her childish charm had left her; she could only +hark back to her poverty, to her want of money, and each half-veiled +appeal left the old man silent. + +"You present-day women want too much," he said quietly. "You won't be +content. You live too much for yourselves; if you had children now"--he +stopped, his voice breaking. "I tell you what," he said, "if you are +really hard up you can have Cliff End rent free. It's lovely there, +close to the sea, and the staghounds to hunt with." + +Esme knew where it was, an old house croaking on the cliffs of Devon, +near a country town, a place without society, without amusements. She +shivered. + +"It would be too big for us," she said, trying to speak gratefully. +"Far too large to keep up; but thank you greatly, dear uncle." + +"And too far from shopland," he said in his shy, shrewd way. "Yes, +well, my dear, it was a mere idea." + +"He'll do nothing for us, old miser," Esme flung out in anger almost +before the old man had left. "He is hateful, Bertie, your old uncle." + +"Perhaps, looking round him, he does not think there is much to be +done," said Bertie, drily. "I am very fond of old Uncle Hugh." + +They drove up to Grosvenor Gate, strolled into the Park--the April day +had tempted people out there; the beds were a glory of wall-flowers and +spring bulbs. A green limousine, purring silently, pulled up close to +them. Esme turned swiftly; it held Lady Blakeney and the nurse, who +carried an elaborately-dressed bundle of babyhood. + +"Wait here." Denise, jumping out lightly, ran across to speak to +friends. She was radiant, brilliant in her happiness, a woman without +sufficient brain to feel remorse. + +"Oh, Mrs Stanson, let me see him." + +Esme went to the side of the car; she had not dared lately to go up to +the nursery at Grosvenor Square. Denise had forbidden it. + +Mrs Stanson got down, holding the rosy, healthy boy; he chuckled, his +blue eyes blinking, a picture of contented, soft-fleshed, mindless +life. His mittened fingers closed round Esme's as she looked into his +face. Hers this healthy atom--hers, and Denise was rich, happy, +contented because of him, while she, his mother, wanted everything. + +"What a lovely mite." Bertie Carteret bent over the smiling baby. "He's +got eyes of your colour, Esme, true forget-me-nots." + +"Yes. You do mind him well, nurse. Her ladyship--" + +"It was great coaxing to get her ladyship to bring him out to-day," the +woman said carelessly. "She's not like you, Mrs Carteret; she doesn't +like these small things." + +"Oh, yes, Esme"--Denise came back--"looking at the Baa. He's a fine +specimen, isn't he? Cyril gives him this car for himself, and a new one +to me. Come and see me soon, won't you? Lancaster Gate, Hillyard--Lady +Mary Graves's house. Bundle in that infant, Mrs Stanson, and if he +cries I get out." + +The car glided on. Esme watched it going, with a sullen anger at her +heart; she had to clench her hands to keep quiet. Did Denise never +think? Had she no gratitude--no conscience--no regret for her +successful fraud? None, it would seem. + +"Esme, you look quite white." Dollie Gresham's spiteful little giggle +rang out close by. "Are you coming on to play bridge with me?" + +"Not to-day, Dollie. I've a shocking headache. I'll go home and rest." + +"It must be bad," said Dollie, "to take you to your fireside. Was the +sight of that wonderful son and heir too much for you?--that Bayard +among babies? _Sans peur et sans reproche._" + +"You do look seedy, child." Bertie took Esme to the gate and drove her +back. + +She lighted the gas stove--the flat teemed in labour-saving +annoyances--and sat by it, the heat making the perfume of the flowers +almost overpowering. + +Bertie got her hot tea, sat with her, some of the old loving +comradeship springing up between them. + +"That little chap made me envious, Es," he said, after a long silence. + +"Bertie--surely you wouldn't like a child?" Esme's voice rang shrilly. +"Surely you wouldn't. Coming to disturb us, crippling us!" + +"People manage," he said slowly. "They manage. We could have gone out +of London, lived more quietly. Every man wants his son, Butterfly; they +are selfish people, you know." + +"You'd like one?" The shrillness died out of Esme's voice, it grew +strained. + +"And after all better spend money on a little chap than waste it on +Holbrook's wines and old brandies," he said. "Yes, it's the one thing +I've wanted, Es--just to make our lives perfect. Monsieur, Madame, et +Bebe; marriage is never quite right until the third comes to show a +selfish pair what their fathers and mothers gave up for them." + +"I thought two people were so much happier alone." Esme stared into the +glowing, companionless fire, with no crackle of coal or hiss of wood, +but the modern maid objects to blacking grates. + +"Well, sweetheart, some day you'll know better," he said, "perhaps." +The maid brought in the evening paper, laying it on the table. + +"Esme!" Bertie Carteret jumped up. "Young De Vinci is dead--dead of +pneumonia." + +Death of the Earl of De Vinci on the eve of his marriage. Then Esme +caught the paper. "Is Uncle Hugh next heir--didn't you tell me so?" + +"Uncle Hugh is Lord De Vinci, and if he does not marry again, a remote +contingency, I'm the next heir. A son, Esme, is a necessity now." + +Esme put the paper down. Her son, heir to a title, was at Sir Cyril +Blakeney's house and she could not claim him. + +"Bertie"--she walked restlessly about the room--"I heard such a strange +story the other day, a woman who did something hideously dreadful +and--was afraid to tell." + +"Deceit is the one thing I could never forgive," said Carteret, firmly. +"I'd put a woman away, even if it broke my heart, if I found out that +she had done anything mean or had deceived me." + +Esme grew white, for hers was a plot which no man could forgive. She +had sold her son for a paltry allowance, for the right to amuse herself +in peace. + +"I wonder if old Uncle Hugh will do anything for us now," she said in a +strained, bitter voice. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +"This bazaar," said Dollie Gresham, cheerily, "is humming. I have not +been asked about as much as I should like to be lately; people forget +poor little nobodies. The Duchess is giving her patronage, _entre +nous_. Mavis Moover will dance for me--joy for her Grace of Boredom! +Oh, I've got heaps and heaps of people! We are secretaries, and +cashiers, and so forth, and we shall all wear flower dresses. Our stall +shall be forget-me-nots. The Duchess chose tulips; she said she had a +black silk gown and she knew there was a tulip of that colour. We shall +be audaciously beautiful in sky blue, rather short." + +Esme had rushed into this new scheme. + +"It won't cost much, will it?" she asked. + +"Secretaries, workers, _cherie_," prattled Dollie, "have all expenses +paid. All frocks, frills, etc.; they give their valuable time. Come +with me to Claire's. She is at least original." + +Dollie's maid brought in two cards. Mrs Gresham frowned over them. + +"The tiresome secretary of the hospital," she said, "and Canon Bright, +one of the founders. Look charitable, Esme." + +Next moment, all smiles, she greeted a kindly-looking, middle-aged man +and a grey-haired clergyman; a stern-faced, clear-eyed man, who made +this hospital for little suffering children his hobby. + +They overwhelmed Dollie with thanks. + +"This debt"--Canon Bright took out some notes of figures--"was weighing +us down. Now, with your help, it will be paid off, and we shall have +something besides to go on with, to buy sorely-needed appliances." + +"Oh, of course," said Dollie, vaguely. + +"We were looking for some kind lady or society to take it up; +fortunately you met Mr Lucy at luncheon." + +"Yes; that put it into my head," said Dollie, brightly. "Bazaars are so +paying; this is my friend and sister secretary, Mrs Carteret. I've got +every big name in London, Canon, or half of them. Oh, it will be a +great success. We've taken the hall. We're all going to be summer +flowers. 'The Summer Flower Bazaar,' such a good name, isn't it?" + +Mr Lucy nursed his hat. "You won't let the expenses mount, Mrs +Gresham," he said, "will you? Once they begin to swell our cripples +would lose. You'll let me help you with the accounts. It's my _metier_, +you see, and I could help you." + +Dollie chilled visibly. She preferred to do it all herself, she said. +"We really want to _work_," she went on, smiling again. "After all, +it's quite simple. We have all our cheques paid in and we pay the exes +and hand you the balance. We'll work it up like anything. You get all +your people to come, Canon--all your charitable friends. The dear +little cripples," cooed Dolly--"so nice to help them." + +"Tiresome, muddling pair," she snapped when the two men had left. "Come +to Claire's, Esme. I owe her two hundred, but these flower dresses will +cool her rage, and she'll know we'll pay for this lot all right." + +Claire received them dubiously, then thawed to the order for the +bazaar. If Mrs Gresham could get her the carnation order also, Lady +Louisa's stall, and the roses. Forget-me-nots, by the way, were spring +flowers. + +Oh, it didn't matter. Clouds of gauze, blue satin, wreaths of flowers +stiffened with turquoises, shoes, stockings. Dollie ordered lavishly. + +"That Estelle girl shall help," Esme said. "She is the kind of person +who'll open boxes and get dusty and save us trouble. By the way, what +shall we sell? Not tea. One has to run about. Sweets, I should think, +and buttonholes." + +"We are not distinguished enough for buttonholes," said Dollie, +decidedly. "When Adolfus or Gargie buys a white pink for five shillings +he likes to tell mamma and his lady friend that the Countess of +'Ighlife pinned it in with her own fingers, Vilet, her very own. Dolfus +does not seem to realize that the use of other people's would be +confusing. No, let it be sweets. Chocolates will show off our blue +frocks." + +Bertie Carteret found himself left more and more alone. Esme was always +feverishly busy, always just going on somewhere, chasing pleasure, +growing thinner in the pursuit, using just a little more rose bloom, a +little extra powder to hide jaded lines and fading colour. + +At the end of May Bertie paid his household bills again and knew that +they were far too large. No extravagance seemed to have been curtailed; +if they had not lunched or dined so often at home, he had paid for a +score of meals at fashionable restaurants. Esme's careless demands for +a few pounds for cabs were endless. + +"I can't do it," he muttered, writing his cheques. "I can't get on." + +A plea to Esme would only make her sullen, irritable, railing at her +poverty, muttering against poor marriages. + +"I--oh, you are alone. I've brought the book which Esme asked me for." +Estelle Reynolds came on Bertie as he sighed over his bills. "And the +pearls she left to be mended." + +She put down a new novel on the table, one barred by libraries. Esme +would look at it, probably forget to finish it, unless she thought she +found any of her friends were pilloried between the flaring green +covers. + +Estelle put down a receipt with the pearls, one for two pounds. Bertie +looked at the amount. + +"Has Esme paid you?" he asked. + +"Oh, no, it does not matter--any time." Estelle blushed. "I can ask +her." + +"I wonder"--he turned--"how much she has let you pay, this careless +wife of mine. For the future, Estelle, bring anything to me." + +"You seem to have enough to pay for." Estelle pointed to a pile of +books and cheques. + +"Too much! More than I can manage. Estelle, is nothing of value unless +it costs money? Must one always lunch and dine and sup with people +whose daily income equals our half-yearly one? Can a woman ever look +well in a frock which costs less than twenty pounds? Oh, one must go to +so-and-so--everyone does. Is there nothing simple left in life?" said +Bertie, drearily. "No pleasure in a corner of the country where a man +could pay his way honestly, and eat strawberries in June and peaches in +August?" + +"Is it as bad as that?" Estelle came to the table, glanced at some of +the books. + +She was a slight girl, with nothing but her grey eyes redeeming her +from mediocrity. + +Bertie Carteret sat opposite a full-length portrait of his wife. It was +tinted, showing her dazzling colouring, her rounded figure. It stared +at him with Esme's careless, joyous smile. Never yet, when he had +touched her, had the softness of her ivory neck, the warmth of her +white skin, failed to wake passion in him, make him wax to the heat of +love, melting and desiring. So she had won his heart when he met her in +the country, the beauty of a small military station, a doctor's +daughter, well born, but dowerless, bringing beauty alone as her +marriage portion. Her beauty, her joyous love of life, had won her a +niche in London Society. Friends had given her introductions, and Esme +had grown into the life as a graft grows to the parent stem. + +What poet has written that each woman is a flower with its +characteristics, its scent, or beauty? + +Was not this wife of his a gorgeous sunflower, turning her head to the +light and warmth of amusement, standing out among her fellows, dazzling +as she caught the light, a thing to look at and admire, but not to bend +one's face over drinking in a rare sweet perfume. + +Now that he sat thinking he knew there had been none of the intimacy of +married lovers; no scheming for their dual interests, no planning of +some little trip to be taken together, none of the talks which wed man +and woman more surely than the service ordained by law. Nothing but +love and laughter. Together, with the world shut out, Bertie must not +talk of ordinary things, but of Esme. She would lean against him, +exquisite, perfect, silken draperies merely veiling her long, rounded +limbs, and he must talk of her alone. Tell her again and again how +beautiful she was; find new perfection in her golden hair, her bright +cheeks, the curves of her beauty. + +Then in the mornings, when there was an hour before they need get up, +when Esme had put on a lace cap and got into some soft-hued wrapper, +she would chatter gaily, but never of their future, of the home which +Bertie, man-like, dreamt of; but of the day's doings, of luncheon and +tea and dinner and theatre, of flying from place to place, from friend +to friend. + +"The Holbrooks are sending their small car for me to do my shopping in; +aren't they kind, Bert? Lady Sue sent us a big basket of fruit +yesterday for my little dinner. We've such heaps to do, Bertie, +to-day--such heaps!" + +She would stretch her warm limbs in the luxurious joy of being alive, +the joy of youth and strength and happiness. + +There were no kisses in the morning. Marie had already laved Madame's +face in scented water, and rubbed in Madame's face cream to prepare her +skin for its light dust of powder. + +Sometimes, half shyly, Bertie would try to talk of the future, say they +could not always live in the army. + +"There are such dear little places to be found, Es"--he used to study +advertisements--"just big enough. We could keep a horse or two, a +garden--be so happy!" + +"And become cabbages ourselves. Play bridge with the parson and his +wife, and go to summer tennis-parties with two men and forty maids. +London, my Bertie, it's the only place for poor people. The country is +all very well if you need never stay there, but to grow rooted to +garden soil! Boo! I'll get you on! You shall be a General and inspect +armies." + +Bertie gave up his dream of a little house in the country; he got used +to the careless, ever-moving life. And now he sickened of it. + +If women were flowers, this woman standing near him was a violet, a +simple thing, only beautiful to those who love sweetness better than +flaring beauty. + +"You're worried," she said. "Where is Esme?" + +"Esme is out for the day," he said. + +"Then you've often promised me an outing. Come and be a cheap tripper +with me; let it be my treat. I got a cheque from mother yesterday. I'm +rich. Let's pretend we're very poor, and enjoy ourselves. You mustn't +sit there brooding." + +Bertie put away the books, laughed up at the gentle face. He would, but +he must pay half. + +The May day was theirs; they would enjoy it as two children. + +They would take a 'bus, lunch, go to the White City, see how economy +can be practised. + +They lunched at a little restaurant in Germain Street, studying the +menu with puckered brows, taking omelette and a grill which they could +share, and biscuits and cheese, and light white wine. + +The amount of a bill which would not have covered tips at the Berkeley +or the Ritz was gaily paid. + +Bertie saw a new side to Estelle's character; the childish power of +enjoyment. Take a taxi? No! Taxis were for the rich. They sat on the +top of a motor 'bus, going down roaring Piccadilly. + +Esme, coming to the door of the Berkeley, happened to look up at the +packed mass of humanity seated on the monster's head. + +"Bertie!" she flashed out, mockingly, "and the South African girl. +Bertie happily saving his pennies and seeing London. Oh! how funny." + +She forgot that a year ago she had often gone in a 'bus with him. + +There were only taxis in the world for her now, or motors. The little +electric carriages were so cheap to hire. Esme's bill at the nearest +garage was running up rapidly. "It was such a 'bore' to look for a taxi +in the evenings; this was ready and took one on to supper or ball, and +back again, and cost very little more," she would say. + +Bertie had not seen his wife. He sat enjoying the sunshine, looking +down at the packed streets, as the 'bus slipped through the +traffic--past Grosvenor Gate, on to the London which is not London to +Society, but merely "down in Kensington," into the vast grounds of the +Exhibition, to play as children might have played. To rock on +switchbacks, taking the front seat for the heart-sinking glides and +dips; to come foolishly down watershutes; to slide on mats round +perilous curves; to go and laugh at themselves in ridiculous mirrors. +And then with an aftermath of seriousness to look at the quaint +buildings of Shakespeare's time, and talk of the dead master of the +drama. + +Estelle had read every play; she could quote aptly, talk of those which +she had seen. + +"He had one fault," she said. "His good women were mawkish fools; his +villainesses splendidly lovable. It was the spirit of the age, no +doubt, that to be good one must be a mere loving nonentity, that brains +led the feminine world to destruction." + +If the world would but hang out warnings to the blind mortals who +scurry through its maze, seeking for openings, or shouting, laughing, +as they go; if we knew that an hour hence our life's history would +change, and that a refusal to go to lunch, a turning up one corner +instead of another, would leave it as it was, would it be better for us? + +If Bertie Carteret, talking eagerly, almost boyishly, with a new +interest in words, had realized that the turnstile of the Exhibition +was taking him into a land of pain and regret, would he have seen the +warning, laughed, or turned back? He had passed through it now; his +feet were set on the path. + +They drank tea out of blue-and-white Japanese cups, with sight-seers +all round them. Esme would have shuddered at the place, absolutely +refused to take tea with milk in it, and with such impossible people +about her. + +Estelle enjoyed it; the day was still theirs as they dined at the same +little restaurant with the same waiter, his memory sharpened by +Bertie's surreptitiously large tip, rushing to find a table for them. + +Weariness made economy less rigid; the little dinner they picked out +was simple, but not for poor people. Since men in morning coats may not +appear in respectably expensive seats, they climbed high at a theatre, +looking down at the stage far below them; the brilliant mass of colour +in the stalls; the rows of perfectly-dressed women's heads; of +men's--sleek and generally thin of hair. Parties strolled into boxes, +late for half an act, carelessly looking at the play on the stage. + +"There's Esme! See!" + +Esme came into one of the larger boxes with Dollie Gresham, Jimmie Gore +Helmsley; a couple of soldiers; and then at the last, pretty Sybil +Chauntsey, gesticulating as she ran in, everyone laughing at something +she said. + +"I wish"--Bertie looked gravely at the group--"that Sybil Chauntsey +would keep away from that Helmsley man. He's no child's guide." + +It was Jimmie's party. He had telephoned to Esme to chaperone it. They +were supping at the Ritz afterwards. Little Sybil had been engaged; she +had run in telling them of her many difficulties before she could get +away. At a small dance to-night one man would look for a partner who +would never come. + +Estelle was tired when the theatre was over; it was hot up there above +the dress circle. She pointed to her morning dress and refused supper. + +"We'll have some at home then. Esme may be back. The economy must end +at twelve. I'll drive you home in a taxi." + +They came to the flat to find it silent, shut up. Esme was not coming +home until three or four. A few sandwiches stood ready for her, but +Bertie would have none of them. He could cook; there were chafing +dishes downstairs. Together they raided the trim larder, to find +nothing but cold beef and eggs and butter. But how they laughed as +Bertie scrambled the eggs, and did it skilfully, if he had not put in +pepper twice, and Estelle grilled slices of beef in boiling butter, and +dusted them with curry powder; then they heated cold potatoes and +carried up their hot dishes, with bread and butter and plates. + +Estelle said she adored pepper, as she burnt her throat with scrambled +eggs. Bertie concealed the fact that the beef was corned; the potatoes, +hot by the time the eggs and beef were finished, were excellent. +Estelle made coffee. + +They cleared up at last, washing dishes, putting things away, going +home together on a cool summer's night in a crawling growler. + +Esme's new maid, looking in once, had slipped away unseen. + +A foolish, childish day; a glimpse of how two people may enjoy +themselves in the vast mother city of the world, away from where the +golden shower of wealth rains so heedlessly, where cost is the hallmark +of excellence, and a restaurant which is not the fashion of the moment +is impossible. + +As they said good-bye on the doorstep--Estelle had her key--Bertie held +her cool, slender hands in his; asked her if she would spend a day out +of London with him. "Down in Devonshire," he said, "at Cliff End. I +have to go there soon. We can go early. Your aunt will not mind." + +"Oh, not with you," said Estelle, simply. "She knows it is all right." + +He felt a little pang at the words--a pang he could not understand. It +was right that she should trust herself with him; he was married and a +mere friend; yet the little vexed feeling in his heart was the warning +held up by the gods. + +Bertie walked back--a long walk along quiet streets with great London +brooding in her silent might. Sometimes he passed a house lighted up, +red carpeting on its steps, rows of carriages and motors waiting; women +in rich cloaks coming out, their faces weary behind their smiles. +Sometimes strange birds of the night flitted past. Other women, +painted, weary as their rich sisters behind their set smile of +invitation, going home alone, abandoning search for foolish prey. Men, +evil-faced, furtive, glanced at him, standing to watch if the "toff" +would turn into some unfrequented narrow street. Gleams of white shirt +front as men of his class strolled to their rooms or lodging, their +black cloaks flapping back to show the evening dress underneath. A few +tipsy, foolish boys, lurching along looking for trouble. The big clubs +were still lighted, their warm wealth behind their great windows. On to +"down at Kensington," to the great pile of the flats towering to the +soft blue sky. + +A little electric carriage rolled noiselessly past him. Esme got out. A +man's voice said "Good-bye." It was one of the soldiers whom he had +seen in the box. He heard some words of parting, then Esme's careless, +heart-whole laugh. They were on the second floor; he heard her exclaim +as she saw the lights all up: + +"How careless of someone." + +She was brilliantly dressed; something of black and silver, clinging, +graceful, billowing out round her feet; there were diamonds in her fair +hair, a new necklace on her soft white throat. She shivered a little, +turning on the fire, filling herself a glass of brandy from the +decanter, pouring in a little Perrier. + +"I was the careless one, Esme. I forgot them." + +"But you have only just come in," she said. + +"I was in and went out again. You look tired, Esme." + +The morning light, stealing in through the drawn curtains, was blue and +searching. It showed the powder on her cheeks, the line of the +deftly-applied carnation bloom; it made her a little haggard, older +than her twenty-five years. + +"Yes, I'm tired," she yawned. "I thought you would be asleep." She +lighted a strong cigarette. "I'm tired. We had supper at the Ritz and +went on to Sue's ball. She had a new necklace, a beauty! She's just got +an electric landaulette. Heigho! I'm tired of being poor--of pinching." + +"You came home in an electric landaulette, Butterfly," Bertie smiled at +her, but it was a mirthless smile. + +"Oh! I'll pay for them myself," she flashed out ill-humouredly. "I +can't hunt for taxis. I--" she stopped. Bertie allowed her a hundred a +year for small things, pocket-money; she must make him think she saved +out of that. + +"And new diamonds." He touched the necklace glittering on the soft +white flesh. + +"Paste," she said, "paste. The thing only cost ten pounds. I had +nothing decent to wear." + +Until one took up the necklace one could not guess--see the solid +backing. It was a brilliant thing; the workmanship perfect; but it had +cost five times ten pounds. + +Bertie bent to kiss the soft, warm flesh; slipped his arm round the +supple shoulders. + +"Come! I'll put you to bed," he whispered; "be your obedient maid, +Butterfly." + +"Susan will come, I told her to. Go to the little room, Bertie. I sleep +so badly and anything disturbs me. I've heaps to do to-morrow." + +He took his arm away, his ardour chilling, and went out without a word. +Susan, sleepy but attentive, came in; put Madame to bed; washed the +soft skin free of powder and paint; brought a little glass to the +bedside. + +"Madame's drops. Madame might not sleep." + +Crystal clear, tasteless, soothing, bringing dreamless, heavy sleep; a +slide of treachery down which women slip to ill-health and worse. +Already, at five-and-twenty, Esme was taking chloral. + +The Society Bazaar began to take shape, to approach the days of its +holding. Gorgeous gowns of satin and gauze and lace were fashioned for +fair debutantes and pretty matrons. + +Sweets, china, baskets; the hundred and one things which no one wants +and which they must buy at three times the value when ordered. + +The Duchess of Boredom would sell baskets. Dollie suggested an idea of +diamond-like brilliancy: "Tie a card to every one: + + 'The Duchess of Boredom, + Boredom Court,' + +with just a letter 's' and 'stall' in the corner. Everyone suburban in +the room will rush for those baskets, and shop with them for months to +come, forgetting, of course, to take off the card. It's perfect," said +Dollie, "if she'll do it." + +"Or you might have some made in the shape of strawberry leaves," said +Bertie, gravely. + +The Duchess did not object to her card being used. She was willing to +order some hundreds of cards for the sake of charity. + +"The Bazaar, of course, paying my stationers," said the Duchess, +severely. + +There were sweet stalls, where pretty notabilities, for five shillings +extra, would sign their names on the boxes. + +There was a stall kept by great actresses, who sold their autographs +and their photographs, and buttonholes of rosebuds and carnations. + +There were side shows, cafe chantants, everything to take money from +the public. + +"For the tiny crippled children. Help them." Children selling flowers +and sweets, dressed all in pale pink, crowned with rosebuds, carried +little cards on their heads, with these words printed. + +"Let us be nothing if not sentimental," said Dollie, looking round the +hall. Dull green gave background to the flower dresses; dull green on +stalls and against the walls. Royalty had promised to be present. It +was a great affair. + +"It will buy tweeds," said Dollie. "It always does. And baskets, and +sweets for the hospitals. And it--the male part of it--won't be allowed +any of the photographs it wants from the stage stall." + +A great bazaar, which a minor Royalty graciously declared open, and +then remembered an engagement; its royal purse was sparsely supplied. + +All Society seemed to be assisting, but Suburbia flocked to it, and in +the evening Shopland would render gallant support. + +"For the tiny crippled children; see the lovely dears," said Mrs Harris +to Mrs Smith of Clapham. "What's your name, little love, now?" + +"Pollie Laverdean," a small mite of eight raised dark liquid eyes. "Buy +somefin', p'ease." + +"Lady Marrianne," whispered a better-informed friend. "The Countess of +Gardenia's eldest--ain't she sweet?" + +"An' to call her plain Pollie. My! my!" murmured the friend. + +Mrs Smith and Mrs Harris bought two small china dogs at five shillings +each, and a box of shilling chocolates at the same price. + +The Duchess's baskets went as snow before the sun. + +Lady Lila Blyth and her lovely daughters sold flowers freely. The names +of the assistants were written plainly over each stall--another idea of +Dollie's. + +Lady Lila Blyth, Miss Eva Blyth, Miss Lulu Blyth; Lady Eliza O'Neill; +Mrs Holmes; the Marquess of Tweesdale; Lord Rupert Scot; the Earl of +Domomere. + +Brilliantly handsome in her blue gown, Esme sold chocolate and dragees +and crystallized fruits. + +Canon Bright had worked hard to help; got flowers and fruit sent in +great quantities. He and the little secretary came now through the +stalls. + +"It's splendid," he said to Dollie; "the stores near us sent a box of +stuff to your stall." + +"Oh, yes, thanks awfully! Is it there, Esme? We haven't opened it yet. +When these shop things are sold we will." + +"But," the Canon picked up a huge guinea box of fruits, stickily +alluring, "you've had to buy all these, haven't you?" + +"Yes, and you see it wouldn't be fair if we didn't sell quite a lot of +these things as we get them at a reduction. But we'll open the box; the +children can sell the things." + +Going on to Lady Lila's stall, a mass of carnations and roses and sweet +peas, the secretary asked for the gifts of flowers. The Canon had +begged from half his county. + +The same vague look. "Oh, all these hampers and boxes. You see, these +were in and the florist's people arrange and settle them for us. We'd +have to bunch all these others, wouldn't we? Oh, of course, they'd be +clear profit, but one cannot wait for chance gifts, can one? One must +be ready." + +Baskets of dewy rosebuds, of white pinks, sweet peas, of carnations lay +withering behind the stalls. The florists had decked the tables, would +do the same to-morrow. One could not bother with piles of things loose +in baskets. + +Canon Bright, used to humble county bazaars, where every gift was +welcomed, could not understand it. + +He bought lavishly. He looked with a smile which was almost wistful at +the mites who fluttered about the thronged hall, their notices held up +by wires above the crowns of roses. + +"For the tiny crippled children." They rattled their little bags of +money as they sold their goods. + +"Fink there are any crippled children?" said Lady Pollie to her friend +the Honourable Anne Buller. + +"No fear! They's all kept in big places in beds. It's just fun for us +an' Mumsie. She loves her yellow dress; she's a rose too, Mumsie is. +Who gave you the gold piece, Pollie?" + +"The fat man there; he said I was a sufferin' angel, or perhaps it was +'nother long word. Let's go an' eat ices or strawberries." + +Money pouring into cash boxes; sovereigns for buttonholes; notes for +foolish trumpery. + +Royalty, gracious, really charitable, came in the afternoon, made its +way through the crush which thronged to watch it, bought lavishly but +sensibly, spoke kindly to stall-holders, honoured Dollie and Esme with +special notice. + +"I hear you got it all up. So good of you. It is one of the hospitals +most needed. We went there last week." + +Small Royalty carries off a box of sweets with the glee of extremely +natural childhood; a merry mite; far more simply brought up than shrewd +little Lady Pollie. _She_ knew that there were real crippled children, +wan, stunted products of the slums, tended and made happy, perhaps +cured, in that struggling hospital. She had seen them in their little +blue jackets, looking eagerly at her kindly mother and at her as they +went from bed to bed. They passed through a curtseying crowd, bought, +went on to tea, gracious, kindly people. + +"They've simply made it," Esme said. "What a crowd we have. A charming +box of sweets. Yes. Souvenir of the Bazaar--boxes specially made--one +guinea. Too much? There's a small one for ten shillings; but the +Princess took one of the others. Thank you! The big one? Oh, Captain +Gore Helmsley--buy sweets?" + +Jimmie, darkly handsome, his years disguised by careful grooming, +strolled by. He stopped to say, laughing, that his digestion could not +assimilate chocolates and dragees. Sybil Chauntsey, a glowing little +nasturtium, her brown beauty set off by brilliant yellow, came hurrying +up, young Knox with her; he had come up to try again. She was selling +buttonholes, helping at one of the flower stalls. + +"I'll buy a flower though," Jimmie turned quickly. + +"I've only one left," Sybil said, "this yellow carnation. Captain Knox +wants it. I was just coming for a pin. Mine have all dropped. It's five +shillings." + +"I'll give you ten," Helmsley said. "Touch it with your lips it shall +be a pound." + +"Two," said Knox, sharply. + +"An auctioneer!" Esme clapped her hands. "Well done, Sybil. Come, +Captain Helmsley." + +"Four!" said Helmsley, carelessly. + +"Five!" + +A little crowd gathered. Sybil, glowing, laughing, her childish vanity +touched by this piece of vulgar advertisement. In her gay yellow and +red-striped gown she stood holding up the flower; the nasturtium's +head-dress was a hood of vivid green, opening over mock flower petals. + +"Six!" + +"Seven!" + +"Ten!" said Jimmie, carelessly. "Come, that's a fair price for a +flower--but I'll go on." + +Young Knox stopped bidding suddenly, his face growing white. He watched +Sybil, laughing brightly, kiss the flower, saw Jimmie Helmsley touch it +covertly with his lips where her soft red ones had lain, and hold out +the yellow bud to be fastened on. + +"I win the flower," he said mockingly. + +"One moment." Young Knox bent close to Sybil. "I'll say good-bye. It's +not quite my game--this. But if you ever want me, remember I'm there, +as I told you before. Good-bye." + +The glow died out of Sybil Chauntsey's face; her fingers trembled as +she fastened in the flower and took her five pound notes. + +Helmsley walked on with her. Would she come to tea? He had a big box of +sweets for her. Wouldn't she have them? + +Sybil woke up after a minute or two, grew feverishly gay with the +gaiety which cloaks sorrow; was almost noisy, her cheeks glowing, her +eyes glittering; took a dozen presents from Gore Helmsley: Venetian +beads, sweets, charms, bought at fabulous prices. + +"Poor chap, not to think your flower worth more than a tenner," +Helmsley had said in his mocking voice. + +The Great Charity Bazaar ran on wheels oiled by golden oil; the +cash-boxes filled. Kindly Canon Bright walked round it dreaming of the +debt which would be paid off his beloved hospital. Of instruments, of +comforts for the tiny sufferers, of the increased room which they could +make. + +Lord Boredom, very immaculately dressed, was helping his mother, but he +preferred taking a basket at a time round the hall than attending the +stall. Once he came back with a demure-looking young lady whom the +Duchess welcomed cordially as "My dear Miss Moover," making Sukey +Ploddy sniff loudly. + +But the sensation of the evening was when the Duchess was taken to the +Cafe Chantant to see on the white curtain the words: "Miss Moover, by +kind permission of the Magnificent Theatre." + +The Duchess went in. Miss Moover's dance was audacious, her draperies +shadow-like; she squirmed and twisted and bounded across the stage, +displaying the exquisitely-formed limbs which made London flock to see +her. She was agile, graceful, never exaggerated, full of the joy of +youth. + +From the Magnificent Theatre! The Duchess, breathing heavily, staggered +out, her black dress rustling. "A dancer! A _creature_!" + +"I shall never," she said, "countenance those Holbrooks again," and +with stony eyes she cut Luke deliberately and sent for her son. + +"It was unfortunate, my love," said Mr Holbrook, mildly, "the whole +idea." + +The big bazaar day died to change to a blaze of electric lights, to a +kaleidoscope of colour, of flower dresses, blue and yellow and pink and +white, blending and moving; of diners in the miniature Ritz Hotel and +other restaurants, eating luxurious meals. + +It began again next day, a cheaper, less select affair, with half the +assistants far too tired to come, and it ran through another day; a +huge spider sucking golden blood from innumerable flies. + +It was over at last; the stall-holders ate a merry supper; assistants +from the shops cleared away their goods; no one bothered much about it +all now. + +The Society papers would publish accounts and photographs, with Dollie +and Esme, charitable ladies, always in the most prominent place. + +Canon Bright and the secretary were jubilant at supper, thanking +everyone; they would call in a day or two. If Mrs Gresham would let +them, they would help her with the accounts. + +But Dollie told them pleasantly that she wanted no help as yet. + +A few days later she sat with Esme over piles of papers, totting +carelessly. + +"They've charged horribly for those sweets. Oh! and Claire's bill is +exorbitant!" She held it up. + +"It's double what it ought to be," said Esme. + +"H'm!" Dollie totted. "I want to pay her off. Just a little on to the +hall account, and to odd nothings, and there are a few extra gowns in +the price of the blue; that will make it right. One can't slave for +nothing," said Dollie. "You can get a couple of gowns, too. I arranged +that with her. It was worth it," said Dollie, "to stop the woman's +mouth." + +When cheques came in other people seemed to have found their expenses +equally high. London tradesmen charge highly for decorating, for +assistance. The golden coins paid out for charity went for glitter and +show, for gowns and waste. The Ritz had not paid its way. All +stall-holders lunched and dined free there. Hunt & Mason sent in a bill +of some size. + +In a month's time Dollie wanted it all to be forgotten; she sent a +cheque to the hospital with all her accounts carefully copied out. + +The secretary turned pale as he read the amount. "That!" he said, +"that--after it all! And now, for a year's time, if we appeal for +funds, people will say, 'But you've just had that bazaar; we went +there, bought lavishly, we cannot help again so soon.' + +"Miss Harnett," he said heavily to the matron, "we must give up all +idea of that west ward; we cannot afford it; or those new reclining +chairs and instruments." + +He wrote drearily, for his heart was in his work, to Canon Bright. + +"All such a splendid success," Dollie's friends had said to her, and +kindly Royalty, with its love of true charity, asked her to a select +garden-party. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +"I am going to Cliff End on Friday, Estelle. Will you come? We'll start +at eight, and get back about ten." + +"I'd love to. London is baking me." + +June heat glowed through the huge city; the pavements were hot under +the fierce sun; the air felt used up, heavy; the packed streets +vibrated under their load of wheeled monsters, of swooping, gliding +taxis. Everyone was going somewhere; busy, smiling, full of the +business of pleasure. Old faces were lined under powder and face cream; +young ones had lost their colour a little. + +Perfectly gowned, with hair in the order of the moment, faintly +scented, smiling, woman, hawk-like, swooped on her natural prey, man. +Soft debutantes, white-robed, hopeful, fluttered as they dreamt of the +matches which they might make. Anxious, youthful mothers spent their +all, and more, to give their girls a chance. Older girls smiled more +confidently, yet were less hopeful of drawing some great prize. + +There, walking along quietly in morning coat, a slouching, keen-eyed +young fellow; a flutter as he passes. + +"See, Audrey! Lord Golderly. Evie, bow; did you not see Lord Golderly?" + +Or from more intimate friends: "Sukey! There's Joss. Call him over! +He's thinner than ever! Mum! there's Jossy! Ask him to our little +dinner--he might come." + +The Marquis of Golderly, with eighty thousand a year, with a panelled +house in Yorkshire, a castle in Scotland, with Golderly House in +Piccadilly--let now to rich Americans--had strolled by. A +pleasant-looking, well-made boy, with his mind full of his new polo +pony, and not in the least interested in the Ladies Evie and Audrey, or +in his cousin Sukey. Some day he must marry, but not yet. + +Another flutter: a girl runs laughing to catch her toy pom, showing her +lithe, active limbs as she slips along. + +"There comes Sir Edward Castleknock," a little elderly man, his income +lately depleted by a white marble tombstone to his second wife, but he +has no heir; he must marry again, and he is a rich man. The youthful +mothers signal to him, stopping him carelessly, calling to their girls +as he stops. + +"Here's my little Evie, grown up, Sir Edward; you used to give her +sugared almonds. Makes one so ancient, doesn't it?" + +Evie musters a smile for the memory of sugared almonds. She says +something conventional with a show of excellent teeth. Sir Edward is +musical. Milady invites him to hear the dear child sing; to lunch on +Sunday--one-thirty--the old address. + +One mamma has got a start of her competitors; captured the widower as +he emerges from the sombre draped doors of his mourning. + +"To sing?" Lady Evie wrinkles a pretty nose. "Well, Mumsie, don't let +it get past 'Violets' and that French song; they are the only two dear +old Monsieur could ever get me to sing in tune." + +They work hard, these mothers, for their daughters, for what is life +without riches and places, and a niche in Society's walls? What waste +of bringing up, of French and German governesses, of dancing lessons +and swimming lessons, and dull classes, if Evie or Audrey merely +married some ordinary youngster, to disappear with him upon a couple of +thousand a year! + +So many competitors, so few prizes. The race is to the swift, and the +strong, and the astute; to the matron who knows not only how to seize +opportunity, but not to release it again until it puts a ring upon her +daughter's massaged hand. + +So Evie and Sue and Audrey must stifle the natural folly which nature +has placed in their fresh young hearts, and help "Mum" to the proud +hour when her daughter will count her wedding presents by the hundred, +and smile sweetly on the bevy of maidens who are still running in the +race. + +Some, without kindly, clever mothers, must fight for themselves, and in +the fight use strange methods to attain their prize. Crooked ways, +cut-off corners, wrong side of posts; yet they too smile quite as +contentedly if they win at the last. + +Young Golderly has been stopped a dozen times; he has seen sweet +smiles, caught flashing glances. Evie has called attention to her +lovely feet by knocking one against a chair. Audrey has whispered to +him that she _adores_ polo; will be at Hurlingham to-day. + +"To see you hit a goal," she coos; "oh! how I shall clap!" + +"She may be a little wild--my new pony," he says, his mind still full +of that piece of bay symmetry, a race-horse in miniature, and slips +away. Golderly had come to meet a friend who would have talked of +nothing but polo ponies; he has missed him, and the pretty runners of +the race strive and jostle until they bore him sadly. + +He turns to slip away, to get back to his club by a round across the +Park, and then gasps, smitten roughly, his hat bumping on to the path. + +"Oh, I'm so sorry. Blow these hobble skirts. Blow the things!" says a +girl's voice. + +Kitty Harrington, a big, clumsy maiden, freckles powdering her clear +skin. "A badly-dressed touzled young woman," is the verdict passed on +her. + +Kitty is having her season without any clever, youthful mother; she is +under the charge of her aunt, Lady Harrington, who does not take much +notice of her, and thinks the girl a foolish tomboy. + +"Snap was running out to where the motors are," says Kitty, +guilelessly, "and he might get hurt. We were doing a scamper on the +grass." + +Snap is a rough terrier of uncertain pedigree, unwillingly confined in +London. + +"He ties his lead round people's legs if I drag him through the crowd," +Kitty goes on. "So we keep away and make believe it's country. Oh! if +it was! And then this skirt tripped me." + +Young Golderly looks at her. A big, rather clumsy girl, but open-eyed, +fresh from eighteen years of country life; a girl who has learnt to +swim in the open sea; whose gymnastics have been practised up trees. + +"They are rotten things to try to run in," he says, smiling boyishly, +"those skirts. Haven't I met you somewhere? I'm Lord Golderly." Here he +pursues his hat, which Snap is treating as if it were a rat. + +"Oh! goodness! Oh! I have been clumsy." Kitty is all pink cheeks and +tearful eyes; she dabs them surreptitiously. "Oh! your poor best +hat--all torn! Oh! I am a clumsy girl--never meant for London. No, I +haven't met you. I'm Miss Harrington--Lady Harrington's niece." + +"I know her!" Jossy, master of eighty thousand a year, grins as he +examines his hat brim. "Are you going to the match to-day--to +Hurlingham?" + +"N--no," Kitty's lips droop. "Auntie's made up her party! And oh! I do +love polo. We play at home, the boys and I. I've such a pony! Have you +got a nice one?" + +"A nice one!" Young Golderly grins again; this girl is like a breath of +fresh country air blowing across the moorlands. Evidently his name +conveys nothing to her. + +"I've twenty," he says, laughing. + +"Oh, then you're rich! How jolly! If I were rich--" + +"Well?" he asks. + +Kitty puts her head on one side. + +"I'd have hunters; three of them, all my own. Not the boys', which I +borrow. And I'd have a motor and drive it; and give Mumsie a new fur +coat--hers is old. And I'd have otter hounds." + +"Oh, you like that too? Otter hunting," he says eagerly. + +"Oh, yes!" Kitty shows a set of strong even teeth. "It's so jolly up in +the early mornings when all the grass is washing in dew; and hunting up +the rivers; and the dogs working. And then isn't breakfast good?" says +Kitty, prosaically. "I'd cook mine on the river bank. I make fine +scrambled eggs, and I can toast bacon till it's just sumptuous." + +Of course Kitty can have no idea that Golderly has hunted a pack of +otter hounds for some years. + +The boy looks at her again. She is so fresh and natural and friendly. +The skin under her freckles is singularly fine; her eyes are bright, +her active figure at its worst in a ridiculous hobble skirt. + +"Say! I can't go back there," he nods towards the strolling crowd, "in +Snap's handiwork. Let's walk across the grass." + +"I want to get to Lancaster Gate. Right!" says Kitty, "we live there, +you know." + +As they go they talk of ponies and horses and terriers and otters and +tennis, and when they part young Golderly takes a brown, shapely, +gloveless hand in his and shakes it warmly. + +"Come to the match; come to see me play," he says. "I'll take you over +to the ponies and show you my beauties. You ought to come." + +Kitty rushes in to her aunt. "Auntie! get Hurlingham tickets somewhere. +You must!" And Kitty tells of her adventure. + +When a year later big Kitty marches sedately down the aisle of a +country church on the arm of her husband, a Marquis, she manages her +trailing skirts cleverly enough. + +A rank outsider, a creature not even mentioned in the betting; but a +letter from Kitty's dearest friend might prove that she need not have +tripped so grievously over her hobble skirt; while further experience +proved that she was lazy about otter hunting, and that behind the +ingenuous face lay a shrewd and far-seeing brain. The letter was to +"Dearest Kit." + +"Shame of Auntie May not to bother about you," it ran. "I met young +Lord Golderly at Marches Hall last week-end. He's just your sort--all +sport. Get to meet him somehow and talk horses--_polo ponies_ and +_otter hunting_; he's sick of Society." + +The future Lady Golderly carefully tore up that letter. + +Estelle Reynolds turned from watching the flow of life stream past her +to speak to Bertie Carteret. + +Estelle was a mere outsider there, knowing very few people--just a few +of Esme's friends. She liked to see them flutter up and down, meeting, +parting, always going on somewhere, always chattering of the hundred +things which they had got to do. + +"I should like to go to Cliff End," repeated Estelle. "The love of +London is not with me, though for two years, perhaps three, I must stay +here, until my mother comes from her travels, in fact." + +"Unless--you marry," Bertie said slowly. + +In some vague way the thought vexed him. + +Estelle laughed. "There is the curate," she said, "but I am not High +Church enough to please him. Yes, there is the curate. I am far too +ordinary and stupid for Esme's friends to look at me, and I meet no +others. My marriage must be deferred until we take up the house in +Northamptonshire, and then some country squire will suit me and not +notice my last year's frocks." + +"Not notice you," Bertie snorted. "Stupid young tailor's blocks, always +going on. You don't notice them." + +"Oh, they're not all stupid," Estelle said. "Mr Turner told me three +hands which he had played at bridge the night before, and had crushin' +luck in them all. He couldn't be stupid with that memory. How is Esme?" + +"Frightfully busy," Bertie laughed. "Her latest evening gown was not a +success. She is weighed down between the choice of pure white or pure +black for a new opera cloak. Someone is coming to lunch, and the new +cook's soufflets are weary things, given to sitting down. Also her ices +melt; and she cannot _saute_ potatoes; it is French for frying, isn't +it? Look here! come in old clothes, and we'll be babies and help to +make hay. This day is taken up by a luncheon, by tea at the Carlton, +dinner at the Holbrooks', an evening party. I have struck at two +dances, as I have to get up early." + +Esme had gone to Madame Claire's to storm over this new gown of golden +soft chiffon and silk. It dragged; it did not fit. She found Madame +Claire inaccessible. Mrs Carteret bought a few gowns, but my Lady +Blakeney was choosing six--two models, two copies, two emanating from +Madame Jane Claire's slightly torpid English brains. She had her +country's desire for buttons and for trimmings. + +But Denise's order was lavish; it meant petticoats, wraps to match; it +meant items of real lace. How then to spare sorrow because one golden +yellow evening gown ordered by a Mrs Carteret had been too hurriedly +finished. + +"Tell Madame that I am really pressed for time. Can she not spare me +five minutes?" + +Madame was with Lady Blakeney, very busy with an order, the forewoman +was also engaged. A slender young woman in black satin glided back with +the message. Would Madame call again later, make an appointment? Had +Madame seen one of the latest scarves? Quite charming, only five +guineas. Black satin dexterously whisked out a wisp of chiffon. "No! +Madame did not want a scarf." + +Denise was behind the strawberry silk curtains hiding in Madame's +sanctum. Esme felt hurt, sore. It was always Denise--always Denise. +She, Esme, was no one. + +She got up, looking at her tall, slight figure in one of the long +glasses; she grew flushed, angry. + +"I have not time to call again. Please tell Madame that the evening +gown is impossible, a strait-waistcoat. I was to have worn it to-night +at a dance. Now I must wear an old gown of Lucille's--which at least +fits." Esme flounced out, wiping the dust of the strawberry-hued +_salon_ from her tightly-shod feet. + +Half an hour later Madame Claire heard the message. + +"Alter it," she said carelessly. "Let it out. I expect she'll give me +up now. Send her her bill at once." + +The heat beat down in quivering waves. All London shopped, buying, +buying, since freshness lasted but for a few days, and one must not be +seen in a gown more than three or four times. + +Tinsels and chiffons and laces; feather ruffles; silks and crepes and +muslins; gloves and silken stockings piled up on the mahogany counters +for Society to buy. Subtle-tongued assistants lauded their wares; there +was always something which Madame had not dreamt of buying, but which +she suddenly discovered to be an absolute necessity. + +The flower-shops showed their sheaves of cut blossoms, long-stemmed +roses, carnations, lilies, pinks, monster sweet peas. Things out of +season nestled in baskets in the fruiterers. Wealth everywhere, gold or +promise of gold; electric motors gliding noiselessly. Slim youngsters +taking their morning stroll; brown-skinned soldiers up for a few days, +spending in shops behind windows which Madame and Mademoiselle passed +without a glance. The richest city in the world gathered its summer +harvest; and white-faced poverty, sometimes straying from their poor +country, looking on, dully, resentfully envious. Sewing-machines flew +in the sweltering heat, needles darted, rows of girls sat working +breathlessly, that great ladies might not be disappointed. + +"I must have that embroidered gown for the Duchess's party, Madame." + +"Certainly, milady, without fail." + +Then a visit to the workroom--a whisper to two pale girls. + +"You two must stay overtime to-night, get that dress finished. It +mustn't get out, either--be careful!" + +So, when their breath of air might be snatched, the two would stitch on +under the dazzle of electric light, drink strong tea and eat bread and +butter, and never dare to grumble, for there were fifty other girls who +could be taken instead of them. + +Esme strolled up Bond Street. She bought a ruffle which caught her +fancy; she stopped to talk to half a dozen people; but she strolled on, +her goal a soot-smirched square where a baby would be taking its airing. + +He was there, under his white awning, looking a little pale, a little +peaked, wilting in the heat. + +Mrs Stanson knew her visitor, smiled at her, never quite understood why +Esme came to the square so often. Esme asked for Denise first; she was +always careful to know that she was out before she came, then went into +the gardens. + +There was no air in it; the trees had no freshness; the grass looked +dull and unwholesome. + +"Isn't he very white, Mrs Stanson--peaky?" + +"He should be in the country," Mrs Stanson said. "Down where his +windows'd let in air at night and not the smuts from the chimneys. But +her ladyship--she thinks different; she hates the country. I saw little +Lord Helmington go in a hot summer because they wouldn't open +Helmington Hall to send him down there with me." + +"But he--Cyrrie--he won't go?" Esme caught at the small soft fingers, +moist with heat. A sudden fear gripped her heart. + +"Was Denise going to kill the boy? Of course she did not care." + +"Take care of him, Mrs Stanson. Oh! take care of him. I was there when +he was born, you know. I used to act nurse for him. Aren't there those +ozone things you hang up in bedrooms? Or, can't you get him away?" + +Esme hung over the baby, jealous of his little life, panting, afraid. + +Mrs Stanson had taken several gold pieces from the child's visitor. She +shrugged her plump shoulders. + +"Her ladyship doesn't care for children, Mrs Carteret, and that's the +truth. She says I fuss, talk nonsense. He don't even get a drive every +day, and Sir Cyril, he comes in, but he's her ladyship's husband. Hssh! +baby, hssh!" + +For little Cyril began to cry querulously, wrinkling his peaky face. + +Esme bent over him, crooning to him, her motherhood awake. Now she knew +her madness. For this was hers, and she would have sent him away to +breathe fresh air and grow into a big, strong man like Bertie. + +"It's a pity, mem, you haven't got one." The nurse lifted up the +fretful child. + +"It is--a pity." Esme's face was white and strained, the two patches of +rouge standing out; she looked grey, old. "Oh, it is a pity, nurse," +she swayed. + +"Laws! Mrs Carteret, you're ill. It's this cruel heat. Sit you there, +and I'll run in for salts or a little sal volatile." + +"No." Esme recovered herself. "No, nurse, thank you. It's only the +heat. Well, take care of him; and better not tell her ladyship that I +came over. She never likes my looking at the boy." + +Esme knew now--she knew what a fool she had been. How, snatching at her +ease, her comfort, her enjoyment, she had lost the boy who brought love +with him. There was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; she dared +not tell at this stage. Bertie would never forgive her. She might even +be denied, disproved, by some jugglery. + +She went heavily homewards, walking on the hot pavement. + +An electric limousine flashed by her; a smiling face bowed, a +white-gloved hand was waved. Denise was going home to luncheon. Bond +Street again, less crowded now. Esme saw a girl jump lightly from a +taxi, turn to smile at someone inside. It was Sybil Chauntsey; the taxi +passed Esme and pulled up; she saw Jimmie Gore Helmsley get out. + +Where had these two been so early? They had got out separately, as if +concealment were necessary. What a fool the girl was! What a fool! + +Esme hailed a taxi; she was lunching at the Ritz, had asked three +friends there. Bah! it would cost so much, and be over and forgotten in +an hour. + +With a smile set on a weary face, Esme drove on. She would snatch at +amusement more greedily than ever! + +At eight in the morning a great London station is fully awake, but not +yet stifling and noisy; the cool air of the night still lurks about the +platforms; the glass has not got hot; the early people are cool +themselves. + +Bertie was up early so as to call for Estelle; his taxi sped to the +quiet square where her aunt lived. A gloomy place, with tall houses +standing in formidable respectability, where grave old butlers opened +doors, and broughams and victorias still came round to take their +owners for an airing. + +Estelle was on the doorstep, cool and fresh, one of the few people who +can get up early without looking sleepy. + +They flew to Devonshire. + +"First class!" Estelle frowned as she saw her ticket. "Oh, Captain +Carteret!" + +"This is my day," he pleaded. "To be economical travelling one must be +economical in company. Come along." + +They had an empty carriage; going down to the restaurant for +breakfast--a little gritty as train breakfasts are, but excellent. + +London slipped away; they ran past lush meadows, past placid streams, +old farmhouses sheltered by trees. The countryside was alive with busy +workers. Steel knives cut the grass and laid it in fragrant swathes. +Steel teeth tossed it up through the hot, dry air. It was perfect +weather for saving hay, for gathering the early harvest. The earth +gives to us living, takes our clay to its heart when our spirits have +left it. + +The heat mists swept up slowly from the world; fairy vapours floating +heavenwards until the summer's day was clear in its sunlit beauty; and +they tore into far Devon with the salt breath of the sea in the faint +wind. + +A dogcart met them at the station; a short drive, with the sea pulsing +far below them, brought them to Cliff End. An old house standing amid a +blaze of flowers, it was its owner's whim to have it kept up as if he +were living there. There were quaintly-shaped rooms, with windows flung +wide. Estelle ran through them, getting her first glimpse of a true +English home, while Bertie went over accounts and did his business. + +The housekeeper, a smiling dame, appeared breathlessly just as he came +in. + +She was ashamed not to be there to meet them, but old bones moved +slowly; she had been down to the Home Farm to see a sick child there. + +"We'm right glad to see your good lady at last," she smiled at Estelle, +holding out a wrinkled hand. Mrs Corydon was a privileged friend of the +family. + +"Not my good lady," Bertie said hurriedly, "a friend, Mrs Corydon." But +his face changed suddenly; he grew red. + +Man is a being dependent on his dinner; their late luncheon was perfect +of its kind. Grilled trout, chicken, Devonshire cream, and strawberries. + +"It's such a glorious old place." Estelle looked round the panelled +room. "If one could live here one could be happy simply being alive." + +"Some people could," he said quietly. "Esme would die of boredom in a +week." + +"Of boredom, with those flowers outside, with the sea crooning so +close," she said. + +"But in winter," he answered, "there are no flowers, and the sea would +roar." + +"Then there would be fires," said Estelle, "and hunting, and books; and +always fresh air. I stifle in London." + +The day was a long joy to her, so deep it might have made her pause to +think. + +They went to the hayfields, breathing in the scent of the fragrant +grass; tossing it themselves, foolish, as children might have done; +wandering off to the river where it whispered between rocky banks. A +stretch of golden brown and silver clear, of dark shadow and plashing +ripple, green-hued where the long weeds stretched their plumes beneath +the water, eddying, swirling, gliding, until it spread out upon +Trelawney Bay, and wandered lost amongst the sands, looking for the +sea. Great ferns grew among the rocks; dog roses tangled in the hedges; +sometimes a feeding trout would break a flat with his soft ploop-ploop +as he sucked down the fly; or smaller fish would fling and plash in +shallow places, making believe that they were great creatures as they +fed. + +Bertie had asked for the tea to be sent out to them. It came in a +basket, and they lighted a spirit lamp, laying it out close to the +shimmering sea. + +Mrs Corydon had sent down wonderful cakes, splits and nun's puffs, and +a jar of the inevitable cream. It was a feast eaten by two fools who +forgot human nature. + +They gave the basket to the boy, wandered on to the cliffs. Here, with +a meadow rippling in waves of green behind them, they sat down. It was +cooler now. They sat in the shade of a high bank with the blue, +diamond-spangled water far below, emerald-hued and indigo, where it +lapped in shadow by the cliff. With the salt scent of it mingling with +the scent of grass and flowers and hot sun-baked turf. Gulls wheeled +screaming softly. They were quite alone in the glory of the country. + +Estelle, a little tired, lay back against the bank, dropped suddenly +asleep; her slender browned hands lay close to Bertie; as she moved her +head came almost against his shoulder, so that to make her more +comfortable he moved a little to support it. + +A sudden thrill ran through him; her nearness, the touch of her cheek +against his arm; her childish trust and abandon. The thrill was one of +content followed by fear. What was he learning to feel for this girl +from South Africa, this mere friend and companion? + +"Companion? Had Esme ever been one?" Looking back he realized that +there are two sorts of love; one when man is ruled by man alone, and +one when passion and friendship can walk hand in hand; a pair, once +mated, whom death alone can part. + +He recalled his first meeting with his wife, and how her brilliant +beauty had allured him. + +How she had taken his worship carelessly, as a thing of every day; and +how always she had relied on her beauty as the natural power of woman +without dreaming of any other. A touch of her round arms about his +neck, a hot kiss--these were her arguments--arguments which, until +lately, had never failed. If he talked of outside things she would pout +and yawn, and bring him back to the centre of the world--her beauty. + +"There were other girls; tell me about them; were they as pretty as I +am, Bert?" + +"Never--never!" he had to assure her. If he talked of the sunshine she +would laugh and ask if it did not make her hair look red. Her hands, +her feet, her fingers--she was never weary of having them praised. And +yet she lacked the joy of losing herself in love; she had a merciless +power of analysing emotion, because she did not feel it deeply herself. +In all his transports, Bertie knew there had been something missing; he +had been the lover, she content to be loved. + +The true companionship which can keep silence was never theirs. + +Now, with the sea of grass waving behind them, and the sea crooning, +crooning, so far below, the man was afraid. Was there a second sort of +love, and had he missed the best thing in life? + +He loved the clean airs of the country, sport of all kinds, a home to +go to. Yet he must spend his days in close streets, in an eternal rush +of entertainment and entertaining; to go home to a little portion of a +great building, where he was merely one of the tenants of a flat. + +If no one was coming, the little drawing-room was left bare of flowers, +neglected. Esme said she could not afford them every day. If he came +home to tea, an injured maid brought him a cup of cold stuff, probably +warmed from the morning's teapot, with two slices of bread and butter +on a plate. + +This woman, sleeping so quietly, her long dark lashes lying on a +sun-kissed cheek, would create a home, live in the quiet country, find +companionship without eternal rushing about to her fellow-mortals; +enjoy her month or two away, and then enjoy doubly the coming to her +own home. + +Man, with his pipe in his mouth and sitting in silence, dreams +foolishly as some growing girl. + +In Bertie's dream he saw Cliff End inhabited; he went round his farms, +came back to the gardens to walk in them with a slender figure by his +side, with a hundred things to think of, a hundred things to do. The +simpler things which weld home life together. He saw toddling mites +running to meet him, crying to their dada; a boy who must learn to swim +and shoot and ride; a bonnie girl who would learn too, but less +strenuously. He saw cold winter shut out, and two people who sat before +a great fire, contented to sit still and talk or read. So thinking, the +dream passed from waking; his eyes closed, and he, too, fell asleep. + +A man strolling along the cliffs paused suddenly, whistled and paused, +looking down at the two. + +A sly-eyed, freckled youth, who whistled again, drew back, clicked the +shutter of the camera he carried, and went on, laughing. + +"A pretty picture," he said contemptuously. + +Bertie awoke with the faint whistle in his ears--woke to find Estelle's +ruffled head close against his own. He sat up, wondering how long he +had been asleep. + +The freckled stranger was visible just dipping down to the steep path +which led to the sea. + +"I hope he did not see us. Good Lord! I hope he did not see us!" + +Estelle woke too, coming from sleep as a child does, rose-flushed, +blinking, rubbing her eyes. + +"Oh! I have been asleep," she cried, "wasting our day." + +"Our day," he said, as if the words hurt him. + +He pulled her to her feet. Estelle was not beautiful, but in her sweet, +clear eyes, in the curve of her mouth, the soft brownness of her skin +was something more dangerous than mere beauty. It was soul shining +through her grey eyes, the power of love, the possibility of passion. +It was intelligence, sympathy. Who wisely said some women make nets +and others cages? + +Esme, Denise, Dollie, women of their type, could hold their cages out, +catch a bird and watch it flutter, but, wearying of him, forget his +sugar and his bird-seed, and leave the door open with the careless +certainty of finding another capture. + +But with a net woven about him, a strong net made of such soft stuff +that it did not hurt, the captive bird was caught for life, meshed, +ensnared for ever. + +"Come--it is late," Bertie said. + +As his hands closed on hers, Estelle felt the flush on her cheeks +deepen, her hands grow cold. There is a wonder to all in the dawn of +love; with some it leaps from the cold night into a sudden glow, not so +much dawn as a glorious revealing of the sun. It was so with Estelle; +there was no trembling opal in her mental sky, no gradual melting of +the mists of twilight. She knew. She loved this man. He was another +woman's husband, but she loved him--would love him to her life's end. +He must never know, and yet, being intensely human as he helped her up +the bank, there was a sick longing that he might care too, even if it +meant their instant parting. + +She fought it back; she was loyal and simple; her love must be her own; +her joy and her despair. + +"Hurry, Estelle; we shall miss the train," he said. "It's very late." + +They were further away than they thought. The path by the river was +rough; they ran panting up to the old house to see the man driving the +dog-cart away from the door. + +"It bain't no use, sir," he said; "she'm near station now, and it's two +mile an' more." + +"There's another?" Bertie said. + +There was one more, getting them into London at four next morning. +Estelle was put out, half frightened. Her aunt would be annoyed. + +"But she will know it is an accident," she said. "And we can see the +sea by moonshine now." + +They saw it as they drove to the slow train, a wide shimmer of mystery, +silver and grey and opal, frostily chill, wondrously limitless; the +hoarse whisper of its waves booming through the still night. + +"Esme! Will Esme mind?" Estelle asked as they steamed into London. + +"She has gone to several balls; she will never know," he said a little +bitterly. + +He did not see Esme again until next evening. The knowledge of this new +thing in his life made him penitent, anxious to find again the charm of +the golden hair, of the brilliantly-tinted skin. He came from a long +interview with his uncle, whipping himself with a mental switch; +determined to be so strong that his friendship with Estelle might +continue as it was--reasoning out that he had been mad upon the cliffs, +half asleep and dreaming. + +He came in to find Esme in one of her restless moods, reading over +letters, peevishly crumpling bills, grumbling at poverty. He did not +know that the memory of a pinched baby face was always before her +eyes--that she feared for the life of the son she had sold. + +"Why, Es," he said, and kissed her. + +"Don't rumple my hair," she answered; "it's done for dinner." + +"Worrying over bills?" he asked gently. + +Esme pulled away one letter which he had taken up. "I can pay them," +she flashed peevishly. "Don't worry." Denise's allowance was due +again--overdue--and Esme did not like to write or telephone, and had +not seen Lady Blakeney for a week. + +It was due to her, and overdue to others. Claire's bill ran in for four +pungent pages, and ran to three figures, which did not commence with a +unit. There were jewels, the motor hire. Oh! of what use was five +hundred pounds? + +If she had had the boy here she would have gone to the country, been +content for his sake. + +"Don't worry." Bertie put his hand on hers. "Es--I've been talking to +Uncle Hugh." + +"Well?" She woke up, suddenly hopeful. + +"Well, I'm his nephew. He will make me a big allowance, leave me all he +has--if--" + +"If what?" cried Esme. + +"If we have a son before he dies," said Bertie. "That is the only +stipulation. If not, I remain as I am. He has some craze about another +Hugh Carteret. Of course there will be the title later on." + +"If we have a son." Esme stood up and laughed. "A son!" she said, "a +son! I--" + +"Why, Esme!" Bertie ran to her. "Oh, don't cry like that. My dear, +don't cry like that." + +The wild outburst of a woman in hysterics filled the little room. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +"OH, of course, I'd forgotten." Denise had been reminded of her +promise--looked vaguely annoyed. "H'm! I'm short now. Can't ask Cyrrie, +can I? I'll bring you two hundred, Esme! Give you some more in August, +my quarter day." + +"But I want it. I've run into debt counting on it," said Esme, sullenly. + +"Oh, you've got old Hugh to fall back on now Bertie's the heir. If I +could ask Cyrrie--but I can't! Two hundred's a lot, Esme. You must make +it do." + +"You'll be away in August," Esme said. "You can't send me so much in a +cheque." + +"No. I'll get notes. I'll be sure to. I shall be at home. Wonders will +never cease. I've got to keep very quiet just now," said Denise. "It's +wonderful--and I'm not afraid." + +"Oh!" Esme sat up. "And--if it's a son, Denise, your own son--you--what +will you do?" + +"Yet must the alien remain the heir." Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I +should never dare to tell. You don't know Cyrrie. He'd send me away +somewhere with three hundred a year, and never see or speak to me +again. For Heaven's sake, Es, remember that. Besides, it would all take +some proving now." + +"Be good to my boy or I'll claim him," said Esme, stormily. + +"Hush! Es. Don't!" Denise looked terrified. "And you dare not, either. +Your Bertie would not forgive. Look here! I've got a pendant I don't +want; take it and sell it. It's worth two hundred. And I'll scrape out +three for you somehow. Oh, here's Cyrrie." + +The big man came in. There was a sense of power about him and of +relentless purpose. His under jaw, his deeply-set eyes, were those of a +man who, once roused, could be cruel, and even merciless. + +"Hello! Mrs Carteret." He was always cordial to Esme. "We've missed you +lately. Den, the boy's peaky--wants fresh air, his nurse says." + +Esme turned white, clenched her hands until her gloves split and burst. + +"Send him to the sea," said Denise, carelessly. "Broadstairs, Cromer, +anywhere, Cyrrie." + +"No, I think we'll go home. It's better for you too." Sir Cyril's big +jaw shot out. "We'll go home, Den. I've wired, and the boy can go on +to-morrow. Drive down, it will do him good, in the big car." + +"Oh!" Esme saw that Denise objected, hated going, yet was afraid to +object once her husband had decided. + +"Oh, I'm glad you're sending him out of London," Esme burst out. "He +looks wretched. I am glad." + +"He's your godson, isn't he?" laughed Blakeney. "You were good then, +Mrs Carteret. Seen to-day's paper? That little fool of a Cantilupe +woman has made a mess of it, and Cantilupe was right to take it to +court. Seen the evidence? She forged his name to a cheque for five +hundred to give to this wretched man. Trusted to Canty's absolute +carelessness. He never looked at accounts. But the bank grew uneasy, +'phoned to Canty, and he said it was his signature all right and paid. +Then he found out where the money had gone to, and all the rest, and +she defended like a fool. The kindest fellow in the world, but he's +merciless now. Told about the cheque so as to shame her." + +"She was his wife. He should have remembered that," faltered Denise. + +"She had deceived him," Sir Cyril answered. "No man worth the name +forgets that. She deceived him. I couldn't forgive five minutes of it, +especially as there are no children; not that sort of deceit. I was +even too hard on folly once, but that's different." He went out of the +room, big and strong and determined. + +"Bother that boy!" stormed Denise. "There are three or four things I +hate missing. Oh, bother! bother!" She stamped her foot in her +impatience, frowning and biting at her fingers. "Oh, here, Esme. Come +to my room." + +The maid was there, laying out a new gown. + +"You can go, Sutton. Here! slip it away." Denise opened a case, pulled +out a heavy pendant, a tasteless, valuable thing. + +"Old Susan, Cyrrie's aunt, sent it to me when she heard I was a +mother." Denise laughed. "Green said it was worth three hundred. I've +loads of others, and no one will miss this. I'll get you the notes." + +Denise was friendly again, more like her old self, but moved, as Esme +knew, by fear, and not by gratitude or love. + +Denise was called to the telephone. Esme was left alone for a time in +the luxurious bedroom, standing by the open safe, enviously fingering +the jewels. How lovely they were. A necklace of diamonds and emeralds; +Cartier work; a jewelled snake with ruby eyes. A rope of pearls. +Sapphires, opals, emeralds, all glowing as Esme opened the cases. + +"Oh, I thought her ladyship was here, mem," the maid had come in +quietly. Esme turned with a start. + +"Her ladyship went to the telephone." Esme closed her hand about the +pendant, which she had been holding carelessly. She could see the maid +watching her covertly. + +"Oh, there you are, Denise." Esme still held the heavy pendant, afraid +to put it in her bag before the maid, afraid to show it. + +"Yes. I'm late too. Cyril's waiting. We're lunching out. My hat, +Sutton, my veil, quickly!" + +Esme slipped the pendant into her bag as the maid turned away. The +Blakeneys drove her to Jules, where she said she would be lunching. + +But, not hungry, she went on to Benhusan, a well-known jeweller, +offering her pendant. + +The head man took it, looking at the heavy stones. + +"Yes, we could give two hundred for this, to break up. It's tasteless." +He examined it carefully. "Came from us, originally," he said. "We all +have our private mark, madam. Made to order, no doubt. I'll speak to Mr +Benhusan, madam. One moment." + +Esme flushed with annoyance. They might look up the pendant, perhaps +speak of it to someone. + +She got two hundred and thirty for it and went out. + +Mr Benhusan nodded at the heavy bauble. "It was made for the Dowager +Lady Blakeney," he said. "I remember it. The centre stone is worth all +the money we have given for it." + +Absently, with a lack of her usual shrewdness, Esme went to the door, +opened it, and remembered her notes; they had paid her. + +She had put three into her bag, when a thin hand shot out, grabbed the +rest, and before she could even cry out, the thief was lost in the +crowd. + +Esme stood stricken, shaking more with futile anger than anything else. +Her brains were quick. If she went back, raised the hue and cry, what +then? Bertie would ask her what pendant she was selling. The whole +thing would come out. + +Esme walked away, her face white, her hands shaking. She counted what +was left at her club in Dover Street; three notes for fifty each. So +she was robbed of over a hundred, and someone must go unpaid. Unless +Denise would make it up. There was too much loyalty in Esme to think of +working on her friend's fears. She sat brooding, smoking, too much +upset to eat. A boy she knew came in, noticed her white cheeks--a thin +and somewhat stupid youth, who posed as a Don Juan, considered himself +irresistible. + +"Not lookin' a bit well," he said. "No luncheon? Come along down to the +Berkeley and have a little champagne. Let me look after you, dear lady." + +Esme was a beauty; he walked proudly with her, looking at her dazzling +colouring, her well-formed, supple limbs. + +She let herself be distracted by flattery, listened to foolish +compliment, to praise of her glorious hair, her beautiful eyes. + +Wouldn't she come for a drive some Sunday? The new Daimler was a dear. +Down to Brighton or away into the country for a picnic. She must let +him see more of her. + +Angy Beerhaven leant across the table, _empresse_, showing how ready he +was to love, to be a devoted friend. + +Over champagne and sandwiches Esme babbled a little, told of her loss, +of how hard up she was. + +With sympathy discreetly veiled behind his cigarette smoke, Angy +hinted. Pretty women need never be hard up. Fellows would only find it +a pleasure to make life easy for them if--there was friendship, real +friendship, between good pals. + +The restaurant was almost empty; they sat in a quiet corner. With wits +suddenly sharpened, Esme looked at the thin, weakly vicious face, at +the boy's eyes glittering over her beauty, already seeing himself +chosen. His carefully-tended hands were opening his gold +cigarette-case. She shuddered. If she allowed those hands the right to +caress her she could be free of debt and care--for a time. + +Love affairs were butterflies of a season. Next year it would have to +be someone else; there would be the distraction of it, the adoration +which always pleases a woman; and then the fading, the breaking free. +The meeting again with a careless good-morning, with the shame searing +her soul as she remembered. + +Distraction, a little less time to think, was what Esme wanted. She saw +too clearly for this. She had sold one birthright without thought; but +not this second one of her self-respect. + +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 +muffins; the second and third where one could smoke; these rooms were +separated by portieres of Indian beads, rattling as one passed 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 +gushing notes, open to several constructions. In one she had spoken of +that ripping tea at his rooms. She shivered 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-snatched-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 +buttons 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. + +Sybil would not go to a dance that evening; she pleaded headache, sat +in her stuffy room, looking out across the hot slates, thinking. + +She was afraid. Who would help her now to pay this man and so get out +of his power? She had learned to dread him. + +She jumped up suddenly, ran to her writing-table. Old memories crowded +back to her, her first years of coming out, when she had been so happy. +She saw the library at the Holbrooks', felt warm young hands on hers, +heard a voice saying: + +"But if you are ever in any trouble, if you want help, send for me. I +shall always be ready." + +Her young soldier lover would help her now; and with wet eyes above the +paper she wrote on, Sybil knew how she would turn to him again. How +gifts of flowers and sweets, expensive dinners and suppers, stolen +interviews for tea and subtle flattery, had lost their charm. + +She only wrote a few lines, posted it to York, where his regiment was +stationed; she wanted his help, urgently; would he come to her _at +once_? + +So the hot curtain of night fell on another act for Sybil. + +Esme had gone home after tea, found Bertie there, resting in the +flowerless drawing-room. + +With nerves strung up, with her hidden excitement wearing her out, she +came to him, threw herself suddenly on her knees beside him, laid her +face against his, tried to wake the thrill which the touch of his lips +had given her once. + +Bertie, surprised, drew her to him, kissing the red mouth. + +It had been innocent of lip salve when he had kissed them first; her +soft cheeks had not been plastered with expensive creams and powder. As +hungry people imagine feasts, so Esme sought for forgetfulness in +passionate kisses, in new transports of love. Sought--and found no +place. It seemed to her that Bertie had grown cold, that he no longer +cared for her. He had never been a sensualist, only an honest lover. + +Whispered hints of Gore Helmsley's, little stories he had told her, +came to her as she rested her cheek against her husband's. + +"Dear old Es," he said affectionately, but not passionately. "Dear old +butterfly, it's nice to have my girlie loving again; but we'll be late +for dinner if we don't dress quickly. Es, call your maid." + +Esme rang listlessly; she hardly knew what she wanted, save that it was +something which would wipe away her bitter thoughts. + +Through dinner she was recklessly merry, witty in her flashing way; +brilliantly, a little haggardly, pretty. The patches of pink were more +pronounced on her cheeks, her powder thicker. + +Then, driving home in the cool, she remembered Sybil Chauntsey. Here +was another woman about to make a mistake, to realize too late, as she +had done, that money cannot repay peace of mind. Deep, too, in Esme's +mind, was a horror of sinning. She was instinctively pure herself; her +ideas set deeply in a bed of conventionality. A girl of Sybil's type +would suffer all her life if she once slipped, perhaps afterwards grow +completely reckless, look on her one sin as so deadly that a host of +others could matter little, and might drown thought. + +Esme forgot Sybil until Sunday morning. Angy Beerhaven had proved +himself in earnest, had almost insisted on a trip in his new car. +"Bring anyone--your husband and a friend," he said. + +Esme had agreed heartily. There was Estelle; she would like the drive. +As the huge cream-coloured Daimler hummed softly at her door, Angy +asked where they would go to. + +"The sea would be lovely to-day," he said. "Or there are the Downs or +the Forest." + +"The sea!" Esme shot out swiftly. "The sea!" she said. + +"Then Brighton. It's a nice run; there are decent hotels. One only gets +cold beef and cutlets in heaps of places." + +"Brighton let it be," she said carelessly. + +The Daimler seemed a live monster purring as she flew along the smooth +roads, laughing at her hills, answering sweetly to her brakes, swinging +her great length contemptuously past weaker sisters. + +The salt kiss of the sea was on their faces as they dipped into +Brighton. + +"We'll run out again afterwards," Angy said; "get a good blow." + +Esme had been a merry companion on the way down. + +Strolling on the front, Esme started suddenly. Sybil might be here; she +remembered the conversation now. In the huge place it would be almost +impossible to find her. Jimmie would not come to the best-known hotels. + +But if she could--it would be worth some trouble. + +Esme's fit of boredom vanished. She was full of plans. They would run +off for a long run, come back to tea, dine again in Brighton and go +home in the cool. + +"They'll be quite happy anywhere," she said, nodding towards Estelle +and Bertie. "We can go off by ourselves." + +Angy's hopes grew deeper. His fatuously ardent glances were more +frequent. He whispered eager nonsense to Esme, hinted at happy future +drives and meetings, of lending her the car altogether if she liked. + +To have a sixty Daimler at one's disposal would be convenient, but as +it would generally include Angy Beerhaven as chauffeur, Esme shrugged +her shoulders. A taxi suited her better, though she did not say so. + +After tea she grew restless; wanted to see other hotels, to inspect +Brighton. The Metropole was too crowded. + +"Come with me," she said to Angy; "we'll prospect, and telephone here +if we find some nest which suits me." + +A cabman gave her information. + +"Quiet hotels, but smart, nice? He'd tell of one, yes, miss, he would." + +It was only as they went on that Esme realized the smirk of innuendo on +the man's red face. + +"Often driven parties there as wanted to be quiet an' comfabul," said +Jehu, taking a shilling graciously. "Thank you, lady, and good luck." + +Esme went to two or three places, read the dinner menu carefully, made +Angy wonder what restless spirit possessed her, then came to the +jarvey's recommendation, a small hotel facing the sea, standing +modestly behind a long strip of garden. The garden was full of roses +and shrubs, so that the porch was almost concealed. + +The lady peering out of the little office was unmistakably French. + +"Madame wished to see the dinner menu--but certainly! Madame would want +a private room, no doubt; the coffee-room was small and the tables +already crowded." + +"It is a hotel of private rooms," said Esme to herself. She went on to +a small, dimly-lighted veranda, set with huge palms and +cunningly-placed nooks. She paused abruptly. + +"I must go back! Oh, I must!" said Sybil's voice. "We shall miss the +train--please let me." + +"My cousin cannot be any time. Most annoying her being out all day. +Don't spoil a perfect day, little Sybil. There's a late train we can +catch. Or, better still, hire a car and drive up." + +Esme turned swiftly to her somewhat bewildered cavalier. + +"Oh, Mr Beerhaven," she said. "Will you go to the telephone--order +dinner at the Metropole, and see if they have quails--and peaches. It's +the best place, after all. I'll wait here for you. Hurry, or they won't +have shot the quails." + +Angy left, ruminating on the logic of women. + +"But give me my letters," she heard Sybil plead. "Please do! You +promised them if I came here to-day." + +"I promised--I will fulfil. After dinner you shall have your letters, +little girl. Now, don't get silly and nervous." + +"Of course I'll send you that money when I can," Sybil faltered, "but--" + +"I won't ask you for the money. You were a good child to come here, +little Sybil." + +Esme looked in. + +Sybil was lying back in a long chair, her face white, her eyes half +resentful, half fascinated. Jimmie Helmsley, bending over her, began to +stroke her hands softly. His dark eyes bore no half thoughts in them. + +"After dinner," he whispered. "I won't tease you any more about that +silly debt." + +Esme pushed aside a spiky frond; she was righteously angry. + +"Oh, Sybil," she said. "Your mother asked me if I came across you to +take you home in our car. I was sampling hotels and luckily ran you to +earth." + +Sybil sprang up. Resentment, fascination, merged to sudden wild relief. +She had told her mother that she was spending the day with a school +friend. + +"But--How very lucky your running across us." Gore Helmsley's teeth +showed too much as he smiled; it made his greeting exceedingly like a +snarl. + +"Oh, yes, so lucky." Esme listened to Helmsley's pattered explanation. +"His cousin, Mrs Gore, etc. Very awkward. Out of Brighton. They had +come here to wait for her." + +"Very awkward," said Esme, drily. "Well, you must join us at dinner. +You can't wait here--alone." + +A waiter padded noiselessly in. Dinner would be ready in ten minutes in +Number Twenty-seven. They had procured the roses which Monsieur had +ordered. + +It amused Esme a little to watch Gore Helmsley fight back his anger, +mask himself in a moment in a thin cloak of carelessness. He followed +the waiter into the hall. + +"Sybil," said Esme, sharply, "this is not wise, not right." + +"We came to meet a cousin," Sybil whimpered. "She never came. I had to +come--I had to. And now he's angry." She shivered a little, half +tearful, half frightened. + +"No, she would not come," said Esme, drily; "but lie as I lie, my +child, or there may be some pretty stories floating about London." + +"Oh! you've ordered dinner," she said to Angy, "and I've just found +Miss Chauntsey. She was dining with Captain Helmsley's cousin, Mrs +Gore. But she is putting her off and joining our party at the +Metropole." + +Mr Beerhaven opened his mouth twice without emitting any particular +sound. + +"She's just gone home, hasn't she, Sybil?" said Esme. "Quite a pretty +woman. Come along." + +Again Angy opened his mouth and shut it. It was not his part to say +that he knew Mrs Gore to be in London. Angy was not altogether +bad-hearted and he disliked Jimmie Gore Helmsley. + +"Rotten!" said Mr Beerhaven, speaking at last. + +"Eh?" said Esme, sharply. + +"Rotten luck, y'know, on Mrs Gore, but so glad. We'd better drive back. +And a rotten chap," said Angy, forcibly. "You're a brick, Mrs +Carteret." This speech made Esme understand that Angy Beerhaven was not +as big a fool as he looked. + +In the cab Sybil leant back, frightened. She was afraid of Gore +Helmsley's too-pleasant smile--afraid of the look in his eyes. + +Esme had whispered a few swiftly-spoken words to him, directing that +their lies should be alike. + +"It was exceedingly awkward," she said drily. + +Angy had ordered everything he could think of. They began on iced +caviare and finished up with forced peaches. He was exceedingly rich, +and a snare wrought of gold was the only one he knew of. + +Sybil was quiet through dinner, eating nothing, visibly unhappy. + +Afterwards, as they sat in the cool, smoking, Gore Helmsley slipped to +her side. + +"Was there ever anything so unlucky?" he said. + +"It was--very unlucky," said Sybil, dully. + +"That woman hunting round for dinner, so she says. She's fairly decent, +I fancy, won't blab. She lied brilliantly. It was so very awkward, and +now Cissy will be quite disappointed. She 'phoned to say she was just +starting to meet us. It was a lovely day together," he whispered. "Come +to tea with me to-morrow, Sybil." + +"You promised me my letters," she shot out, her heart thumping, "and my +I.O.U. Give them to me." + +"To-morrow," he said lightly. "I would have given them to you to-night, +Sybil. Silly child ever to sign things." + +Sybil's lip trembled; the snare was about her feet. + +A tall man pushed his way through the crowd, looking anxiously at the +tables. He was covered with the dust of a long journey; he came +quickly, staring at each group. + +"Oliver!" Sybil sprang to her feet, rushed across to him. "Oh, Captain +Knox, why did you not come yesterday?" + +"I only got back to York this morning. I motored to London, and it took +me hours to find your mother. Who is that--in the shadow?" + +"Captain Gore Helmsley." Sybil's voice grew shrill. + +"And Sybil is here with me," said Esme, coming out of another shadow. +"Take her for a walk before we start. I want to talk to my friend here." + +"Sybil--why did you write for me like that?" + +"I wanted you to save me, and you never came," she faltered. + +"But I am not too late. My God, not that!" + +Then, stumblingly, she told him her story of sorrow. + +"I was going to ask you to pay the debt for me," she said, "to get me +clear. I dare not tell my mother or father." + +"I brought money, as you said you wanted it; and there is nothing more, +Sybil?" he said, taking her hands. + +"Nothing. We spent the day here--waiting for Mrs Gore. And oh, I was +afraid." + +"Mrs Gore is in London. I saw her as I was looking for your mother." + +"In London!" Sybil's cheeks grew very white. It had all been a lie. She +would have dined at the small hotel, waiting for the woman who could +never have joined them. And afterwards, alone with the man she feared +and yet who influenced her. + +Sybil was no innocent fool; the blackness of the chasm she had just +missed sliding into was plainly before her eyes. + +She flung herself suddenly into Knox's arms. + +"Oh, Oliver, if you want me still, take me," she sobbed, "for I am a +fool, and not fit to look after myself. I don't mind being poor; I only +want you." + +Captain Gore Helmsley, meanwhile, was listening to a few softly-uttered +home-truths from Esme Carteret. + +"You might have ruined the child's reputation," she said angrily. "She +was a fool to come here with you. Married women are fair game, Jimmie, +but a girl has not learnt how to guard. It's not fair." + +Sybil, with the frightened look gone from her eyes, came back to the +table on the veranda. + +"I owe you some money, Captain Gore Helmsley," she said clearly, "for +bridge debts. It was good of you to let it stand over." She laid a +cheque on the table. "Will you give me back my acknowledgments? Oliver +is paying for me--we are going to be married." + +Jimmie, smiling sweetly, pulled out his pocketbook, took from it a +neatly-folded paper. + +"And--two letters--referring to the debt," said Sybil, steadily. + +"Not altogether to the debt." Jimmie laughed. "You are as unkind now, +Miss Chauntsey, as you are dramatic." + +"I want them," she said coldly. "You gave me your promise that I should +have them back." + +Jimmie took out the letters. + +"I am giving them to Oliver to read, and then we'll burn them," she +said simply. + +"Oh, hang it!" said Gore Helmsley, blankly; "this _has_ been a nice +evening!" + +"In which you got your dinner and desserts," flashed Esme, laughing +openly. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +A solemn child, healthy in body, but with wistful eyes, paddled his +spade into wet shingly sand at Bournemouth. He was precociously wise, +already given to thought, to wondering as children wonder. + +What Cyril wondered was why there were so many scold words in the +world? Why it was always, "Don't, Cyril!" and "Cyril, run away!" or +"Cyril, I will not have you rough to your brother." + +Why mother, who was a beautiful thing, would catch up little Cecil and +look so bitterly at him, and on more bitterly still to Cyril. + +"Funny how her ladyship adores Master Cecil," Mrs Stanson would confide +to the under-nurse; "being delicate, I suppose." + +Cyril was heir to four places, to grouse moors and fishings, to +diamonds and plate and pictures, all entailed. Cecil would have a +younger son's ample portion, and no more. Cecil was puny, a weakling; +his father sighed over him. + +Paddling his spade, Baby Cyril came round the castle, brushed a little +roughly against Baby Cecil; the spoilt child fell and whimpered. + +"Cyril sorry. I sorry, Cecil." + +"Cyril, you rough little wretch!" Lady Blakeney leant forward, slapping +the boy harshly. "You little bully!" + +"I"--Cyril touched the white place which stung on his soft cheek, the +white which turned to dull red. "I--" His mouth quivered, but he said +nothing, merely looked out at the heaving sea. + +The pathos in his child's eyes might have touched anyone but a mother +jealous of another woman's child, storming behind a rage which must be +hidden. + +Esme Carteret's baby must oust Denise's son from his kingdom. + +"Ah, Denise! How can you?" A pained cry, another woman springing +forward, catching the slapped baby to her. "Denise! How can you!" + +"Why not, Esme? He's a born bully. Bad-tempered, always hurting Cecil. +A great strong tyrant." + +The women's eyes met with anger and dislike flashing in both glances. + +It was not altogether chance which had brought Esme to Bournemouth. She +hunted health now, strove for what once had been hers to trifle +with--hunted health and peace, and found neither. + +Denise's payments were desultory; she had to show outward civility to +Esme to make up for the half-yearly hush-money. Sir Cyril had houses at +Bournemouth; she had offered one to the Carterets for nothing. + +"Poor Esme, Cyril. I told her she might have the little lodge. She's +looking wretched." + +"She's the most restless being on earth. Of course, Den; give it to +her. If she had a pair of boys, now, as you have." + +"Yes." Denise had to hide the pain in her eyes, for with Cecil's birth +had come a fierce mother-love, making the careless indifference which +she had felt for Cyril turn to bitter dislike. He got the measles, +brought it to her boy, who almost died of it; whooping-cough, before +the child was old enough to bear it well. + +They were down at Blakeney Court when Denise told her husband that she +had lent Esme the lodge. The boys were playing outside; the little one +crawling solemnly, Cyril arranging sticks and flowers into a pattern. + +"He's got an extraordinary look of someone," said Sir Cyril. "Cecil's a +true Blakeney, if he wasn't so delicate; but Cyril's finer--not like +us; he mopes and dreams already." + +If there were no Cyril! Denise clenched her hands, understood how men +felt before they brushed aside some life in their path. That day was +wet later; she found the children playing in the picture-gallery, with +Nurse Stanson showing a friend the Romneys and the Gainsboroughs, and +other treasures which represented a fortune. + +Cyril loved one cavalier, painted on a fiery charger, an impossible +beast, all tail and eyes and nostril. The boy was happy staring at the +picture, patting at the great frame. "Cyrrie's man," he would say. +"Cyrrie's man." + +"Oh, Cyril's man--all Cyril's men," Denise flashed out furiously. "No +men for Cecil." + +"Cecil not care for Cyril's man, mummie," the child's eyes looked +wistfully at Denise. "He never look up yet." + +"Oh, they'll all be yours--gloat over it!" snapped Denise. "Take your +friend on, Mrs Stanson; show her the picture of Lady Mary Blakeney--the +one by Lely. Yes, all yours!" Half unconsciously she pushed Cyril; he +slipped on the polished floor, slid toward the fireplace, fell with his +yellow head not three inches from the old stone kerb. + +Nurse Stanson ran to him, screaming. Demon-driven, Denise had watched. +If--if--the little pate had hit the hard, cold stone, if her boy had +been left heir. + +"All right, mummie--Cyril not hurt," he had said, bravely, as he got up. + +And now--they were playing at Bournemouth, and Baby Cyril had come +through croup, with the best doctors in London striving against King +Death for the life of Sir Cyril's heir. + +How many children would have died in the wheezing, cruel struggle! At +heart it made Denise a murderess, and she hated herself for it. + +"You--you are cruel to that child," Esme said. "You are, Denise. Take +care." + +Two small, sand-dusted hands pushed her away. Cyril backed with dignity. + +"Mummie only made a miftook, tank you," he said--"only a miftook." + +He was loyal to the woman who hated him. Her child, yet he pushed her +away, would not accept the clinging tenderness of her hands. Esme sat +down again, her eyes hard and bitter. + +The years had changed her greatly. Her dazzling beauty had not so much +faded as hardened. Her eyes were still bright, her hair gold; but the +flush of red-and-white was all art now; her mouth had tightened; the +brightness of her blue eyes was that of aching restlessness. + +She had tried rest cures and come away half maddened by the quiet, by +her leisure to think. She had travelled and come home to England +because the boy was there. + +Sometimes she would turn to Bertie, show the same half-wild outbursts +of tenderness which she had first shown on the day she had sold the +pendant; trying to find comfort in his caresses, clinging to him, +pouring out tender words. Then the phase would pass. Without perfect +confidence perfect love cannot exist. There was a secret between them; +they were lovers no longer. For weeks she would go her own careless +way, spending recklessly, always in debt, paying off the mites on +account which make debts rolling snowballs, mounting until they crush +the maker. + +Sometimes Denise was difficult to get at; sometimes she said she was +afraid of Sir Cyril. The boy's price came in small sums, fifties, +twenties; often frittered away on a day or two's foolish amusement. + +Old Hugh Carteret made his will, left it ready for signature. + +"When you have a child, Bertie, I will leave you everything," he said, +"and make your allowance up to what my boys had." He sighed as he spoke +of his loss. + +Esme would have welcomed a child now--a mite to wipe out Cyril's +memory, but none came to her. + +She had taken to concealing her debts, to paying them as well as she +could, for Bertie grew sterner as the years passed. + +"I believe that Reynolds girl advises him," Esme once confided to +Dollie Gresham. "They're always talking sense." + +"So frightfully trying," sympathized Dollie kindly; "kind of thing one +learns up for maiden aunts, or uncles about to die; but in everyday +life, unbearable." + +Esme's old friends dropped her a little; she lost her fresh, childish +charm; she was always hinting at her poverty; asking carelessly to be +driven about in other people's cars, picking up bundles of flowers and +carrying them off, vaguely promising to send the money for them; but +she hadn't time to go round to get her own. She wanted now to be +entertained rather than entertain. She was feverishly anxious to win at +bridge, and irritable to her partner if they lost. + +The club saw more of her. Men friends dropped Esme after a time; the +disinterested spending of money is not the way of ordinary mankind. +Dinners, suppers, flowers, theatres must have their credit account on +one side of the ledger; and Esme would have none of it. + +Behind the aching love for her lost boy she liked her husband, and even +if she had not liked him, would not have deceived him. + +Stolen interviews, bribed maids, carefully-arranged country-house +visits, were not of her life. + +She sat still now, staring at the sea. Sometimes she would get into a +bathing dress, and swim out. She was a fine swimmer, but the ripple of +the salt water meant an hour's careful repairs. Her figure, too, had +lost its supple beauty and she did not care to show it. + +Estelle Reynolds was swimming, carefully, with short, jerky strokes, +Bertie holding one hand under her small, firm chin. + +Estelle's mother had married again; the girl lived on with her aunt in +London. A dull life, only brightened by her friendship with the +Carterets. + +With eyes which would not see Estelle and Bertie Carteret had put aside +that day in Devonshire, tried to hide from each other how sweet it was +to meet and talk, how easy to drop into the fatally intimate +confidences when man and woman tell of their childhood, and their hopes +and fears and foolish little adventures, as men and women only tell to +those they care for. + +"She is no swimmer," said Esme, contemptuously, "that Reynolds girl." + +"Your husband takes care of her." Denise Blakeney's laugh was full of +spiteful meaning. "He will teach her to swim, belle Esme." + +"I'll swim myself; I'll show them how." Esme's bathing dress was by her +side. She picked up the bundle, calling to her maid; regretted the +impulse before she had got to her tent; flung herself hurriedly then +into the thin webbing, fastened on stockings and sandals and a +bright-coloured cap, and ran out. + +"Here, Bertie, tell Estelle to look at me." Vanity breaking out as she +poised on the board, slipped into the cool water, swam easily, +powerfully out to sea; the rush of the water soothed her nerves; she +was its master, beating it down, cleaving her way through it. Treading +water, she looked through the translucent depths; how quiet it was +there. What if she gave up struggling and slid down to peace? She +looked down, morbidly fascinated. But before peace there would be a +choking struggle; the labouring of smothered lungs for precious air; +the few moments of consciousness before the blackness came. + +A child's voice rose shrilly from the shore. + +"No, mumsie, Cyril didn't. He not sorry, 'cos he didn't." + +Esme turned and swam back. She could not die. She would have a son of +her own to still the longing for the sad-eyed boy she had sold. + +"See, Estelle--strike out! Don't be afraid. Let Bertie go." + +"But I am afraid, horribly. And I like one toe on the sand," said +Estelle, placidly. "I swim all short, somehow." + +"It's because you are afraid." No one was looking at her; Esme's +interest in the swimming died out suddenly; she grew bored again, +fretful. + +She went in, the bathing dress clinging to her, showing how thin she +was growing. + +"You had better go in too, Estelle. You've been out for an hour. No, +you'll never swim the Channel." + +Half nervously Bertie sent the girl away, tried to forget the thrill of +contact as he held up the firm little chin, as he touched her soft +round limbs in the water. + +The girl was so completely fresh and virginal, with a new beauty +growing in her face and sweet grey eyes. She was lithe, active; he +watched her run to catch his wife, to walk in beside her. + +Esme was quite young, but she walked stiffly; she was growing angular. + +The two women pulled to the flap of the tent, flinging off their +dripping things. Esme had thrown a silken wrapper over her shoulders; +she stood looking into the long glass she had hung up in a corner. A +sense of futile anger racked her as she looked; the powder was streaked +on her face; the rouge standing out patchily; she looked plain, almost +old. The mirror showed her slim body, with limbs growing too thin, with +her girlish outlines spoilt and gone. Behind her, unconscious of +scrutiny, she watched Estelle drying herself vigorously, perfect of +outline, with rounded arms moving swiftly, slight and yet well-covered, +a model of girlish grace. + +With a muttered exclamation Esme looked at tell-tale marring lines, +began hastily to put on her expensive under-garments; cobwebby, silken +things, trimmed with fine real lace. + +"Go for my powder, Scott"--Esme's maids never stayed with her for +long--"for my powder, quickly!" + +"A clumsy woman." Esme lighted a cigarette, sat in the shadow, +accentuating the age she had seen by knowing of it, lines of +unhappiness deepening in her handsome face. + +Scott, objecting to a quarter of a mile in scorching heat, went +mincingly. Came back with powder alone, without rouge or lip salve, or +face cream--stood woodenly listening to an outburst of abuse. They were +going on at once to a picnic luncheon; the motors were waiting. Denise +had called out twice impatiently. + +"You said powder, mem." + +"I cannot go like this. I must get back; and they will not wait." + +Esme had denounced the picnic as a bore in the morning; now she knew +what it would be like to sit alone at a cold luncheon and miss the +drive. + +"Madame"--a soft voice spoke outside the flaps of the tent. Scott, +enraged and giving notice, had left to bridle in the sunshine--"is +there anything I can do for Madame?" + +It was Esme's old maid, Marie. The girl came in with a Frenchwoman's +deftness, and pulled a make-up box from her pocket. + +"Pauvre, madame; after the bath too. I always carry this." + +Marie dabbed swiftly until the streaked complexion was made cunningly +perfect. Marie was out of a place--had left her last mistress, a +plebeian nobody. + +"With no dresses to come to me but those in violet silks or of the +colour called tomato!" cried Marie. "Oh, Madame! And with no life, no +gaiety, nothing but five-o'clock parties, and long luncheons, and, +madame--oh, but raging when she lost at the bridge. Mon Dieu! So I left +Madame. It is true one night I did put on the false plait--oh, but not +carefully, for a dinner, but after a great scolding my fingers did +tremble. Madame's great guest was an Eveque, what you call down Church, +and strict. James the footman told me, and it was dreadful; it was to +his lap the loose plait fell. I left. Madame is ravishing, and I would +I were again in the service of my dear Madame." + +It was easily arranged. Esme forgot that Marie might know a little and +guess more. She sent the irate Scott away immediately, and directed +Marie to the house they were lodging in. + +A glance at the glass had made Marie seem indispensable; a brilliantly +handsome face was reflected there now, pink-cheeked, white-skinned, +smooth. + +"Esme! What have you been doing? We are hopelessly late, and we are +driving you." + +"All my powder was washed off"--Esme was frank, up to a certain +point--"I'm sorry, Denise." + +"And Cyril will bring the children; they are gone in the small car." +Denise was irritated, impatient. + +Sir Cyril drove; a big, pearl-grey Mercedes hummed away, nosing through +traffic, sensitive as a child, eager as a hunter. + +The picnic was on the cliffs, miles away. They lunched in a dazzling +sun, since it is ever in the mind of man that he enjoys himself more +away from his own cool dining-room, seated on hard ground in the heat. + +The Blakeneys' cook knew that which was indigestible and therefore +indispensable. Lobster mayonnaise, cold salmon, devilled shrimps, +galantines, pastry, whipped cream. + +The appetite of picnickers is a great thing, and one which towards +tea-time wonders what possessed it. But girls laughed merrily, planning +strolls by the shimmering sea; they had brought shrimp nets. Girls with +pretty, unspoiled feet would take off shoes and stockings and paddle +into pools, treacherous places where one slipped and wanted help to +steady one. + +Other girls would sit quiet in shady nooks. Youth loves its picnics +where it may wander in couples; and mamma loves them, knowing how +sunshine and fresh air and the folly of shrimp-hunting all lead to the +hour when the young man feels he cannot do without the merry, pretty, +foolish thing who cries "A crab!" and clings to him. + +Denise had asked young people; she had no London friends down here. She +watched them pair off as she sat down in the shade--listened to shrill +laughs and merry voices. + +Esme, yawning, bored again, strolled away alone; there was no one she +wanted to talk to. The sea had slipped far out; opal-tinted pools +gleamed on the sands and shingle; brown seaweed clung to the rocks. + +The children, busy with pails, were gathering shells and stones, +looking with delight at the gay colours of the pebbles as they picked +them up, wet and glistening, to fade into dull-hued things of red and +brown and grey. + +Esme waited with them; helped Cyril to find yellow shells and brilliant +bits of polished brick and pebble. + +He looked pale, wistful. It was in her mind to shriek out her secret +aloud--to pick the child up and cry out that he was hers and she would +keep him. + +How she had dreaded his coming; how gladly she had arranged the plot +with Denise. And now she knew that her heart was no harder than other +women's; that nature was stronger than her love of indolence and +pleasure. If she had been honest and patient Bertie would be heir now +to several thousands a year, and this child, her son, to a title. He +was hers and she had cheated him, given him to a loveless life, sent +him into unhappiness. Who would have dreamt of Denise having a child, +of the bitter jealousy of this false son. + +"And we dare not," whispered Esme to the pebbles, "we dare not tell." + +Cyril was settling his pebbles in rings and loops, making quaint +patterns of them, on a strip of dry sand. + +"Funny thing." Bertie Carteret strolled across to his wife. "I was +always at that when I was a kiddie. Let me help, Cyril. I used to love +making patterns." + +"Did you?" said Cyril, solemnly. "I does." + +Esme saw the faces together. There was a likeness, faint, but yet +plainly visible. The same level eyebrows, finely-cut nose, and eyes +with their power to suffer. + +"Playing?" Sir Cyril joined them, the children's faces lighting up, for +they loved the big man. "We'll all play. Let's dig a castle. +Cyrrie"--his arm closed round the elder boy--"mummie says you were +naughty to-day--pushed Cecil." + +"Mummie made a miftook," said Cyril equably. + +"Mummies never make miftooks," Sir Cyril answered gravely. "Never. +Cyril must be a better boy and not bully the baby. I don't want to +punish you, Cyril." + +"It doesn't last long, dad--if she'd like you to." The boy's eyes, with +an old look in them, met Sir Cyril's. "I don't mind, dad--it's soon +over." + +Esme's fingers closed on a handful of pebbles, so closely that when she +let the wet stones fall her hands were marked and bruised. + +The boy was telling them calmly that he was used to punishment. Her boy! + +Sir Cyril grunted to himself. His wife adored delicate Cecil; had never +cared for the elder boy. It puzzled the big man, vexed him, so that he +made a pet of Cyril, loving him as the child whose coming had made such +a change in his own life; the strong, big boy who was a credit to the +name. + +Foolish young people hunted for shrimps until they were weary; then, +looking at the advancing sea, they whispered how dreadful it would be +to drown, and listened, flushing, as proud young manhood assured them +that to swim to shore with such a burden would be a joy. The crawling +baby waves, inch deep in their advancing ripples, heard and laughed. To +prove devotion young manhood would have welcomed white-crested rollers, +swift currents running fiercely between them and the land. + +Bertie had wandered far out, Estelle Reynolds with him. + +They talked of books and plays, but always ending with the same +subject, the lives of two human beings called Albert and Estelle. + +"If one only could live down at Cliff End," he said. "I wanted to go +there now, but Esme would come here. Oh, how tired I am of asphalte and +'buses, and the comforts of clubs. I hunted five days last winter, +Estelle." + +"But you shot a lot," she said. + +"At huge house-parties, with a two-hours' luncheon to be eaten in the +middle of the day, and bridge to be played when one is dead sleepy +after dinner. I have an old-fashioned liking for scrambling over rough +ground with a setter and a spaniel, and bringing home a few snipe and a +pheasant or a couple of duck. They give me more joy than my pile of +half-tame pheasants, reared for slaughter, or my partridge or grouse. +My friends wouldn't come to my shoots, Estelle. And--Esme's +friends"--he shrugged his shoulders--"they are too smart for me. She's +straight herself as Euclid's line, but--one hears and sees--Dollie +Gresham, for instance." + +"Well?" said Estelle. + +"She is a very clever bridge player," he said drily. "Oh, I say +nothing, but I've watched the people she picks out to play with. +Aspiring idiots who think high stakes give them a reputation as fine +players. There's Gore Helmsley, too--the black-eyed Adonis. I meet him +everywhere, and my desire to kick him flourishes unappeased. There are +queer stories afloat about the man. There was Sybil Knox; she won't +speak to him now, almost cut him at the Holbrooks last Christmas. He's +running after Lady Gracie de Lyle now, a little, dolly-faced baby who +goggles into his black eyes and thinks him magnificent." + +"Oh, Bertie! Goggles!" said Estelle. + +"Well, she does. She's got china-blue eyes, just like saucers; and +she's barely eighteen. I spoke to her mother, and she said it would +make the girl less school-girly to be taken up for a month or two by a +smart man--that is a word," grunted Bertie, "which I'd like to bury. +'Smart'--it's a cloak for folly, extravagance, display and +gambling--for worse. Never be smart, Estelle." + +Estelle looked at her brown hands and remarked drily that she did not +think she ever would be. + +"They know no rest, these people," he said. "They wake to remember all +they absolutely must do, and how many meals they must eat with their +friends. Madame breakfasts in bed. Monsieur picks at devilled kidneys +in the dining-room. He has his glass of port at twelve at the club. She +has hers before she goes shopping. Then luncheon, bridge, drives, +parties, tea; more bridge-parties, cocktails, dinner. Theatre, and +bridge, a ball; supper; bridge again; devilled bones and chloral; they +are too tired to sleep naturally. And since all this must pall, they +must have some zest of novelty, and so go through the oldest round on +earth--that of stolen meetings and hidden letters, and the finding out +if a new lover has really anything new to say to them. If they lived in +the country and looked after their houses and their gardens, and just +had a yearly outing to amuse them, they wouldn't all go wrong from +sheer nerves. The Town is swallowing home life, Estelle; the smell of +the asphalte gets into their nostrils, the glitter and noise of +restaurants become necessity. We cannot be bothered with a cook, so the +restaurant for the flat can send us in what it chooses, called by any +name it pleases. We get our breakfasts in now in the new flat. And +anything else we want. Esme only keeps two maids. Everything is +exceedingly cold by the time I get it, and if we have people to dine it +means crowds of things from Harrod's, but it all saves trouble. And to +save trouble is the spirit of the age. To eat glucosey jams, and drink +cider which never heard of apples, and so forth. I believe, in the +future, that every square and street will have its monster kitchens +with lifts running to each house. No one will cook." + +"And one day," said Estelle, laughing, "will come the swing of the +pendulum, and we shall go back to an England which bakes and preserves +and brews, and finds out how healthy it makes its children." + +"No." Bertie shook his head. "We are going too fast for that. So fast +that one day, with its motors and aeroplanes, old England will find it +has fallen over a cliff, and lies buried in the sand of Time, +forgotten. The brakes will not always act, and exceeding the speed +limit generally ends in disaster. We are a mighty nation, but always, +always the sea-road for our supplies. We should starve here in a month +if that was stopped. Some day it will be--by some strategy. Tea is +ready--let us forget lobster and eat again." + +Hot-faced footmen had built a big fire on the shore. The couples came +flocking back to eat and drink again. Some shyly radiant, their +afternoon a golden memory; others laughing too loudly for happiness; +others visibly bored. + +"The most absolute dullard," Rose whispered to her cousin, Hilda +Hamilton. "He only made two remarks the whole afternoon, and one was +'that shrimpin' was shockin'ly wet.' And the other that 'he did hope it +wouldn't wain to spoil the bathin'.'" + +"Oh, Rose, he didn't lisp," laughed Hilda. + +"Well, he ought to, he's such an idiot. Yes, I'll take muffins, thank +you. How clever toasting them." + +"There was a fire," said the dull youth, sapiently; "it made it easier." + +"Oh, it would." Miss Rose giggled over her muffin. + +The opal tints grew wider on the sea as it creamed in over the sands; +the murmur of the baby waves grew louder. + +Marie was airing her triumphant return at the door of Esme's pretty +house. She had tripped into the bedroom, altered and arranged, peered +into the cupboards. + +"Ciel! but Madame has now an outfit," said Marie; "it is good that I +return. Evidently Madame has an income." + +Scott, the ousted one, waited stolidly for her wages, and grumbled in +the kitchen, hinting spitefully that she might not receive them at once. + +Marie settled and sang, and settled, poring over the heaped letters on +Esme's tables, raising her thin eyebrows at the gathering of bills. + +"I wonder"--Marie laid down an urgent letter from a Bond Street +firm--"where Madame went when she sent me away. I have always +wondered," said Marie, tripping down the path of the little garden. + +A young man strolling by stopped in amazement, listened to Marie's +voluble explanations. A freckled youth, who kept a little hairdresser's +shop, and hoped in time to keep fair Marie over it as part +proprietress. Marie possessed schemes for moving westwards and becoming +affluent. The youth's name was Henry Poore, his hobby photography. + +"Tiens! they come, and you must go," said Marie, seeing the big motor +humming to the door of the Blakeneys' house. "Ah! it is well that I +came here, for there are many clothes and a fine wage, and voila! there +is Monsieur le Capitaine. See, he stands with a thin mees." + +Henry Poore looked down the road. "Seems I've seen him before," he +said. "Sure I have." + +"Laikely. Ze world is full of meetings," observed Marie. "He was +soldier; he has now retire. Oh, Henri, I am happy. Nevair did I have so +good a time as with this Madame. You shall come to do her hair for ze +Court. You shall be great hairdresser. Allez vite, quick!" + +Marie made an appointment, and Henry walked off. But the invisible +lines of fate were closing round Esme. She had taken up one herself +when she re-employed Marie, who knew just a little too much. + +Scott, dourly respectful, waited for her due. + +"Four months, mem, if you please." + +"Give it to her, Bertie. I am tired." + +"But--I gave you the wages cheque each month, Esme," Bertie said +sharply. "Why did you not pay the woman?" + +"I suppose I spent it on something else. Don't fuss over a few pounds. +Give it to her and let her go. Tell her not to come to me for +recommendations." + +Esme strolled off to give herself over to the deft brown hands, to be +powdered, tinted into new beauty, to have her golden hair re-done. + +"It is not the money. It is only a few pounds, but it is always the +same thing," muttered Bertie to himself as he wrote the cheque, +"always." + +"Sure to be right, sir?" Scott permitted herself a little veiled +insolence. + +"Right? What do you mean, Scott?" + +"Mrs Carteret's were not always, sir," snapped Scott, primly. "Several +shops have had to apply again. Thank you, sir. Good-night." + +The block of a fat cheque-book was looked at unhappily. The balance +left was so small, and there was no more money due until Christmas. +Bertie Carteret sighed drearily. Another lot of shares must go; +long-suffering luck be trusted to replace them. + +Esme, in one of her gay moods, came down, dressed in filmy white, black +velvet wound in her burnished hair, a glittering necklace at her +throat. She chattered incessantly, hung about Bertie with one of her +outbursts of affection. + +Marie had given Madame ah, but a tiny thing for the nairves, a thing +she had learnt of at Madame la Comtesse's and treasured the +prescription. Marie had prescribed further, suggested massage, a sure +cure for nervous ills. + +Esme made plans in her head; leapt from reckless despair to reckless +hope. She spent in imagination the big allowance Bertie's uncle would +give them; she saw herself "my lady." She felt clinging fingers in +hers, saw baby faces in her house. She would brush away the effect of +her own wicked folly; she would be happy and rich and contented. + +So, with her thoughts leaping ahead, she frightened Bertie by talking +of her plans; they comprised country houses, a yacht, hunters, jewels, +new frocks. + +"I'll have that sable coat altered. The Furrier Company will do it for +a hundred pounds. I'm sick of it. We'll go to Tatts, Bertie, and buy +you a couple of hunters." + +"Out of what?" he asked gravely. + +"Out of--futurity," Esme laughed. "Estelle, don't look sensible; it +worries me. Look here, children, I'm not well. I'm going over to Paris +to see Legrand. That dull doctor's wife I met to-day says he can cure +death itself. And then, when I am well--" + +With flushed cheeks and shining eyes she perched on the arm of Bertie's +chair, her fingers caressing his hair. "And then," she said, bending +and whispering to him. + +He flushed, but took her hot white fingers in his. + +"Oh, it's for that," he said, in a low voice--"for that, Esme." + +"For that. Then I'll settle down--give up Society," she said, jumping +up and running to the window. "Come, we'll go out and join the +trippers. I wonder Denise has not sent for me to play bridge. No, we +won't go out; ring up the Adderleys, Bertie. They'll always play.... +It's too dull just walking out in the dark." + +It was always too dull to do anything which left room for thought. + +Esme played until morning, then, with the effect of the nerve tonic +worn off, went irritably upstairs, knowing that nothing but chloral +would give her rest that night. + +"Tell Monsieur I am not well, that I must sleep alone. That will do, +Marie. You can go." + +Marie held the cobwebby nightdress ready to put on, but Esme sent the +maid away. + +Marie laid down the scented silken thing and went thoughtfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +"I fear it is unlikely, Madame. I am very sorry." Dr Legrand put his +capable finger-tips together, looked sympathetically at the tall, +golden-haired Englishwoman who had come to consult him. + +"The child died, then, Madame--that another is so important?" he asked +kindly. + +Esme flushed scarlet. "It--yes--I lost it," she said bitterly, her eyes +filling with tears. "I lost him. And I am not likely to have another?" + +"Frankly, no, Madame. But you are young. Madame is nervous, says she +cannot sleep without something. Give the something up, Madame; there is +a little death, a little madness, bottled in each innocent dose. Go to +the country, live in the open air. Get Madame's nerves well, then +perhaps your wish may be realized." + +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 passed 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 passed 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 +shimmering 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 space 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. + +Sir Thomas, ordering tea, first called the unknown an impossible +bounder, and then let his blue beads rest on Esme with some surprise in +them. + +"Don't exactly wonder either," he said. "Dress very fine, ain't it? +Hubby over with you?" + +"No," Esme answered, irritably. + +"Oh!" A comprehensive pause. "Let me know when to sheer off then. I'm +doing nothing. Just over to look round. Lots of things to look at, eh? +over here. Same sort look like peaches in the apple-house over in +London." + +Sir Thomas drank his tea. Esme knew that in his shrewdly lewd little +mind he quite believed that she had come to Paris to meet +someone--looked on it as merely natural. Sir Thomas knew one code of +life, and love had never come to make him wish he had not believed in +it thoroughly. + +He talked on lightly; with him no wife was faithful, no man a keeper of +his marriage vow. He told of little scandals pleasantly; they were +nothing in his eyes. + +"She was very nearly caught that time. Dicky Margrave rolled up quite +unexpectedly and milady had the forbidden fruit in her boudoir. She +told him to turn his back and take off his coat, and clean the windows. +'Horrible mess in here, Dicky,' she said. 'Man's just finishing the +windows. Come to the library.' The forbidden one walked out boldly two +minutes later." + +"But the servants?" said Esme. + +"Oh, if they tell, they go; also, they won't get other places; they +keep quiet all right. Betty Margrave told me that herself. She's got +Dicky in order now; he's afraid of reprisals about Caromeo." + +So from story to story, a male Vivien carelessly blackening reputation. + +Esme told him so, growing impatient. + +"Bless you! who's got 'em nowadays? We only treasure visiting lists," +he mocked. + +After a time Esme talked herself, found herself enjoying the +ever-pleasant task of pulling our friends to pieces, added a new +whisper or two for Sir Thomas to elaborate. + +"Just left the new Penelope, haven't you?" he said. "Denise +Blakeney--she's into the starch bag after several years in hot water. +No one but Cyrrie now, and he--well, he was always a gorgon husband. +Saw a parson gazing at Denise last month at her big garden-party. +'There is a model of English wifehood, of truth and purity,' he said to +something in brown muslin, whom I fancy was his wife." + +"And if he knew," flashed Esme, indignantly, and stopped. + +"Knew what?" Sir Thomas grew interested. + +"A little secret." Esme's face grew grave. "Pah! if we all knew each +other's secrets. If you knew mine and I yours." + +"Haven't got any," he said comfortably. "Secrets are the kind of things +you've to keep a flat for and a motor which they drive some other +fellow out in. A day's amusement is my sort. But--you--you're a bit of +a Penelope yourself, Mrs Carteret." + +"Anything else is so stupid," said Esme, laughing. + +Sir Thomas, falling into complete bewilderment, asked Esme to dinner +when he found she was really alone. To forget her misery she was +hilariously gay, telling smart little stories, flashing out sharp +speeches, amusing the little man immensely. + +"Kind of woman you don't know what to make of," grumbled Sir Thomas. +"Lets you kiss her ear in the taxi, and gives yours a verbal boxing +when you suggest supper in a quiet room. Gets herself up to look like +what she's not, and is frightfully offended when she's taken for it. +Tires one's eyes, that class of cipher. We'll read plain print again +demain, thank the Lord." + +Folly would never be Esme's refuge; she sat in her room, her sleeping +draught ready, wondering what life would be like if, for mere +amusement, she had been what Sir Thomas took her for. There was not +even a pretension of affection, but merely: "We are well met. You are +pretty, your skin is soft, your eyes are bright; let us see how much +joy we can steal from Time's storehouse." + +"There must be crowds of people who are like that or he wouldn't think +it so natural," said Esme. "I believe Dollie wouldn't care--or Denise, +once--but I--I could never forget my miseries by becoming a beast." + +Then, soothed by the drug, she slept soundly, to wake with a parched +mouth and heavy head, and lie tossing feverishly because her tea was +late. + +There were the three dresses. Fretting for them--more because she +wanted to fret than because she really wanted them--Esme went to the +telephone. + +"Is that Madame? No? Well, give her a message. Tell her I'll send over +a cheque for those dresses from London. To alter and keep them for +me--Mrs Carteret." + +It was a weary journey back. When thoughts would come crowding in +bitter array. If there was never to be a child, then they would never +be rich. Only a week before Bertie had told her plainly that they could +not go on spending so much. Here again Esme blamed someone else. If +Denise would only pay her regularly, it was all Denise's fault. There +was two hundred owing now, since June. The thousand pounds vanished so +easily. Dresses, bridge, furs, so many things that Esme wanted, could +not do without. If Bertie knew that besides what he knew to be spent +she was using this other money, too. + +If Denise would only pay up her debts for her, let her start fair +again! Esme looked sullenly at the calm sea. If not she would threaten +to take the boy--she would take him. He would forget it all in time. +Then, with a shiver, she thought of the telling, of the scandals, of +tongues wagging, of the proving and altering, and, she was not +pitiless, of Denise Blakeney's complete undoing. + +Denise was still in Scotland. Rashly, pressed by her desire for the +dresses, Esme made up her mind to write. + +Bertie met his wife at Charing Cross. With her irritable mood making +her observant, Esme noticed that his light overcoat was shabby, that he +lacked smartness. + +"Oh! Bertie!" She kissed him, eagerly glad to see him, always hoping to +find comfort in his love. Then the barrier which her secret made rose, +drearily, between them. They had so little to talk about now, so little +in common. + +"That coat's shabby, Bert. You must get a new one," she said +impatiently. + +"Not just now," he answered; "it's all right." + +"It's not right." Esme felt that he was hitting at her extravagances. +"You shall get one. I'll buy it for you, Bert." + +"Millionaire," he mocked. "Have you got some secret fount of money, Es? +You never have enough to buy your own things, child. And--the doctor, +Es--Legrand?" + +"Says I'm to drink milk and eat turnips and pray," she said bitterly, +"and live in the country, and sleep on ozone, and so forth." + +"And--if you would?" His voice grew eager. "Oh! Esme, if you +would--just you and I together again." + +The tenderness in his voice was forced there, stilling thoughts which +would not sleep; he assured himself that with a fresh start, without +perpetual extravagance and excitement, he would feel the old passion +for his wife wake in him. Fresh air and exercise would banish the +memory of the companion whose presence he longed for so much now. + +"Come to Cliff End, Butterfly. Try it as a cure, with me as chief +physician." + +London, huge and splendid, flitted by them as the taxi rushed to the +flats; the streets called to Esme; the restaurants were lighted up, +glowing golden behind their portals. She thought of the whimper of the +wind, the thunder of the surf against the rocks; the dreariness of the +country. + +"I couldn't," she said at last; "the man doesn't understand. Town's my +life, Bertie; all my pals are here. No, I couldn't." + +"It will have to be Town with a difference very soon," he said, sighing. + +Economy again--money; he thought of nothing else. She was not back five +minutes and he was preaching at her. He could look up what he'd paid +for her clothes last year. It wasn't so much. "And I'm better dressed +than rich women," stormed Esme, hysterically. "You might be proud of me +instead of grumbling--always grumbling." + +The taxi stopped at the door of the tall buildings. There was no home +in it to Bertie. The hall porter greeted them. The lift took them +upwards to their flat, past other flats, and then into the pretty rooms. + +Marie was ready waiting, supplying the petit soins which Bertie had +forgotten. + +"Pauvre Madame is tired." Marie had a cup of coffee with but just a +soupcon of eau de vie. The bath was prepared. She hovered round Esme, +getting a soft wrapper, soothing jangled nerves. Marie was a treasure! + +Esme took up her letters. Bills, invitations, more bills, a scrawl from +Dollie asking them to dinner. Esme had forgotten her ill-humour. + +"Bertie, we're dining out--telephone to Dollie. Yes, I said we'd go." + +Dollie Gresham's was better than dinner in the restaurant, or brought +up by a flat-faced German to their dining-room. Bertie distrusted the +tinned soup, the besauced entrees and tasteless meat. He was glad to go +out. Esme had told him nothing; he was hurt and would not show it. + +"Ring up the coupe people, Marie. Dollie may be going to a theatre, +Bert." + +"We must owe them a fortune," was on Bertie's lips, but he stopped. To +even ask if a taxi would do might disturb peace. + +Dollie wanted them for bridge. Her little dinners surpassed Esme's now. +They were a party of eight, Dollie's bitterly clever tongue keeping +away all fears of dullness. + +"Cousin May was here to-night, Esme; she came from Paris to-day also. +She saw you there--at the Ritz, having a dinner with blue-eyed Tommy. +You heard some pretty tales before that evening was over, Esme. Let's +have them now." + +"Am I to undermine the peace of this dinner-table?" Esme's wit was +fairly ready, and she watched with a smile as women flushed and men +looked uncomfortable. + +"Unsavoury little dustman," said Bertie, sharply. + +Esme had not told him of her dinner. His look at her made the table +know it, and gave them something to talk of afterwards. + +"Sly Esme, setting up as such a model too. And Tommy of all men. She +was a friend of Jimmie Helmsley's once, too; _don't_ you remember he +dropped her for the Chauntsey girl?" people whispered. The teeth of +Society loves a bone of scandal to crunch. + +After dinner Bertie cut in at Dollie's table, and as her partner found +himself absent, playing badly, losing tricks carelessly. + +"I'm really sorry," he apologized, as their opponents went across for +sandwiches. "I'll wake up now." + +"You're out of sorts," Dollie said kindly. "What is it?" + +"Debts," he said wearily. "We're the old proverbial china crock, Mrs +Gresham, trying to swim with the brass one. What does it cost a woman +to dress, Mrs Gresham?" + +"It costs Esme about fifteen hundred a year," said Dollie, shrewdly. +"Claire is ruinous now. Never an evening frock under sixty, and the +etceteras at so much an ounce. Then Esme's furs are all new. She's a +bad little lady going to Claire, and Lilie in Paris." + +"Fifteen hundred!" Bertie laughed. "No, about three; and it's far more +than I can manage." + +"Three--grandmothers!" observed Dollie, blandly. "You see Claire's +little bill and tell me then. You're very extravagant children. Esme +paid those electric people fifty pounds before you left London, and +taxis are just as good." + +"Fifty pounds!" Bertie shuffled the cards silently. He had not given +Esme fifty pounds for the garage. He certainly did not pay Claire's +bill. His payments had been to big drapers, and to a tailor. + +A sudden sickening doubt was assailing him. Was Esme getting money he +did not know of? Was he one among the hundreds of fooled husbands? He +flung the thought away, and turned to the game, and played carefully. + +But on the way home the thought returned. + +"Esme, we must pay these people," he said, trying to speak carelessly. +"Not let it get too high." + +"Oh, I sent them a sop to Cerberus months ago--a big one." + +"But--I never gave it to you." + +"No." He saw her hand move impatiently. "No, it was bridge winnings, I +suppose. Or when Poeticus won the Hunt Cup. I forget." + +Suspicion is a seed which, sown, grows, and will not be hoed up. Bertie +came into his wife's room as she lay asleep, and looked sadly at her +pale face. There was a small room next door, lined with cupboards; he +went to it, opened the doors, saw the shimmer of satins and silks, the +softness of chiffon and lace, the gleam of rich embroidery--dress upon +dress. He had loved to see her well dressed, and not dreamt of the +great cost of some of these mere wisps of evening gowns. Sixty pounds! +Bertie shut the doors, feeling mean, as if he had spied, but he was not +satisfied. + +Had Esme some way of getting money? Instead of sleeping, he did +accounts; got up frowning, to go to sleep at last in the grey bleakness +of an autumn morning, to wake with the little parasite, suspicion, +gnawing at his heart. + +He went into his wife's room after his breakfast; she did not come down +for hers now. Esme was up, her golden hair loose, waiting to have some +brightening stuff rubbed into it. + +She was bending over her jewel-case, choosing a necklace and pendant to +wear. + +"This clasp is loose, Marie; the clasp of these sapphires"--Esme held +up a thin chain holding together little clusters of sapphires and +diamond sparks. "It's--oh! you, Bertie!" + +"That's new, isn't it, Esme?" He took the chain from her. + +"New--if a year old is new." + +"And this"--he snapped open two or three cases, holding glittering +toys. "I didn't give you any of these, did I?" + +Esme moved impatiently. "Paste," she said suddenly. "Parisian! I can't +go about always wearing the same old things, so I am foolish, and get +these." + +"Oh, paste!" He was putting back a pendant when he looked at the +setting. Surely paste had a backing, was not set clear. + +"They're wonderfully done," he said gravely. The satin lining of the +case bore a Bond Street jeweller's name. + +"Oh, wonderfully." Esme snapped the case to. "And I get the cases so as +to deceive my friends' maids. Run away, Bertie, you worry me standing +there." + +He went slowly. Esme was lying to him. The things were real. Her +jewel-box was full of new toys and trifles; he began to realize that +her dresses were magnificent. + +Her letters lay in a litter on her bureau, some half-opened, all tossed +about as if they had worried her. One long slip oozed from its +envelope, with a huge total at its foot. It was a bill for new furs. +Another thick envelope bore the word "Claire" on the back. + +A man has a right to see his wife's bills. Bertie took out the letter. + +Madame Claire begged immediately for a cheque on account. She really +must have a few--Bertie turned white--a few hundreds. A smaller slip of +paper was enclosed. Amount of account furnished, three hundred and ten +pounds. Yellow evening gown, lace overdress, seventy pounds. Blue tea +gown, forty pounds. The total was for five hundred pounds. + +Bertie laid it down with a sick feeling of despair. He could not pay +this. It was impossible. Five hundred pounds to a dressmaker. Dollie +Gresham had been right in her estimate. He sat looking at the dull blue +of the drawing-room carpet, sat thinking hopelessly. + +Then Esme, in dull blue-green, masses of black making a foil to her +fair skin, came back. A faint perfume clung about her, nothing +emphasized, but the memory of sachets or little pieces of perfumed skin +sewn into her dress. + +The necklace of small sapphires and diamonds glistened at her throat. +She was humming gaily, ready to write to Denise. + +"Esme!" Bertie raised his white face. + +"Bertie! Have the Germans taken London, or is Lloyd George made Regent? +Or--you're not ill, Bertie?" + +"We can't go on, Esme," he said. "I saw your account on your bureau +there. Esme, I can't pay it, unless we sell everything--go away." + +He saw her hand clench, but she did not look at him. + +"How dared you pry?" she began, then checked herself. "Paul Pry!" she +mocked. "Paul Pry! But I can pay it." + +"You? How?" he asked, getting up. + +"How? I've won a lot lately," she said, after a pause. "I got some +tips. I can pay it, Bertie." + +"You've got money to your account, then?" he said, for he knew that she +was lying again. + +"Not now." + +"Bookmakers," said Bertie, "pay on Mondays. Who is your man?" + +"Oh! _don't_ bother, Bertie." Her hands shook as she began to write. +"Denise did the bet for me. I'm writing to ask her to send it on now." + +"Oh!" he said, more quietly still. + +"I backed first one and then another," she said; "got it that way. So +don't fret, Boy." + +"But if you had not won," he said softly. "The account is not new, +Esme." + +"I chanced it! I let the winnings go on to other gees." He could hear +the anger rising in her voice. "I chanced it. Don't bother now, I'm +writing." + +"But I must bother, Esme. We can't go on like this. We're getting +poorer every day. If we had a child things would be different, but as +it is Hugh Carteret will leave me Cliff End and what he allows me +now--four hundred a year." + +"And you'll be Lord De Vinci," she said. + +"With a title and two mortgaged places, and every penny left to the +girl. Esme, if you can't pull in we must give up London." + +"Not until London gives me up," she flashed out. "Leave me my own +affairs, Bertie. If I make a bit it doesn't hurt you. You don't have to +pay then." + +"You're mad, Butterfly," he answered, "to dream of living by backing +horses. Look here! Nothing's ever been the same since I went away that +time. Esme, we're young. Let's start again." He came nearer her. + +If he had taken her in his arms she might have fought down the restless +demon of anger and resentment which was tearing at her. But he did not +touch her. + +"Start in a sand castle by the sea," she mocked, "with limpets for +friends and neighbours." And then suddenly her self-control gave way. +She burst out hysterically and told him he wanted to make her +miserable, to imprison her in the country; cried tears of sheer peevish +temper; swore that all the world's luck was against her; that she had +no pleasure, no real fun; that even a few rags paid for by herself were +grudged to her. + +After a little Bertie turned away, went out so quietly that she did not +hear him go, and left Esme raving in an empty room, until Marie with a +tabloid came to soothe and comfort. + +Bertie walked swiftly across London, up through the roar of Piccadilly, +with its motor monsters, diving, stopping, rushing, with its endless +flight of taxis, its horse vans out of place in the turmoil. It was +cold, a thin rain falling; he walked on to narrower streets, and came +to the grey, dull square where Estelle lived with her aunt. It was +London at its dreariest; smoke-stained old houses, blinking out at a +smoke-grimed, railed-in square. A few messengers delivering meat at +area doors, a few tradesmen's carts standing about, now and then a taxi +gliding through, spurning the thin slime of the quiet street. Decorous, +old-fashioned carriages were drawn up at some of the doors, with large +horses poking miserably at their bearing reins, and getting their +mouths chucked as they did it by obese and self-satisfied coachmen. The +self-centred life of a colony of quiet people was making its monotonous +way from free lighting to lights out. People who lived next door and +never knew each other, who revolved in their own little circles and +called it living. Perhaps lived as happily as others, since to each +their own life and drawing of breath. + +"Was Miss Reynolds in? Yes?" + +Estelle was dusting the china in the big, brown-hued drawing-room, an +appalling museum of early Victorian atrocities, with efforts of the +newer arts which followed the cumbrous solidity; pieces of black and +gold, plush monkeys clinging to worked curtains, fret-work brackets and +tables covered with velvet sandwiched in here and there. + +Estelle dusted an offensive bronze clock with positive loathing. It was +a gouty effigy of Time, clinging to his scythe because he must have +fallen without it, and mournfully accepting the hour-glass set in his +chest, which held a loudly-ticking clock of flighty opinions and +habits; evidently, judging by his soured expression, a cross to the +holder. Two large vases containing dyed pampas grass guarded each end +of the mantelpiece; two others held everlastings. + +Estelle had once said that the room inspired her with a deep longing to +throw stones there, so as to break some of the monotony. + +Mrs Martin, her aunt, padded softly in each morning, moving pieces of +furniture back to their exact places if they had been stirred by +visitors, patting the muslin antimacassars, pausing every time at the +doorway to remark, "Is it not a charming room?" and then padding out +again--she wore velvet slippers--to sit in the room at the back and +stitch for the poor. Mrs Martin had reduced dullness, skilfully touched +up with worthiness, to a fine art. + +She gave Estelle complete liberty, because, behind her conventional +stupidity, she herself had a mind which imagined no harm, a child's +mind, crystal clear of evil thoughts. She had married, been widowed, +lived blamelessly. The swirl of London was part of the newspaper world, +"which everyone knows, my dear, the compositors make up as they go on," +she told Estelle, "except of course the divorce cases, and no doubt +half of those are not true." + +The most blameless daily which could be procured was taken together +with the Athenaeum and the Sunday Chronicle. + +"Oh, I shall throw them some day," said Estelle aloud to the vases. + +"Who is that, Magennis?" said Mrs Martin to the butler. "Captain +Carteret! I trust he has come to arrange an outing for Miss Reynolds." + +"He does that often, 'e does," said Magennis, as he went back to his +pantry. Magennis had not a mind of crystal purity. When he was younger +he had been pantry-boy in a large country house. + +"Bertie! What is it?" Estelle dropped one of the smaller vases. It +crashed on to the silver brightness of the polished fender, making a +litter of bright-flowered glass and crackling everlastings. + +"It's broken," said Estelle. + +"And so am I." Bertie crossed the room and took her hands. "And you +cannot ever mend the vase, Estelle, but I wonder if you can mend me." + +Estelle turned very white. + +"I'm tired," he said drearily. "I feel as if the fates had drubbed me +mentally, until my sore mind aches. We'll get another vase, +Estelle"--for she was picking up the pieces with shaking fingers. "And +I tell you, I have come to you to be mended," he went on, almost +pitifully. + +"But I--what can I do?" she whispered. + +The room faded; she saw the open sea shimmering blue and green and +opal; she felt again the love she had hoped she had fought down and put +away. + +"You can stop pretending," he said. "You can give me a little comfort, +Estelle, a little love. I have lost faith in everything except you. +And--I love you, Estelle," he added gravely. + +The rush of mingled joy and sorrow made the girl gasp. + +"But Esme?" she whispered. + +"Esme was a will-o'-the-wisp--a false light on a marsh. You are the +solid world. Estelle, I don't know where I am. Esme has made a fool of +me--and I can never care for her again. Will you help me--or see me go +to the dogs alone?" + +The cunning of man, turning the mother-love in woman, which he knows is +stronger than passion, to his own ends. Man triumphant, merry, full of +strength and hope, she may resist; but man broken, pitiful, needing +her, is irresistible. + +Bertie had sat down on the brown sofa; he was looking at her with dazed +eyes. + +"I'll help you, Bertie. I'll be all I can ... as your friend ... +remember, only as your friend." + +"Child, do you take me for a brute?" he said, as he drew her down +beside him. + +Poor Friendship, lending his cloak once more, standing mournfully as +Love flings it over his pink shoulders; knowing so well how the god +liked to hide and mock beneath the solid folds. + +"Oh! I am so tired, Estelle," said Bertie. + +Friends only--the cloak held firmly. But friends' lips do not meet with +a thrill of joy; friends do not know the unrestful happiness which came +to these two as they sat hand-in-hand--their two years' sham fight over. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +"OH, bother!" said Denise Blakeney. "Bother!" + +"What is it, Den?" + +Sir Cyril sat on his wife's bed; he was up early, out about the place, +arranging the day, looking at his horses, his herd of shorthorns, +speaking to the keepers. His men feared Sir Cyril, and served him well. + +Denise pushed a letter away. + +She was pretty and fresh in her lace cap, her rose-pink wrapper. + +"Oh, nothing!" she answered. "It's time to get up, isn't it?" + +"To-morrow," he said, "it will be time an hour earlier." + +"Shooting mornings are so long," yawned Denise. + +"But what, or who, worried you, Den? Why did you exclaim?" + +An insistent man, he held out his hand for the letter. + +"Oh! nothing, Cyrrie. No, you mustn't see it. It's only from Esme, +grumbling. I couldn't show it to you. There are things about +herself--her health." Denise talked very fast, growing a little +breathless. "And she wants a little loan--and I'm short. She was so +good to me that time abroad, you know--she--" + +"She's rankly extravagant," said Cyril, equably. The silken quilt had +slipped on one side; he saw the figures L200 written plainly. Sir Cyril +sat thinking, frowning as he thought. He gave Denise a huge allowance +to do as she chose with; but twice in the last year she had asked him +for more. + +"She's rankly extravagant," he went on, "and she must not worry you, my +dear. I'll send her five-and-twenty." + +"No, Cyril, not you--it would be a breach of confidence." + +"There can be no breaches of confidence between a wife and her +husband." His eyes hardened, his big jaw stuck out. "No secrets, Den. I +tell you that, and I mean it. If she has asked you before I should have +known. I expect to know again." + +Stooping, he kissed her lightly, but she knew the meaning in his voice, +knew and dreaded him. The folly of her petty sinning had been crossed +out, but since then she was his, and he would stand no deceiving. + +"You fool! to write to me," almost whimpered Denise. + +Esme had written excitedly. She had raved on at Bertie, stormed, cried, +grown calm, and then angry. Money must be found now--must! Two hundred +was not enough. Denise must send three, advance the money for January; +she must give at least two hundred to the rapacious Claire. So her +letter was a flurried one, lacking caution. "I must, Denise," she +wrote--"I _must_ have money. I could have it of my own if I--if +I--upset everything. You know what I mean. So don't refuse me, old +girl, for old sake's sake. Send me something to sell if you can't +manage coin. I'm really in a corner. Bertie's grumbling, Claire +pressing. You know what Hugh has said--that if I had a child he'd leave +us money, and so--" then a long blank. + +"She is mad," whispered Denise, now white to the lips, shaking from +sick fear. "If she told, if it came out. I'd deny it all! She dare not; +but--if she did!" She sat up, shivering, and Sir Cyril, looking in, saw +her. + +"That Carteret girl is worrying Den," he said to himself. + +"And I haven't got it," muttered Denise. "I don't think so, and I +daren't send off jewels, for that tiresome Studley counts them all, and +nothing wants mending." + +She must slip into the town, get money and send it off. Cyrrie had been +looking over her accounts lately; she had had to draw out money in +small sums, and send them on. + +Denise was frightened. She was going down when she saw the tell-tale +letter lying on her bed. She ran back, tore it up, burnt it in her +fire; came to breakfast shaken and looking ill. + +Cyril was making his own tea; Denise took coffee; the boys, in their +high chairs, were solemnly eating bread and milk, eating fast that they +might reach the stage of scrambled eggs, and later, honey or jam. + +"Oh, Cyril, how you mess!" Cyril had dropped his spoon. "You shan't +have any jam now, or egg--only bread and butter." + +"You're hard on him, Den. Any fellow can drop a spoon." + +"He can also learn to hold it. Now don't cry, Cyril." + +"I never does," said Cyril, quietly. "Never, mumsie." + +"No--you sulk." Denise was venting her irritation on the boy. + +Big Cyril was thinking. He thought quietly, and, equally quietly, +acted. Denise must not be weak enough to go on paying for one winter's +kindness. + +"Say sorry and mumsie will give us jam," said Sir Cyril. + +"Didn't drop it a pupus, dads." The clear baby eyes met Sir Cyril's, +filled with the mystical reasoning of childhood. "Not a pupus--the dog +joggled me, dad." + +Sir Cyril grinned gently; Denise muttered something, and he helped the +boys to egg. + +Cyril, forgetting the wisdom of silence, wished to know why hens +wouldn't lay eggs scrambled, an' save cook's trouble, and Cecil +suggested telling the fowl-woman. + +"I am going to Insminton, Cyril. I have to get some things." + +"Yes. I'll come in with you. No one will be here before one." + +Denise flushed; then she must go in the afternoon, and the bank would +be shut. + +She sat fidgeting, afraid to the bottom of her shallow soul of the +big-jawed man she had married. + +She had seen him angry--knew the depths of his cold anger, and his +ideas of justice. The hard Blakeney pictured faces frowned down upon +her from the dining-room walls; a race of human steamrollers, driven by +the power of determination; diving aside respectfully for what they +realized to be the rightful traffic of the road of life, but coming on +mercilessly to grind what needed grinding. + +"Coming, Den?" Sir Cyril called from the door. + +Denise came reluctantly; she must pretend to have some errands, for she +knew she would get no opportunity now of going to the bank. Her husband +would do his own work quickly, then drive her about, waiting for her. + +The big drapers scored by an order for silk and for table linen. + +Mr Holmes, the grocer, rubbing his fat chin, decided that sardines must +be about to be used as fish by the great, seeing that he had supplied a +dozen boxes the day before and was asked for another dozen now. + +"Finished, Den?" + +"Yes. I think I've forgotten something, though." Denise was driven +home, answering questions, but not speaking, frightened, and too +visibly ill at ease. + +"H'm!" said Sir Cyril to himself. + +He went to his study to write, stayed there until the luncheon gong +rang, came out to find the first arrivals in the morning-room, and to +see Denise, her colour high, hurrying in. + +"I'm so sorry I'm late. I had to run over to the Vicarage to give the +vicaress some books for her club. I forgot them this morning." + +Denise had been to the bank, extracted two hundred pounds in notes from +a beaming manager. She came in a little nervously, looking aside at Sir +Cyril. The big man would have made a good detective. His hard eyes +narrowed a little, his big chin shot out. Denise was not in the least +likely to have remembered the books for the vicar's wife without some +other motive. Without the faintest suspicion of Denise in his mind, he +summed it all up. + +"That Carteret woman's worried the girl; she went to get her the +money." After all, the Carteret woman had been once full of devotion; +Denise had heaps of money; but it must not go too far. Cyril Blakeney +was a man who walked straight to his goal. He meant to ask Denise how +much she had sent, to warn her against being bled. + +He ate his plainly-cooked luncheon, almost in silence. A thorough +Englishman, eating large helpings of roast beef and vegetables, topped +up by a steamed pudding and cheese. A mouthful of something highly +flavoured had no attractions for Cyril Blakeney. + +Denise, picking at a cutlet, watched him, grew brighter as she began to +feel certain that she had managed everything so well. She would have +her own money soon, send on the advance to Esme. + +Denise pulled out the one foot she had dabbled into the Slough of +Despond. She walked gaily again in the sunshine on firm ground. + +And yet the cue was on the call-boy's lips; the drama was being played +out, and a net she never dreamed of closing about her. + +By tea-time the party had nearly assembled; they took it in the big +drawing-room, chilled people coming gladly near the blazing fire, +drinking hot tea, eating tea-cakes and hot biscuits as if dinner were +twenty-four hours away. + +Lucy Richmond, a big blonde, married to one of the best shots, came to +sit by Denise. She was a dull, stupid woman, deeply impressed by +herself. Hostesses were profoundly bored by Mrs Richmond, but she +delighted in house-parties and was comfortably certain that Gus, her +lean little husband, was only asked for her sake. + +"So nice to be here again, dear Lady Blakeney. I do love your big +house. And now tell me all about the babies, and how they are." + +Denise nibbled a sandwich, and looked for rescue. She was lamentably +ignorant as to flannel undervests and patent foods. + +"The little one is in knickers now, I expect, isn't he? I hope he +wears...." + +Denise's appealing eyes raked Sir Thomas from his chair; they called +openly for help. + +"That he wears really fine wool," said Mrs Richmond, heavily. "No, Sir +Thomas, run away; you're not interested in children's clothes." + +"In knickerbockers," giggled Denise, faintly. + +"Not going to come out with the guns in 'em really, are you?" said Sir +Thomas, blandly, ignoring everything except the last words. "Sportin' +of you, Mrs Rich--very. Has Raleigh taught you shootin' then?" + +Mrs Richmond sniffed angrily. + +"Get me some tea," said Denise, "and oh, here's Cyril." + +The big man strolled across to his wife, handing her a telegram from a +delayed guest. + +"Nuisance," he said; "good shot, too." + +"Oh! Lady Blakeney, I must show you my new pendant." Lucy Richmond +forgot knickerbockers, and turned to a fresh subject. "One of those +dear, old-fashioned, heavy things. Raleigh sent me to buy myself a +birthday present, and it had just come in to Benhusan's." + +Unfastening a clasp, she held the jewel out. Seeing it, Denise felt her +colour ebb until she feared her cheeks must be deathly white. It was +the pendant she had given to Esme. Why had the woman chosen this moment? + +"It's just like yours, Den"--Sir Cyril took the jewel in his big +fingers--"exactly the same." + +"I love these dear old-fashioned solid things," babbled Lucy Richmond. +"As it was heavy, it wasn't so dear. Benhusan told me he had just +bought it, but that they had made it originally themselves." + +"Oh!" Sir Cyril sat down. "Yes. Bought it when, did you say?" + +A bore is a person stocked with date and detail. Lucy Richmond loved a +listener. How interesting she was, she felt, as she re-clasped the ugly +pendant. Oh, on such a day--at such an hour. + +Close by Denise sat listening, afraid to speak, hoping she was not +showing her fear, her heart fluttering. + +"Yes. Curiously, my wife has a duplicate of this, one an old aunt gave +to her. Wear yours to-night, Denise." + +"I hate it, Cyrrie," she faltered. + +"Yet wear it," he said very quietly, and strolled away. Sir Cyril never +seemed to hurry. + +Denise, for the best reasons, could not wear the pendant. Wild thoughts +shot through her head. Should she go to Mrs Richmond, borrow the +diamonds, make up a story? No, for the gossiping fool would repeat it +all over London. + +It was late when Denise came to her room; she sent her maid away, sat +by the fire. It was so comfortable there; she was surrounded by rich +things; her dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory; her bed was +carved white wood, a nest of silken eider-down. + +And if Cyril knew. + +He came in then, quietly, walked to the fire and stood looking down at +her. + +Some silences are harder to bear than words. Denise shivered nervously. + +"You did not wear the pendant to-night, Denise." + +"No," she said miserably. + +"Because you could not. Denise, why lie to me?" + +"I--I," she crouched down in her big chair, sick, frightened, wondering +what lie might serve her best. + +"I know Benhusan," he said. "I rang him up at his own house. Den--Esme +Carteret took that pendant, and--you lied to screen her." + +The woman cowering in the chair turned as red as she had been pale, +felt as some sinking swimmer who suddenly feels ground beneath his feet. + +"I saw her standing at your safe, opening and shutting cases. She +thought you might never miss this thing, as she knew you hated it. +Denise, I don't blame you; but one cannot know a thief. It was that, +was it not?" + +Stronger people have taken their rescue at the cost of a friend's +reputation. Denise was not strong; she was shallow-natured and afraid +and shaken. + +"Oh, Cyril," she said, beginning to cry. "Oh! don't tell a soul. Oh, +promise--promise! She wanted money so badly." + +"Money to spend upon herself, upon frocks and furs and entertainment. +Den, she must not come to the house again. And this exonerates you from +sending her gifts of money." + +Sick fear jumped to life again. If there was any difficulty with Esme's +allowance the whole story might come out; she might still be ruined, +disgraced. + +But reflection brought comfort; there would be heaps of ways of +managing the money. + +Denise put her arms round Cyril's neck and pleaded for silence for her +friend; let the stigma of thief fall on another woman, and wondered why +she had found so easy a way out. + +"I don't blame you, Den--don't cry." He held his wife closely. "But +don't lie to me, girl! Don't! even to save other people. I must have +truth. Must--and--will. The past's past; the future's mine, Denise, +remember that." + +He held her away a little, so that he could see her face. "You took +some money out to send this wretched woman to-day. Don't send it now. +How much was it?" + +"It was not all for her, Cyril; she wanted--fifty," stammered Denise. +"I got a lot--I was thinking of buying those ponies and the little trap +for the boys as a surprise. You know, Edwardes' pair." + +It was a good lie this time; he had no suspicion. + +"Well, put your money back," he said kindly. "I'll get that. I'll put +it in for you to-morrow ... send it for you." + +Denise Blakeney did not sleep that night; and next day, driving into +the town, she lost a valuable ring; it was loose, must have slipped off +in her glove. + +Esme, opening the parcel, read a letter which surprised her. + +"You were mad to write, Esme, mad! All kinds of things have happened, +and I cannot tell you. Take these stones out to sell them. I've said I +lost the ring. And don't go to Benhusan's." + +Sir Cyril, before he promised silence to his wife, had talked too +openly to Amos Benhusan; said more than he had perhaps intended to. + +Mr Benhusan had not promised silence; he talked a little, discreetly, +but he talked. + +Esme bought her Paris frocks; paid something to Claire. Denise had sent +her something valuable; but when the Blakeneys came to London, and she +called, the "Not at home" was unmistakable. + +"When would her ladyship be in?" + +"Could not say, madam." + +The door respectfully pushed to. Sir Cyril, meeting her, passed her +with a cold bow. + +Esme rang up furiously. What was it? She must know. + +"Not here. I can't talk here." Denise's voice was hurried and strained. +"Meet me at the club to-morrow--at eleven." + +Esme kept her appointment punctually. + +"Down here, Esme--down in this lounge." Denise hurried to a dim corner, +poured out a badly-jointed tale. + +It was the letter. Cyril had caught sight of some of it, been furious; +Esme must keep away. It was the only plan. "And never come near the +boy, never," wailed Denise, "never. After all, you never wanted him. +You mustn't come to the Square. Cyril would suspect." + +A passion of anger rent Esme. Not to see the little son she had sold. +Not to spend the half-hours which sent her away yearning and wistful. +Not to bring sweets to the unloved child; to try to be his friend. + +"Then, if you're not good to him," she stormed out, "by Heaven, Denise! +I'll have him back. And for money, I must have my payment, but the boy +comes first. Be good to him." + +A sneer from Lady Blakeney. It was a little late to prate of +mother-love, to assume virtue. Esme had hated the idea of the baby +coming. It was rubbish to suppose that anyone so hard-hearted could +want to bother now. "I wouldn't have sold my child," sneered Denise. +"No real woman would. Let cant alone, Es." + +A pretty quarrel between two well-bred women who, with primitive +instinct itching their fingernails, flashed out sharp truth and sharper +innuendo. + +A couple of women passing in saw the two. + +"Hullo! I think that Esme and Denise are disagreeing." Lady Mary Ploddy +peered down the corridor. "They're flaming at each other. Look, Sukey." + +Lady Sukey, her sister, looked; she even listened. "Quite interestin'," +she drawled languidly. "Quite!" + +When Esme, flushed and furious, had gone out of the club, she flung +back a last threat which left Denise raw with fear and anger, so +irritated that her words were not quite under her control. She forgot +caution, only wanted to hurt. + +"Denise, you've been fighting with your Esme," said Mary Ploddy. + +"I was telling her I could not go on being friends and she resented +it," said Denise, unsteadily. + +"Couldn't? Why?" It was ill-fortune for Esme that Denise should meet +two women who loved a scandal dearly. + +"Oh, never mind why. Cyril has forbidden me to. It's something I could +not tell; nothing to do with morals." + +"Money then?" Lady Mary's eyes were glowing with curiosity. "Only money +and morals nowadays in the sin catalogue." + +"Oh, never mind--she's impossible," snapped Denise, and, flustered, +shaken, went out. + +"It's something bad. Scratch the Carteret woman's name off the list of +your Bridge Tournament, Sukey. I'll drop a hint to the Rollestones, +too, for their dinner and dance." + +So a whisper grew. Esme, going to a big reception that night, caught +one or two frigid bows from women who had smiled the day before. + +The rooms were crowded, full of notabilities. The reception was in +honour of a French diplomatist and his wife; the tripping tongue was as +much used in the rooms as English. + +"There is one lady whom I wish to see." Dr Legrand looked at the +brilliant crowd. "Milady Blakeney." + +"So, Monsieur. She is close to us--passing downstairs. There--in +grey-blue--with the diamond stars." + +"But, non, that is a dark lady." The doctor stared, puzzled. + +"My nephew attended milady in Italy; but she is fair." + +"No, Monsieur; she was always dark. He's muddled her with Esme +Carteret, who was with her. She is brilliantly fair. She +might--yes--there she is, just going out." + +Legrand turned, caught a fleeting glimpse of Esme, started. + +"Meeses Carteret," he half whispered. "But surely, it is so like the +Mrs Smith of London. I seem to know this Mrs Carteret," he said aloud. + +"She is a pretty woman. Oh!" + +For Legrand had slipped away, struggled to the far doorway to get to +Esme, caught a glimpse of a fair head on the stairs, but got no nearer. + +But that night he drew the strands of fate closer, for he wrote to +Luigi: + +"I have seen your Lady Blakeney, and she is brown-haired, ordinarily +pretty, no fair-haired goddess. If you will join me here for a day--get +Cartier to act for me. Thy Nonno." + +Luigi arranged to come to London in ten days' time. + +As fog spreads, cold and bitter, so a whisper crossed London. + +Esme, restlessly pleased by new dresses, by money to gamble with, went +to the Holbrooks. Came, without thought of the scandal which was biting +at her name, down to dinner. + +The new dinner-gown clung to her long, thin limbs; she was haggardly, +dazzlingly handsome. + +Lady Mary Ploddy was at the fire. + +"How cold it is!" Esme had played bridge for years with the Ploddy +women. + +Lady Mary went on talking to Vita St Just as if she had heard nothing. + +"How goes bridge, Lady Mary?" Esme said, carelessly. "Been winning +lately? We can play in the mornings here." + +Mary Ploddy's powdered profile was slowly turned. + +"Oh, you, Mrs Carteret," she said icily. "I am rather off bridge. Vita, +shall we sit down?" + +The whisper to yet another friend: + +"Oh, something. Her old friend, Denise Blakeney, has had to cut her. +Sir Cyril insisted. I heard that it was something about a pendant. Amos +Benhusan told one or two people--you know, the big jeweller." + +The chill deepened. Esme was left alone at the fire, realizing suddenly +that the women had drifted away from her. She looked at them curiously, +turned to talk to a couple of men who came in, and forgot it. Something +had put out the old Ploddy women, she decided carelessly. + +But that evening, next day, Esme began to realize people were avoiding +her. She saw glances as she came into a room; she noticed the sudden +hush which told her she was being discussed. + +What was it? What could it be? The Holbrooks' party gave her no +pleasure. For a time she tried to think it was jealousy, envy of her +gowns, but Esme was not small-minded; the thought had to be put away. + +She sat up for Bertie one night, called him in from the small room off +hers, where he slept. + +"Bertie! these women are avoiding me," she flung out. "What is it? I've +done nothing. They keep away from me--are almost rude; there's +something, Bertie." + +"Lord!" He sat down, staring at his wife. She looked haggard, worn; +older than her years. He began to think. People had been curiously +_kind_ to him since he had come. He had been almost feted by the men; +they had "dear old chapped" him, asked him to play bridge and +billiards, praised his shooting, offered to lend him horses, with a +whispering undernote of pity in it all. + +"Lord! It--must be nonsense, Butterfly," he said kindly, with something +telling him that it was not. They had got wind, he thought, of Esme's +extravagance, and then he shook his head. What were debts to women who +thought it smart to evade them, who paid exorbitant bills because they +had been running too long to check them, who all wanted a little more +than they had got? + +"It must be nonsense," he said gruffly. "Scandal wouldn't offend them, +even if you'd ever gone in for it. Want of money is nothing. Perhaps +you've won a bit too much off 'em at bridge, or attracted someone's +private man-property." + +"I haven't," she said irritably. "Well, good-night." + +Luke Holbrook, big and good-natured, paddled across his palm-court next +day to the stiff room where he knew he would find his wife writing +letters. + +"Seem to have made another mess of it, my love," he said mildly. "Went +to Sukey Ploddy now about what you told me, and she swears it's true. +Telephoned to Benhusan. He wouldn't commit himself. Very awkward, my +love, having the woman here." + +"Too awful," said Mrs Holbrook. "To have stolen a friend's diamonds! +That's it, isn't it? Gracious!" said Mrs Holbrook, weakly. "And Daisy +Ardeane coming to-day." + +"Bad as the dancer, my love." Luke Holbrook stroked his fat chin. +"Bad as the dancer. See the _Morning Post_, my love?" + +He picked it up. + +"'A marriage has been arranged and will take place immediately between +the Marquis of Boredom and Miss Maisie Moover, of Magnificent fame.'" + +"The Duchess, my love, is having hysterics at the Hyde Park Hotel. +Ploddy informs me that his cousin Trentwell is attending. She cut me +dead last week in the Park, my love; and all because we wished to amuse +a Cabinet minister." + +"That affair," said his wife, "may alter the Boredoms' missing chins. +But this is important. I can't have Esme Carteret here." + +Mr Holbrook remarked that actions for libel were unpleasant, and that +Carteret was an excellent fellow; then he sighed. + +"The woman has been living at a ridiculous pace," snorted Mrs Holbrook. +"French frocks, furs, out everywhere and in debt." + +"I'm afraid I'm horribly sorry for her; she looks wretched." The big +man got up. "Debt's the devil, Maria." + +"The reminders generally go to a hot place," said his wife, absently. +"Think it over, Luke. Help me." + +"I must, my love," said Luke, meekly. + +And then chance cut the difficulty in two. Esme, picking up the +_Morning Post_, saw another paragraph. + +"Sir Cyril Blakeney's son and heir was to-day run over by a taxi-cab. +Lady Blakeney was with her two children, returning to her house, when +the eldest boy stepped off the footpath and was caught by the wheel of +a passing cab. Faint hopes are entertained of his recovery." + +The paper slipped from Esme's hands; she grew numb and cold. + +"She pushed him," she whispered to herself. "She was angry and pushed +him." + +Her boy! Her baby! She knew now what she had sold and lost. Panting out +his tiny life, dying! + +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 hoarse voice. + +"The ... Duchess 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 passing 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 snatched +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 rushing 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." + +The lighted room, masses of flowers, gay dresses and bright jewels, +swam before her eyes. Then at the door she saw Luigi, and saw him wave +and smile to her. + +The secret was undone. This man knew. Fate had brought him to London. + +Mechanically she walked on. + +"Ah, milady!"--his brown hand gripped hers. "Well met. And--you do not +look well." + +"Mr Herbert, I've dropped a brooch, just over there; try to find it for +me." Esme sent the boy away, stood staring at the Italian. + +"I have not ten minutes," he said. "I have to go, but my uncle would +have me come here to see the English monde. And so--I see the child is +hurted, but is nearly well again. I came yesterday," he said. "I leave +to-morrow, recalled to Italy, or I would have gone to see him and you." + +He knew no one there. He was alone and he was leaving London. Yet at +any moment he might meet Denise with her husband. + +"I am so glad to see you," Esme faltered. "See, come to supper, and I +will try to find Esme; she is here too." + +She hurried him downstairs to the supper-room; saw Denise, and leaving +Luigi ran across to her. + +Denise was with Lord Ralph Karton. + +"Denise!" Esme bent down to her. "Get away. Luigi is here. He takes me +for you. He is at supper with me. Get _away_, I say; but I must see the +boy to-morrow, if I keep silence again--I must," she said. + +Denise Blakeney slipped to the door, stood there panting, hiding; she +was not well, she told Lord Ralph; sent him for her husband. + +"Esme--I dare not," she whispered back; "but here--you are hard +up--take this for gratitude." + +She slipped a great bar of diamonds from her bodice, held it out. + +"It cost a thousand," she said. "But you've saved me." + +"I'll take it if I see the boy," said Esme, sullenly. + +"Not until Cyril's out of London. Telephone to me. I dare not." + +Esme's fingers closed on the glittering toy she held. It was +magnificent; meant ease, peace--for months. + +"So again I sell him," she said bitterly. "Go, Denise, quickly, while +there is time." + +She was pressed against Denise by the crowd, struggled away just as Sir +Cyril came down the stairs to his wife. + +Esme slipped the diamond bar inside her dress, fastening the clasp to +some lace. She went back to the Italian doctor, sat talking to him, saw +him leave, and at the last was almost discovered. + +For Luigi, bowing low over his country-woman and hostess, had told +joyously of his meeting with Milady Blakeney. + +"I will tell the uncle who said she was not fair that he is blind," he +laughed. + +The Marchese smiled, puzzled. "Fair to us, perhaps," she said. "She has +gone home, poor lady." + +"But no," said Luigi, puzzled. + +Then the crowd separated the two Italians. Luigi went back to his +hotel, and on next day to Italy. + +A line no broader than that of a spider's weaving had saved Denise from +exposure. + +She drove home so frightened that she looked really ill; went to her +room, clinging to Cyril's arm. The husband she had once treated so +lightly seemed now a bulwark between her and all misfortune. To lose +him--lose her home, her position-- + +Denise was pale, exhausted, as she slipped into her big chair, crouched +there shivering. + +Sutton, stiffly sympathetic, unloosed the clinging satin gown, brought +a warm, rose-pink wrapper. Cyril ran for brandy. + +"But, milady, the bar of diamonds. It is gone." + +Cyril Blakeney paused at the door; he had heard. + +"I told you that the clasp was bad, Sutton; I was afraid." + +"I do not remember your ladyship having mentioned it," said Sutton, +acidly. + +"Your big bar, Den? The one I gave you last Christmas?" + +"Yes." Denise sipped the fiery spirit. "Telephone, Cyril; send a man +round. The fastening was bad; search the car." + +"I do not think that we shall find it." Sir Cyril's face was very +stern. He remembered seeing Esme pressed close to his wife. In his +heart he had no doubt the woman had stolen again. + +Esme had been Denise's friend in time of trial. He could not give her +into the hands of the police. He said nothing to his wife, but went +down slowly, heavily, to write a note and send it round. + +And as fogs rise, so the whisper grew; Sir Cyril shrugged his shoulders +when he spoke of the loss; he openly turned away from Esme Carteret in +the Park. + +"Someone, I fancy, took it from my wife when she felt faint; at a huge +reception like that there are curious people. Lord Harrington noticed +it as she came to supper." + +Sharp eyes had seen Esme press close to Lady Blakeney, whisper to her; +someone had noticed that she slipped something inside her dress. + +London must draw its skirts aside from this offender and suspect. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Spring again, dancing backwards from summer's hot grasp. Light winds +whispering wantonly as they caressed the waking earth. Soft sunlight, +and everywhere the scent of narcissi, the blaze of golden daffodils. + +The brown drawing-room had known no change during the passing months. +It was as stiffly hideous as ever. The _Church Times_ and _Sunday +Herald_ lay on the same table; the winter fires had been ordered away, +and a vase of daffodils glowed yellow in the grate. + +"It would be good in Devonshire to-day." Bertie Carteret looked out at +the dull, prim square, where the sooty trees were trying to grow green. +"Lord! think of the great clean air there blowing in over the sea, and +the flowers in the old spring garden; and here with spring there is +dust, and there are always pieces of paper blowing round corners." + +Through a weary winter he had drawn the veil of friendship across love. +Estelle's gentle face had brightened the world for him, a world which +had grown very dark. + +"Poor boy," she said softly now; and there was no friendship in her +voice. Spring called. She was a woman, weary of watching the game she +might not join. The wanton voice of London was in her ears to-day--the +sooty, dark square, the prim room stifled her. Your being of transient +emotions has frittered so many thrills, so many little mockeries of +passion, that one a little deeper matters little; but the hard-held +nature frets at barriers, tears at its self-made bit as its longing +eyes look at the wide fields it must not go into. To give nature the +rein for once, to know the glory of loving. Man and woman, one giving, +one possessing, both tasting the joys of the gods. + +"And it is always the same?" Estelle's strong, slim hands were pressed +together as though she held something in them that she would not let go. + +"It is always the same," he said bitterly. "The world--what Esme calls +the world--has dropped us. Somewhere--Heaven knows where--she finds the +money to make another for herself. Is always with Cissie de Burgh--a +woman glad to know anyone--with her friends the Henley leaders, and +Frank Dravelling. Bridge parties, dinners, bitter tempers. I had to go +to supper at the Savoy last night to find one table a mass of flowers +and fruit, to see Esme sweeping past her old friends, to hear her +laughing too loud, talking for effect, so that they should see she did +not care. It was a pretty party, with neither Tommy nor Lord Francis +Dravelling quite sober." + +As Sir Cyril Blakeney believed Esme to be a thief, so her husband +believed firmly now that some man must pay, and that she was too clever +to let him find out. + +Their roads lay apart; they were frigidly friendly, and the depth of +Esme's hurt prevented her asking for an explanation. + +She did not know why her London turned its head away from her; never +guessed that Denise had let her fall under such a vile suspicion--to +save herself. Never guessed either why Bertie grew suddenly cold, told +her one day that for the future she would still hold his name but no +more. + +Brooding, sore, Esme's brilliant beauty faded; she lived, clawing at +the spiked door which closes the room called right. It was bitter to +see her book empty of engagements, to hear the cold "Not at home" of +well-drilled butlers, to be left out of bridge at the club. For a time +she went there, sitting alone, then it hurt too much; she went no more. +As Cain she was tempted to cry out that her punishment was greater than +she could bear. + +"Leave London. Come to Cliff End," Bertie pleaded once. + +"No! Someone has lied, and I must find out who. No, Bertie, I can find +other friends." + +They were found. Esme spent money recklessly. Smiled now on people she +would not have bowed to. Went to houses whose reputation had endured +one of the many smudgings. Played high, and lost and won. Ate grilled +bones at six o'clock in the morning, and tried to make it pleasure. Her +tongue could trip lightly over well-known names. She was welcome in the +new set, which called folly, smartness, and weak vice, life. + +What was it? A cloak may hide a sore, but the very manner of the +concealing chafes the thing it covers. + +Unpitied, wrongly suspected, Esme's heart broke as she tore at the +locked door. If one could find the backward road--if the Great Powers +would give us back the years, seeing as we see now. Lie and scream and +bleed, little human, the way is always onward--there are no scissors to +cut the false stitches we have made. + +If she could go back to that careless springtime and do right. Take +motherhood as woman's right and joy and pain; guess how she would love +the child which then she had dreaded. + +"I was mad--mad," Esme would groan, and yet blame circumstance and +opportunity and Denise, rather than her own selfish weakness. + +If Denise had not come to her she must have gone through with it, and +gained peace and happiness. + +Selfishness and greed and fear had stood for her boy's sponsor, had +marred both these women's lives. And Justice, smiling grimly, saw one +floating on a flood-tide of prosperity, made happy and successful by +her scheming. The other an outcast, broken in health and spirit. +Justice sat quiet. To some the whip is administered at once; to all the +punishment, the payment of the fine. Interest grows in the black ledger +of our sins. + +Two women had schemed successfully, and other lives were drawn now into +the mesh. + +"I am very tired of it all, Estelle." Bertie got up restlessly. "Very +tired. My home is no home. My old friends look at me with a pity which +is worse than enmity. I went to Denise Blakeney once. I asked if she +knew what was amiss, and she turned red and white and stammered, and +'Oh, no, of course not--unless there might be some scandal, something +foolish.' I came away, knowing she would not tell me the truth she knew +of." + +Estelle's head turned away; she knew; she had heard the black +suspicion, but she could not tell Bertie Carteret that the world held +his wife to be a thief. Better let him suspect the other, which was not +true. + +"Well, little companion?" He stopped his restless pacing, looked down +at the sunny brown hair, and at the girl's sweet, glowing face. "How is +it all to end?" + +"When I go back to--to Cape Town," she said. + +The words were as knives slashing at self-control, cold steel carving +finely at an open raw. + +"No," he slipped out. "By Heaven! you shall not go." + +"But I must." Then Estelle's voice faltered; she knew what it would be +to part, with nothing known of love save imagining, save a few +hand-clasps--friends must not kiss; save the sweetness of nearness +driving home from theatres. + +"No," he said again. He caught her hands suddenly, held them closely. + +"You would take my only comfort," he muttered. "Estelle--don't go." + +Man does not see sometimes his supreme selfishness. That this girl +should eat her life out to keep him from his sorrows. + +"I ... let us go out," she said. + +Outside spring rioted, danced, kissing men and maids to madness and to +merriment. His breath passion, his light touch a thrill. + +"Come from this sooty sarcophagus," Bertie said. + +They drove to the Park, and on to Kensington Gardens, where London +plays at being the countryside. There the big trees were really green; +one could look through the tracery at the blue sky, and forget the +great city roaring at right and left, at back and front. Toy lap-dogs, +belled and netted, and larger dogs held on leash, by well-dressed men +and women, bereft of liberty, told that this was a mere painted scene, +and no true piece of country. + +But it was fresh. Spring danced there gleefully. Summer would gather +the harvest; spring was the sower of love thoughts. + +Estelle strolled across the grass, sat down at length on a wooden +bench, where a great beech above her made green fretwork against a sea +of tender blue. + +They were silent. Everyday words were out of tune to spring's music; +and they feared to say the others. + +"You cannot go, Estelle. You will not really." Bertie harked back to +the fear of parting. + +"And if I stayed," she said, suddenly mutinous, alluring. + +"If you stayed," he whispered, then grew grave. "Could two people not +make a world for themselves, Estelle, and be happy in it alone?" + +She held sweet fruit to her aching mind, then broke through to the hard +kernel of the truth. + +"No, for we are never alone," she said gently. "That is the weariness +of it. There are no two who strive to make this world who do not draw +others inside the hedge of their secret orchard." + +His hand fell on hers softly. + +"Then, since there is no future, I'll have to-day," he said sharply. +"We'll dine and do a theatre, Estelle, and sup recklessly in some quiet +place." + +What theatre? Bertie had a paper in his pocket; they bent over it. + +"This new thing--Spring," he said. + +"It's advanced, isn't it?" she asked. + +"It's very much so, they say. Miss Prude! But I am not in the mood for +flounced virtue set in Scotch, nor for all the solid worth which the +fashion follows. The music's lovely. I hear the piece floats through a +pale green wood, and over primroses and daffodils, away to a sapphire +sea." + +"Let it be Spring then," she said. "This day is yours, my friend." + +Friend! whose hand lay hot on hers, when their eyes met half joyously, +half despairingly. Joy that fate should have allowed them to meet; +despair that since man and woman are created for each other they could +not know the fullness of happiness. + +A cord long strained will snap at last. The cord of self-restraint +which they had tied up the hands of nature with had come to its last +strand, and they knew it. + +The spring day slipped away to the hour when the curtain rose on the +new musical play. Well-named, for it was light and sweet as spring +himself, full of tenderly passionate music, of waking love, of budding +youth. Tame blood which would not run a little faster as the south and +west winds, the sunshine and the showers, came creeping to wake the +spring earth maidens. Girls veiled in tender green, their limbs and +faces seen through a mist of some transparency. The wild winds blew the +draperies aside; a mock gale blowing from the wings; sunshine turned +the green to a glow of gold; the showers came, mistily green, with +light behind them, but to each the maidens turned, trembled, and gave +themselves to the wooing arms. + +The whole piece was full of suggestion and of fantasy. + +Quiet Estelle, watching, felt the longing in her blood grow stronger; +was youth to pass and leave her unwoken by a lover? Was she never to +know the madness of hot kisses, the restful heaven of the afterwards? + +"I dreamt once that I had found Spring"--Bertie's voice sounded far +away to her--"and it was a mocking wraith. Estelle, if we might find it +together--you and I." + +"If!" She moved her hands to the time of a haunting dance. + +The house was full. People who had been the Carterets' friends were +here and there. Dollie Gresham, with the Blakeneys; the Holbrooks in a +box, often looking sadly at a pair in the stalls--the Marquis and +Marchioness of Boredom. + +One big box at the left, empty until the middle of the second act, was +suddenly filled by a noisy crowd. Three women came to the front, +throwing back rich cloaks, showing over-bare necks and arms, flashing +with jewels; the background was filled in with the black-and-white +uniform of dining mankind. + +"Esme," Bertie whispered, "with those people." + +Poor Esme, glaring defiance at the friends who had cut her, her cheeks +scarlet, her lips crimson, dazzlingly handsome still, but haggard, bad +style, laughing too gaily, talking too loudly, holding up her careless +happiness too openly. And straight opposite, Denise, quietly dressed, +placidly happy, avoiding Esme's challenging looks. + +The parts had been played and gone strangely for the players. + +"My wife," said Carteret, bitterly, "with a crowd of fourth-rate +impossibilities--and looking...." He paused, expressively. "Estelle, do +you think a man likes to see his wife look like that? I hope she may +not see us." + +A vain hope. Esme's restless eyes looked everywhere. She started, +turned laughingly to Lord Francis Dravelling. + +"See my immaculate spouse and his flame," she said, "there, in the +stalls. I used to like the girl once, but I leave her to Bertie now." + +"Hot stuff, eh?" said the boy, his eyes devouring Esme. Then he +whispered to her eagerly. + +Esme's eyes grew hard, her face set bitterly. + +Bertie, the man she had once loved dearly, was sitting with another +woman, and she was listening, without anger, to a bold suggestion. And +all, everything, had come from that one rebellion against nature and +custom. + +"I am not taking you among the world to-night," Bertie said to Estelle. +"I've ordered a quiet supper in a quiet place." + +It had turned cold; they drove to a hotel, went to a warm room, its +stiffness tempered by huge bowls of flowers, supper laid on the table. + +The waiter discreetly presumed that they would ring if he was required; +he left them with a faintly un-waiter-like grin. + +Estelle was not hungry; she pecked at aspic and foie gras, but drank +champagne; glad as the sparkling wine banished care, did its allotted +work. + +It was peaceful in there; the scent of the flowers filled the room; the +fire burnt brightly. + +They left the half-eaten meal and came to the glow of the blazing coals. + +"Estelle!" The last strand snapped. Bertie's arms closed round the +girl, crushed her supple body to his, kissed her with the reverence of +great passion. "Estelle!" he said. "You are spring--turn to me." + +The lips that answered his, the arms that clung about his neck told him +she loved him. + +Forgetting the barrier of custom and law, they snatched bliss from the +greedy gods. Yet, even as he held her, Bertie knew this was no creature +of light intrigues; she might come to him in a glory of sacrifice, to +be his for all time; she would not sink to the furtiveness of secret +meetings, to the sharing of her man with another home. + +He put Estelle in a big chair, knelt before her, told her all the folly +which is never old, which the great master Passion can tune anew each +time. And what were they to do? Part--and let the world rob them of +their joy, or.... + +"It must be all or nothing now," he said hoarsely. "We could meet so +often, little sweetheart--be so happy." + +"Living a lie," she said bravely, though with all her nature yearning +for him. "No, Bertie, no." + +He pleaded on--pleaded with lips which touched her hotly and yet +reverently, with soft whispers of what life might mean. "Estelle--then +come to me. Let us go away altogether. Take some house in the country, +and live for each other. People would forget in time." + +"And Esme?" Estelle asked simply. "How would she live?" + +"I would give her money, what I could spare; then she has someone who +supports her; there is no doubt of that, Estelle, or I would not be +here now. I would have buried my love for you, taken her away to Cliff +End if she had been faithful to me." + +"You do not know," Estelle faltered. + +"I know she can pay bills, do as she chooses. It comes from someone." + +Estelle sat silent. People said it came from stolen jewels, and she did +not tell him. She knew him so well; she feared his burst of wrath, his +going straight to Cyril Blakeney and demanding proof or retraction. + +"It is time to go," Estelle said. "Bertie, I'll tell you to-morrow. +Come to me about four. I'll be alone. I'll tell you then." + +With a sudden thrill of fear and joy she knew that in her own sultry +room she might be less strong. + +"For if I lose you, I shall go to the Devil without you," Bertie said +recklessly. + +The heart of woman delights in self-sacrifice. Estelle knew that she +would lose the world gladly to make her man happy. She was pure enough +to look passion in the face and not hide hers; to joy in the thought of +giving herself and to realize what it would mean. + +"I will come to-morrow," Bertie said, his hands heavy on her bare +shoulders, his eyes more eloquent than words. + +The discreet waiter came padding noiselessly, took his bill and tip. + +"But not our sort," he muttered, as Estelle went out. + +Bertie Carteret walked home alone. Estelle would not let him drive with +her. Far up the stars blinked in a violet sky, the cool spring wind +blew against his flushed face. Having been, up to the present, a mere +ordinary honourable man, he was miserable. Gloss it over as he might he +knew what he was asking for. + +The tall mass of the mansions towered high above him; he hated the +place, its comfortless show. + +"Mr and Mrs Rabbit, who live in a warren," he said, as he let himself +in. + +The little sitting-room was dusty, neglected, but he sat in it smoking +until the stars went out and grey dawn came sickly pale to oust the +night. + +A motor siren bleated below. After a little he heard the swish of silk. +Esme, haggard and flushed, came into the room. + +How she had changed. The childish look had gone for ever, replaced by a +hard bitterness, by mirthless smiles. + +"You!" she said carelessly. "You've made a night of it, my friend." + +"I have been home for hours," he said coldly. + +"Tiens! Who knows!" She went to a table, poured out brandy and opened a +bottle of Perrier. "Who knows, my Bertie. I saw you with Her at the +theatre." + +He sprang up, white, angry, to find the words wither on his lips. How +could he deny, refute, with to-morrow--nay, to-day--before him? He sat +down again, wearily, as a man does who is very tired. + +"Look here, Bertie." Esme lighted the gas fire, flung off her cloak; +her hair was tossed, her thin arms and neck bared to the bounds of +decency, her dress was a sheath outlining each slender limb. "Look +here!" she said. "You're sick of me. Let's have done with it. I'll meet +you half-way." + +"What do you mean?" he stammered. + +"Mean?" She lighted a cigarette, then took a little tablet from a box +and dropped one into her glass. "This is Nervine--Steadier--what you +like," she mocked, "and really morphia. My nerves have gone to pieces. +I mean--go away; refuse to come back; amuse yourself with the fair +Estelle, and I'll divorce you. Frank Dravelling would marry me," she +said eagerly. + +Bertie gave no answer. + +"And I'm sick of this. He's a bleating, mawkish calf, but he's got +fifteen thousand a year for me to spend, and if I don't, a dozen other +women will." + +Cold disgust gagged him. Had she no sense of decent feeling, to talk +like this? Was the girl he had married dead? + +"He is at the age when he admires rouge and paint," mocked Esme. "He'll +make me My Lady, and Society will be glad to know me again. I'm sick of +being no one, of seeing glum looks and tracking round with fifth-rate +women. Come, Bertie! It's easily arranged." + +As swift hands rub blurred glass, so that one can see clearly through +what was dim, Esme's words let the man's mental eyes look across the +future. + +Estelle, his pure little Estelle! This painted, haggard woman would +make a cat's-paw of her, drag her shamed name into the maw of the +press, and stand aloof herself, an injured wife. And he--he--in his +madness had been about to help her. Hidden by glamour of passion, how +different it had been to this standing naked, showing its distorted +limbs. Let sorrow come or go, he knew that he would not now drag the +woman he loved into sinning. These are the world's laws, men say, yet +surely God's laws also, since to break them means remorse and +punishment. Slight bonds of custom, but holding sane humanity. + +"You have a curious mind," he said at last. "My God, have you no sense +of right or wrong, Esme--no shade of decency left?" + +"Oh, leave sermons to the Church," she said roughly. + +"And supposing"--he got up, stood facing her, man baited, driven to +bay--"I were to divorce you, my wife?" + +"You can't," she said coolly. "If I stay out all night it's with +companions. And look here, Bertie, I am sick of it all. I say, let me +divorce you, or I'll take proceedings myself. If you are wise any woman +of the streets will serve your purpose; if you are not, your pure +Estelle's name will be in every paper. See!" + +She tossed a photograph across to him. A glimpse of sea and cliff, and +two people asleep, lying close to a bank. Their faces were clear; the +girl, lying back, had one hand outstretched; the man, his face against +the bank, had his upon it. + +"Repose," said Esme, coarse meaning in her voice, as every shade of +colour whickered from her husband's face. "Repose by the sea." + +The girl's face was Estelle Reynolds; the man's his own. + +"Marie's young man is a photographer; he snapped this at the seaside +one day in June, years ago. Marie brought it to me, commenting on the +likeness to you. I kept it. Come, Bertie, give me freedom, or I'll take +it." + +Holding the photograph, he saw what its evidence would mean. Idle to +prate of innocence with this before the jury. It might be printed with +a dozen suggestive names below it. His uncle would turn against him; +Estelle would not get over it. + +"Well?" she said, watching him. + +"No, but ill," he answered. "Yes, it's true. We dropped asleep sitting +looking at the sea. Pah! what use to tell you?... We merely dropped +asleep. But if you show this there shall be counter action, Esme." + +"As I said," she flung out defiantly--"if I stay out at night, it's +with companions." + +He was ready with his counter-thrust; it darted, swift and true. + +"From what companion," he asked slowly, "do you get your money? Do you +think me a fool, Esme, not to have noticed all that you spend and pay?" + +The colour ebbed from her face now, leaving the reddened mouth, the +rouged cheeks, standing out unnaturally. + +Evidence was so easy to find and trump up; she wanted her freedom, but +with her name untouched--it was her one chance. + +"I've known for months or more that there was someone," he went on. +"There is such a thing as common intelligence, Esme." + +"You've known for months and years--known that there was someone," Esme +repeated; her red lips drew away from her white teeth as she sat, +stunned. So Bertie had believed her a light woman, untrue to him, a +creature vending her beauty to some man. That, too, the consequence of +her deceiving, of her folly. + +She sat still, a stricken thing, her eyes alone alive in her face. + +"That, I suppose, was why you changed to me," she whispered, in a +curious metallic voice. + +"That was why I ceased to love you--to live with you as your husband," +he said simply and very sadly. + +"That too!" The words rasped from between her white teeth, and suddenly +she laughed--a hopeless, mirthless laugh, coming in noisy gusts; +laughed, sitting there, white and haggard, until the laughter changed +to gulping, sobbing gasps. + +"Don't, Esme, don't," he cried. "Don't laugh like that." + +She got up, her rich dress trailing round her thin limbs, the fire of +her jewels catching the gleams from the electric light. + +"So you won't let me divorce you?" she said. "Well, find my +fellow-sinner if you can, and for the present say good-night to Mrs +Cain." + +Still laughing, she moved slowly across the room, and into her own; +shut the door quietly behind her. + +"That too!" she said. "Cut by Society; suspected by her husband." Oh, +poor Esme, just because she was a selfish, wicked fool. Poor Esme--who +was once so happy. + +"Marie, I ... have you heard me? Marie--come!" + +And then, for the first time, Esme fainted; sank into a merciful +blackness, lay cold and still, until Marie found her. + +Estelle had decked her room with flowers; had put on a soft gown, when +a messenger brought her a letter. + + +"Estelle, I will not come. You are not a woman for a selfish man to +drag down. It is good-bye, and not good-bye for me, for I shall never +lose sight of your dear face; but for you, you are a +girl--young--forget me. Marry someone you can like; don't leave your +life empty. Let home and the kiddies be the cloth to wipe my memory out +with. Estelle, I've woken you. I speak from man to woman, plainly. Go +to your mother, and marry, for thwarted nature leads to strange +miseries. Good-bye, Estelle. Last night Esme spoke out, and I saw where +I was taking you to, and I'll not do it. My place is here, to save my +wife, for who am I to prate of morality?" + + +Estelle read the letter, folded it up; the world was empty, swept clear +of love and hope and tenderness. + +Very quietly she went to her writing-table, sat down there. + + +"I have just got your letter," she wrote. "You are right, but one word. +People believe that Esme took, or got, jewels of Lady Blakeney's and +sold them at Benhusan's and elsewhere. Her money comes from this +source, they say. That is why people have cut her. I could not tell you +before, and I was wrong. I do not believe it, but think that they were +given to her by Denise Blakeney, and that there is some secret between +them. Estelle." + + +She sent the letter by a cab. + +"A thief!" Bertie Carteret turned white to the lips as he read. They +called his wife a thief. He sat for an hour before he moved. Should he +go to Cyril Blakeney, fling the foul slander in his face? What should +he do? + +"Move carefully, or I show this." + +Esme had the photograph which could brand Estelle before the world. He +feared it, feared his wife. She came in now, dressed to go out. + +"Esme," he said hoarsely, "Esme, do you know why people dropped you?" + +"I have never known," she answered coldly. "Come, Bertie, are you more +sensible to-day? Get out of my life and I'll let your girl's reputation +be." + +She was his wife, bore his name. He told her then, quickly, his brain +reeling. + +"They say that!" she cried wildly. "Denise let that lie pass. Denise +knew, and let them say I _stole_." + +There was no guilt in Esme's storming, but a madness of rage, of blind, +futile fury. + +"Did you sell diamonds?" he asked. "Esme, tell me the truth, and I'll +see the slander buried. You are my wife." + +"I did. I sold them," she flung out. "They have the evidence. But +Denise gave them to me; she gave me money to buy silence. So that, +too--that too! all for one thing. A thief to the world--a fallen woman +to you. A thief! Oh, God! a thief!" Her hands were at her throat; she +gasped a little. "Oh! I have borne enough," she raged wildly. "And now +Denise shall suffer. Tell as much truth as will clear me, and give me +back my own. You don't believe it, Bertie?" There was wild appeal in +her tortured eyes. + +"Before heaven, no, Esme," he rang out. + +"And your belief is as false. Before to-morrow you shall know what I +am, and what I've done, and judge me then. I am going to find Denise. +I'll send for you." + +"What is there between you?" he asked. "What?" + +"You'll know to-morrow." There were tears now in her eyes; just at the +door she turned, held out her hands. "Forgive a sinner, Boy," she +faltered, "though not the sinner you dream of." In all her bravery and +paint she was very pitiful. + +Before Bertie could answer she had slipped away. + +She had gone to the Blakeneys; there was something between the two +women. + +Then Marie, trim, moving deftly, came in. + +"Monsieur," she said. + +"Well?" He hated the woman who held the photograph and had shown it. + +"Monsieur, I would follow Madame. She was distraught, wild! There is +some secret, Monsieur, between her and Milady Blakeney. Always notes to +the club, and notes by special messenger for Madame, though it is that +they do not speak. And, Monsieur, I leave to-day. I go to be married. I +will speak. Has Monsieur never suspected anything? Before I left +Madame, Madame was enceinte. I know, I could not be mistaken. The two +Madames then disappear--alone. Has Monsieur never seen?" + +"What?" almost shouted Bertie. He got his hands on the maid's shoulder, +unconsciously he shook her. + +"_How like Milady Blakeney's son is to Madame here_," hissed Marie; +"that when he was ill Madame sat here as one distraught. Ah! gently, +Monsieur." + +"You mean?" he gulped out, letting go. + +"That Milady Blakeney is not the mother of one of her children," said +the Frenchwoman, softly. "And that sorrow for having parted with her +child has made Madame so miserable as she is now. Follow her, Monsieur. +She is worn out from drugged sleep--from remedies full of the cocaine. +Follow her swiftly." + +"Woman, I think you're mad." + +With a groan stifled in his throat Bertie ran down the stairs and +hailed a taxi to drive to Grosvenor Square. + +The butler was human; distress and gold broke his reserve. + +"Her ladyship was out of town. Master Cecil had not been well, and her +ladyship and the children were at Trelawney in Devonshire." + +Trelawney was the village close to Cliff End. + +"Mrs Carteret was here, sir. She got a time-table and looked out the +trains; she has left for Devonshire, I fancy. There is a fast train +reaching Trelawney at about four, no other now for some time. Mrs +Carteret, sir, said she would get a motor, as it would be much quicker." + +"You, Carteret!" Cyril Blakeney had driven up in his big car. "What is +the matter? You look ill." + +"Slander's the matter. Mischief's the matter," Bertie burst out. "A +story too strange for credence is the matter." + +"A moment! Come in here. The doorstep's no home for confidence." + +"With you--who spread this lying tale!" rasped Bertie. + +The two men faced each other. One worn from unhappiness; one big, +prosperous, untroubled. + +"You've only heard it now then? Now, Carteret? Come in here. You're +ill. Keep the car, Jarvis! Come and hear my side." + +There was something dominant in Sir Cyril; his will forced Bertie into +the dining-room, kept him there to listen to the explanation. There, +quietly, without any exaggeration, he told the whole story. + +"And you believed this? One side," said Bertie, bitterly. "Sir Cyril, +your wife lied; she gave diamonds to my wife." + +"Gave them? Why?" The big man's voice rang in cool contempt. "That's +your wife's story to you." + +"As silence money for some secret. Esme told me that. It must have been +when they were away in Italy. Sir Cyril, my wife was not lying to-day. +It was the truth." + +"And if mine was?" The big chin stuck out, the heavy brows drew +together. Cyril Blakeney could always think quickly. "As silence +money," he muttered. + +Bertie talked on, told how he had spoken to Esme, and what she had +said. "And she was telling the truth," he said proudly. "She's no +thief, Blakeney." + +Denise had spent a great deal of money; Cyril knew that; on charity, +she said. He had no thought of what it could be. He believed in his +wife as much as he believed in any woman. + +"Come to Trelawney," he said quietly. "My car is at the door. We cannot +catch a train now, and if your wife is hysterical, overwrought, there +may be trouble." + +As a man in a dream, Bertie went with Sir Cyril, heard the quiet +questioning, nothing forgotten. + +"The tank's fairly full, isn't it? Put out the jack and the levers. We +shall not want you, Anderson. Now, Carteret. Oh, you'll want a +coat--take one of mine. We must run fast for it's a long way." + +The big Daimler glided off, threading her decorous, restrained way +through London, gathering speed in the endless dreariness of the +suburbs, shooting past tradesmen's carts, past suburban children herded +by nurses in spotless white, for Suburbia on two hundred a year must +not be surpassed by Belgravia on four thousand. Then the open country, +the hum of warm engines, the glorious rush of the highly-powered car +through the sunlit world, spurning the miles, taking the hills +contemptuously, rushing along the level. Roads showed white ribbons, +and then when that ribbon was gone another was to be ruled off. +Policemen sprang out waving angry hands; the red car was past and away, +and the quiet man who drove did not mean to stop. They stopped once for +petrol and water, drank a whisky and Perrier, and munched some biscuits. + +"Not bad." Cyril Blakeney looked at the clock which marked five as they +tore into Trelawney. "We left at eleven. Now we shall know." + +He drove to a little red-brick house looking on to the bay. Denise had +brought her Cecil down to grow strong in the soft mild air; the boy had +caught cold and been delicate. + +Mrs Stanson was at the door, her face wrapped in a shawl. She came to +meet them. + +Her ladyship was out, she said, had taken the children to the bay. + +"My face ached, Sir Cyril. Her ladyship said she would go alone without +Ellen." + +"Has Mrs Carteret been here?" Sir Cyril asked. "Quickly, nurse, answer!" + +Mrs Stanson blushed, faltered. "Yes, Sir Cyril. She came in a motor, +has gone out to her ladyship. Oh! is anything wrong?" + +"Yes!" Cyril Blakeney's face was very quiet, but his eyes gleamed +thoughtfully. "Where shall we find them, Mrs Stanson?" + +There were two bays, one on each side of the town; two stretches of +firm sands. Mrs Stanson looked dubious. + +It appeared that the children had quarrelled as they started. Master +Cyril wanted to go to the bay to the east, where the big rock ran out +into the sea. Master Cecil to the west bay. + +"Then it is sure to be this way." Sir Cyril turned to the right--to the +west. "Come, Carteret--we'll walk fast." + +Something was making Bertie Carteret afraid. The two men had scarcely +spoken on the way down. Just once Sir Cyril had asked: "You think +you're right, Carteret?" and Bertie had answered: "Yes. My wife's no +thief. She was _given_ those jewels." + +"Then there is something," Cyril said. "Something!" and did not speak +again. + +"I'll go the other way." Bertie pointed to the cliffs. "One never +knows, and Esme was dreadfully excited. I'll go along the cliffs, +Blakeney; I can see the whole shore, and there are passages leading +down, and the cliff path is quicker walking." + +"Very well! It's all rather a fuss about nothing, isn't it, Carteret?" + +Bertie hurried away towards the cliffs. An opal evening was falling on +the world. The sea glimmered and sparkled out to the sinking sun. As he +hurried, Bertie could see the woods of Cliff End, and the gables of the +old house. So far he had seen no one on the beach. The tide was coming +in, creaming back softly over the sands, nosing upwards on the rocks. + +He was coming close to where he had sat with Estelle and known for the +first time that he loved her. Far below was a stretch of firm sand, +with a curious rock running out, deep water always at its landward +side--a treacherous, slippery rock, not high above the water, but its +sides sheer and steep. + +Then he saw Denise Blakeney and his wife. Esme was gesticulating, +speaking loudly. Denise standing with bent head and outstretched, +pleading hands. He saw little Cecil playing with his spade, making a +castle. + +The next downward track was some way on. He watched for a minute. + +"Bertie!" He swung round, astonished. + +Estelle, with lines in her pale face, was on the cliffs. + +"You!" he jerked out. "Here--to-day. Why?" + +She flushed. "I ... came to say good-bye to the cliff here," she said +gently. "Where I knew for the first time that you were my world, +Bertie. I came down this morning. I was walking back to Trelawney now +to catch a train." + +For a minute he forgot everything except that the girl beside him would +understand and sympathize. He stood pouring out his story; there was no +hurry. + +Estelle listened, saw suddenly that Marie had not dreamed; looked back +on little incidents. + +"Her child!" she muttered. "Poor Esme. Oh, Bertie, listen! we can hear +what they are saying, and it's as well to know." + +The voices rang clearly. Esme was flinging out passionate words, +demanding justice. + +"You'll not take him," Denise cried. "Esme, it would ruin me." + +"Did you think when you allowed me to be ruined?" stormed Esme--"saw me +cut, banned by my friends?" + +"You wrote a foolish letter," wailed Denise. "Cyril thought you had +stolen the diamonds. I never told him so." + +"No, but to save yourself you left it at that. You acted a cruel lie. +Now give me my boy. I have borne enough." + +"You cannot prove it," Denise sobbed piteously. "No, Esme, no." + +"I can and will. Because I was weak, and loved ease and pleasure, all +this has come. The world believes me to be a thief--my husband that I +am an adulteress. At least I'll have my boy. Oh, Denise, do you know +how I've longed for him? How my whole life has been one ache of regret?" + +"But the scandal. Oh, God! I cannot face Cyril." Denise flung herself +down on the soft sand, gripping it with her hands. "I'll give you more +money, anything." + +"Nothing but the truth will give me back my honour. Where is the boy?" + +"Cecil wanted some red seaweed for his castle. Cyril is on the rock +getting it," said Cecil, looking up. "Mumsie not let Cecil go." + +"On the rock!" Esme sprang round. + +The two on the cliff could hear the raised voices. With white, strained +faces they listened, bewildered, almost afraid. + +"The boy is hers. It is true," whispered Bertie. "Look, he's out on the +rock, and it's slippery, dangerous. He ought to keep down." + +A little figure was toiling along the sharply-cut edge. The tide was +washing at the safe side where the rock merged into the sands, so Cyril +kept high up. + +"It's not safe; he may fall. You want to kill him," Esme cried, +beginning to run towards the rock. + +It was safe at low tide, because the sands were bare, but no place for +baby feet on the upper side above the deep water. + +"You would not have let Cecil go," Esme stormed as she hurried on. "Oh, +Cyril, stop! Keep near the tide." + +Perhaps her voice frightened the child as he picked his way. He +started, slipped, and fell over. In a second a little white face could +be seen on the calm, dark water. + +"Cyril, oh, Cyril! Oh, my baby!" rose a shrieking cry. + +With mad haste Esme tore off her skirt and sprang into the sea, +clutching at the sinking child. She caught him as he came up for the +third time, and swam back holding him. But the black sides towered +sheer and straight four feet above her; the seaweed gave as she caught +it; the child was a dead weight on one arm, and she had hurt the other +jumping in. + +"Get help," she cried. "Get help, Denise." + +Denise lay on the sands, shrieking, half-unconscious, useless and +helpless. + +"They'll drown! Go for help, Estelle. I may get down to them in time." +Bertie swung over the edge of the cliff, beginning a perilous climb. + +Another rescuer went hurrying too. + +"It's Cyrrie! My Cyrrie, dwownin'." + +Baby Cecil left his castle, began to patter out along the rock, sobbing +as he ran. "Wait, Cyrrie, wait! I tumin' to help. Oh, my Cyrrie!" + +Half-way down Bertie knew that he ought to have run on to the path. +Sometimes he hung and thought he could go no further, then dropped and +scrambled, and caught some point which saved him. He was still too high +up to jump when he came to a jutting ledge and could see no way on. +There, Esme, clinging, slipping, as she called for help, looked up and +saw him. + +"Bertie!" she said. "You followed me." + +She stopped calling out, clutched a new piece of seaweed and grew +strangely quiet. + +"Bertie, I'm not worth it," she said. "Don't risk anything." + +Voices are strangely clear across the water; hers rang plainly. + +"I'll come, Esme. I must find a way. I'll save you." + +"I'm going to drown, Bertie. I'm so tired, it won't hurt much; but I've +time to talk a little." + +As he raged up and down his ledge he heard her voice telling, as +quietly as though they were in some room, safe and sheltered, her story. + +"Send for Luigi Frascatelle, he'll identify me as the boy's mother. +Bertie, I sold my birthright, but I've been punished for it, so forgive +me now, and keep my Cyrrie--he's alive." + +The pity of it as she clung there--young, pretty, once so happy. Truly, +the punishment had been hard. + +"Esme! I see a way. I'll get down in five minutes. Live on and let the +past be." + +Twice she had felt the water at her lips, once her boy had almost +slipped from her arms. + +"I would have swum round but one arm is hurt," she said weakly. +"Bertie, I think the boy is dying. If he dies let Denise be. Don't tell +if she will clear my name." + +A man ran out along the rock, heard the faltering words. + +"By the God above us she shall clear it," stormed Bertie, "and give us +back our child. No, Esme, no. Oh, wait! I'm down." + +He was in the water now, swimming strongly, too late; the last strand +of weed had parted; weak, tired Esme had slipped to her rest in the +cool, clear water. And as she went, little Cecil, sobbing wildly, +holding out his spade, fell over into the sea. + +A clawing, twisted woman rose from the sands, screaming wildly, looking +up as baby Cecil fell over. + +Sir Cyril ran past her, kicking off his shoes as he went. + +Bertie hesitated for a second, but the struggling, drowning mite had +fallen in coming to try to save Cyril; he turned, swam to Cecil, and +carried the child to the rock, where his father leant over. + +"Quickly, man!--we'll dive," Sir Cyril cried. + +"I give you back your child," Bertie said. "Mine is gone for ever." He +swam on. + +Diving, he brought up Esme, her boy clasped to her. + +Estelle had fetched help. They carried the still figures quickly to the +cliff and back to the house. + +"You meant?" Cyril Blakeney said as he went with him, carrying his +drenched boy. + +"Cyril is Esme's child," Bertie said bitterly. "Your wife bought him +from her. I heard it all as they talked on the sands. She told me where +to find proof." + +"Ah!" said Cyril, slowly. "Ah!" + +Denise was tottering behind them, wild with fear, grey-faced, all +beauty reft from her. + +"God send," said Sir Cyril, reverently, "that both come to, and we live +to repay for the blight we cast on your wife's name, Carteret." + +"I cast a worse one," said Bertie, fiercely. + +Then long-drawn working, as the living strive with death, as the poor +quiet body is forced to life. But no working brought a quiver to little +Cyril; they left him at last quiet in his cot; the motherless boy was +at peace for ever. + +Esme's breath came fluttering. She had closed her eyes on sea and sky, +opened them to see watching, kindly faces. + +"Hush, do not speak," they told her. + +"Cyril?" she whispered, and knew without an answer. + +"Then let it rest," she murmured, and so drifted out again, this time +for ever, into the land of shadows, glad to go and rest. + + * * * * * + +Denise, half wild, had stumbled in alone, sobbing, shivering, +unnoticed, as the household worked for the two lives. + +Cecil had been put to bed; his hip was hurt; he lay still and +exhausted; sometimes asking for "Cyrrie--my Cyrrie." + +"Not you, mumsie--Cyrrie," he said fretfully. "I couldn't pull Cyrrie +out--fetch Cyrrie." + +Mrs Stanson, weeping for her eldest charge, came in. Seeing her, hope +leapt up suddenly into Denise's heart. + +"The boy, milady?" Mrs Stanson sobbed. "No hope. We've laid him to +rest." + +"And--Mrs Carteret?" + +"Came to, and passed away, milady." + +The wave of hope swelled high. For as all the punishment had fallen on +the woman who lay still in the pretty drawing-room, it might lie on her +still. No one else knew. + +"She spoke?" Denise faltered. + +"Once, milady--to ask for Master Cyril; and again to say, 'Let it +rest.'" + +"Ah!" The greyness slipped from Denise's cheeks. The dead cannot speak. +After all, she was to escape. + +Then, his big bulk filling the door, her husband came in, Carteret +following. + +"Oh! oh!" she cried, and held her hands out, sobbing. "Oh, Cyrrie! the +boy and poor Esme. She died to save him. Oh!" + +"You can go, Mrs Stanson." The sick fear crept back to Denise +Blakeney's heart. "Yes, Cyrrie is gone; and now, Denise, you will tell +the truth." + +"The truth," she faltered. "I--and I am so miserable." + +"You'll tell how you gave those diamonds to Mrs Carteret. You'll +publish it in the big papers. That is one part--and then ... now the +rest of the truth," he thundered. "Oh, you two poor fools." + +"But, Cyril--what else?" + +"All the rest," came quickly. "Of Italy and Esme Carteret's child." + +It was over. Denise tottered to a chair, sat there staring; her +punishment had fallen at last. + +Then, faltering, stumbling, yet afraid to lie, Denise Blakeney told the +story. Of Esme's fear of poverty; of her own wish for a child. "And +then it was arranged," she said; "we changed names. The boy was Esme's. +Luigi Frascatelle, the doctor, can tell you." + +"The big, splendid boy was yours, Carteret; the poor, puny mite mine," +said Cyril Blakeney, bitterly. "Well done, Denise! When a foolish girl +was hysterical, foolish, as women are at these times, you advised her +well. Lord! I know what she felt when I've seen her looking, looking at +her own boy, with heartbreak in her eyes. I've wondered, but did not +understand then. It was a pretty plot, milady, to fool me back to an +untrue wife. Carteret, we are no judges to blame these two, but one has +known her punishment, and one has not." + +"Cyril!" sobbed Denise, "have pity! It was for you." + +"For me? Pardon me, for my name and my position, knowing that I meant +to rid myself of you," he answered coldly. "Carteret, Miss Reynolds is +with your dead wife--go to her." + +"Cyril," moaned Denise again. "You'll not expose me, for the boy's +sake." + +She was on her knees by Cyril's side, sobbing, entreating. + +"That is for Carteret to decide," he answered. "Go to your room; you +will only excite the child." + +In the days to come, Denise, fighting for her delicate boy's life, knew +no open disgrace. One poor foolish woman had borne it all and died; but +the other left behind knew the misery of daily fear. She was a cipher, +given no trust or belief; and with her always was the dread that as +Cecil grew older he would be taken from her. + +Cyril Blakeney, an embittered man, never forgave her. + +Denise came to him the evening of Esme's death to ask what he would do. + +He was writing, making arrangements for the funeral. + +"You let a woman be disgraced before the world, you let that boy whom +you disliked go into danger where no baby should have gone," he said. +"But you are Cecil's mother--so keep the position you schemed for--and +no more." + +The big man went back to his loneliness; he had loved strong Cyril, had +dreamt of a boy who would run and shoot and swim and ride; and now, +Cecil, injured by his fall from the cliff, would be lame for life. + +Esme sleeps in a graveyard by the sea; close by her a little grave with +"Cyril, drowned the 21st of April," on it. And on her tombstone is the +inscription: "She gave her life to save a child's." + +Estelle and Bertie, living in the quiet country, happy, yet with a +shadow of regret ever with them, guessed, as they came often to the +grave, what the weak girl must have suffered. + +"Judge no human being until you know the truth," said Bertie once, "for +misery rode poor Esme with a sharp spur across the thorns of +recklessness. Poor Butterfly, whose day of fluttering in the sunlight +was so short." + +Yet, even with the shadow behind them, two of the players are happy, +every-day man and woman with troubles and joys. + + + +THE END + + + +COLSTONS LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH + + + + + +March, 1914 + +JOHN LONG'S ANNOUNCEMENTS + +All JOHN LONG'S Books are published in their Colonial Library as nearly +as possible simultaneously with the English Editions + + +SIX SHILLING NOVELS + +Crown 8vo., Cloth Gilt. Many in Three-Colour Wrappers + + ++THE GREATER LAW.+ By Victoria Cross, Author of "Anna Lombard," "Five +Nights," "The Life Sentence," "Life of My Heart," etc. + +"The Greater Law" is a story that touches the deepest currents of human +feeling, vibrating with power and intensity perhaps even more than +those which have previously emanated from the pen of this intrepid +writer. The many episodes of a brief romance are treated naturally and +sincerely and with masterly ability. It is, indeed, a typical Victoria +Cross novel. + + ++SUNRISE VALLEY.+ By Marion Hill, Author of "The Lure of Crooning +Water," etc. [Not supplied to Canada.] + +"The Lure of Crooning Water," by Marion Hill, was one of the fictional +landmarks of last year, consequently her succeeding book is bound to +evoke more than ordinary interest. "Sunrise Valley" involves a contrast +between the ideals of Town and Country; the wealth of Stanley +Ballantyne, manliest of millionaires, is confronted with the +independence of Blanche Dering, sweetest of heroines. The novel should +set the seal upon a victorious beginning. + + ++THE WOMAN RUTH.+ By Curtis Yorke, Author of "The Vision of the Years," +etc. + +Readers of Curtis Yorke do not need to be commended to her latest +novel. The secret of her continued success is that she never gives us +less than her best. "The Woman Ruth" epitomises the qualities of head +and heart to which she has accustomed us. An optimistic view of +life--tenderness, humour, human sympathy--these are the main weapons in +this gifted author's bright and shining armoury. + + ++SYLVIA.+ By Upton Sinclair, Author of "The Jungle," "The +Moneychangers," etc. [Not supplied to Australia or Canada.] + +"Sylvia" is the greatest work that has come from the pen of this +brilliant author, surpassing "The Jungle" both in the bigness of its +theme and in its dramatic intensity. Just as the timeliness of "The +Jungle" promoted its great success, so "Sylvia" appears at the +psychological moment when social questions are to the front. It is a +fascinating story, presenting a girl-character more charming, more +powerful, more remarkable in every way than Mr. Sinclair has yet drawn, +while beneath lies a vein of serious purpose, a criticism of +contemporary ethics which ranks it among the profoundest moral forces +of the day. + + ++DESMOND O'CONNOR.+ By George H. Jessop, Author of "His American Wife," +etc. + +Desmond O'Connor was a good fighter, a brisk wooer, and a breezy +companion on the march or in the bivouac. He was one of the many +wandering Irishmen who drew the sword for France after the siege of +Limerick. It was while in the service of Louis XIV., in Flanders, that +he met the lovely Countess Margaret, and surrendered to her charms. One +will find a no more romantic story of love and war than is contained in +these pages. + + ++BLESSINGTON'S FOLLY.+ By Theodore Goodridge Roberts, Author of "Love +on Smoky River," etc. [Not supplied to Canada.] + +The qualities which made "Love on Smoky River" such an instantaneous +and unqualified success are again brought into play in the present +novel. The author unfolds his theme with skill and power, and fully +maintains the reputation he has gained for telling a good story well. + + ++AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE+. By Violet Tweedale, Author of "The House of the +Other World," etc. + +This is a book of a very unusual type. It is a powerful novel dealing +with Satanism, an evil cult which is making great headway in Europe. +The man who forms the unholy alliance is Canon Gilchrist, who has been +unfairly deprived of a peerage, and hopes to regain his position by the +help of the Powers of Darkness. There is a charming love element, and +the story shows the author at her best. + + ++A GAMBLE FOR LOVE+. By Nat Gould. (For Complete List of Nat Gould's +Novels see pages 12 and 13). + +This novel follows "A Fortune at Stake," the first novel by Nat Gould +to be issued at the outset at 6_s_. The innovation was an immediate +success. The new tale, "A Gamble for Love," should undoubtedly win for +itself many admirers. The hero and heroine have strong dominating +personalities, and the love interest is well sustained. The element of +sport of course prevails, and the book may fairly be said to be as +thrilling as any Mr. Nat Gould has written. + + ++THE SECRET CALLING.+. By Olivia Ramsey, Author of "Callista in +Revolt," etc. + +This is a love story of unusual charm dealing with the fortunes of two +girls. An artist falls in love with one; the other rejects the +brilliant marriage arranged for her by her worldly aunt. Each girl +seeks safety in flight. How both are finally won by the men who love +them is convincingly described by the author. In this book she again +displays her acknowledged skill as a clever novelist. + + ++THE SNAKE GARDEN.+ By Amy J. Baker, Author of "I Too Have Known," "The +Impenitent Prayer," etc. + +As with her two previous successes the scene is laid in South Africa. +Miss Baker writes with a realism that is the outcome of personal +experience. Theo, the heroine, is an unusual type of girl, and how she +straightens out her life is told with rare humour and psychological +insight. The book is remarkable for its clear-cut pictures of Colonial +life. + + ++THE BELOVED PREMIER.+ By H. Maxwell, Author of "Mary in the Market," +"The Paramount Shop," etc. + +The author imagines what would happen in England were the authorities +to govern with absolute disinterestedness and singleness of purpose. +The picture thus drawn depicts a topsy-turvy world indeed. The story is +told with much humour and many shrewd thrusts at our most cherished +institutions. It is an unusual book replete with good things. + + ++THREE SUMMERS.+ By Victor L. Whitechurch, Author of "The Canon in +Residence," "Left in Charge," etc. + +Here is a book that will appeal to all who love a good plot and plenty +of incident. It runs along fresh and sparkling and true to the end. The +hero and heroine are cleverly depicted in this charming romance, which +teems with lovable characters. It is a novel which enhances the +reputation of this popular author. + + ++THE RESIDENCY.+ By Henry Bruce, Author of "The Eurasian," "The Native +Wife," etc. + +The previous novels by Henry Bruce have secured for him an appreciative +following. Like its predecessors, "The Residency" is a story of life in +India. The heroine is a beautiful Eurasian who, after twenty-two years +of sheltered life in England, rashly returns to India. The novel is an +account of the passionate attachment she forms for a Native of rank. +Mr. Bruce has a power of humour all too rare in these days. He tells +the narrative in a masterly way. + + ++PAUL MOORHOUSE.+ By George Wouil, Author of "Sowing Clover." + +_The Morning Post_ said, in reviewing the author's first novel, "Sowing +Clover": "We shall look for Mr. Wouil's future with every anticipation +of continuous and increasing delight." The second novel is another +Black Country study, but of much greater dramatic power. It depicts the +central character, reared in poverty, without influence or promise; of +the struggles of youth; of artisan life, the prospect of a "little +'ome" and drab respectability; of ambition; of the coming of love; of +the making of a gentleman, and the battle with environment. + + ++THE WIDOW OF GLOANE.+ By D. H. Dennis, Author of "Crossroads," etc. + +Mr. D. H. Dennis is one of the most promising exponents of the modern +school of fiction. His new Work contains a capital idea. Phyllis, the +heroine, who is a charming young widow when the story opens, meets and +marries the playmate of her childhood. The narrative is full of good +things, of wit as well as wisdom, and readers who like their fiction to +be brainy as well as human will thoroughly enjoy its pages. + + ++THE BARBARIANS.+ By James Blyth, Author of "Rubina," "Amazement," etc. + +The marital relationship is the keynote of "The Barbarians" Original, +virile, human, bold and sympathetic, the novel, both in interest and +craftsmanship, is a worthy successor of a sequence of brilliantly +limned portraits of the feminine character. It is the tale that +matters, and as a story teller Mr. Blyth may well challenge comparison. + + ++UNDER COVER OF NIGHT.+ By R. Murray Gilchrist, Author of "Weird +Wedlock," etc. + +A book of vivid atmosphere, probably the best of this author's novels +of incident. Throughout, the strange country background, with its +swiftly moving folk, gentle and simple, reminds one of a weird and +fascinating drama. The contrast between the quiet inn house, and the +dilapidated hall with its guilty secret, is admirably depicted. The +plot is excellently fashioned and the unfolding of the mystery done +with admirable restraint. The author understands to perfection the art +of thrilling his readers. + + ++MAIDS OF SALEM.+ By K. L. Montgomery, Author of "The Gate-Openers," +"The Cardinal's Pawn," etc. + +The witch-persecution of New England, one of the most dramatic chapters +of American history, is the theme of K. L. Montgomery's new novel. The +scene is Salem, Massachusetts Bay. The story is one of tragedy and +romance, told in the inimitable way with which the author's admirers +have been so charmed by her previous books. + + ++THE DICE OF LOVE.+ By Edmund Bosanquet Author of "A Society Mother," +"Mary's Marriage," etc. + +Since the days of "A Society Mother," Mr. Edmund Bosanquet has gone +far, and this, his latest romance, will more than satisfy the +expectations of his admirers. The characters are never insipid, and +have the happy knack of getting on the right side of the reader +immediately. There is a sustained brilliance about the book which +augurs well for its success. + + ++THE MEMOIRS OF PRINCESS ARNULF.+ + +These reminiscences form the record of the intimate life of the +Princess Arnulf and her royal relatives. Not for many years has a work +of such extraordinary interest been given to the reading public. It is +the mart of news, of scandal, of rumour, of intrigue, of a galaxy of +princes, courtiers, men and women of rank and fashion, of sullied +virtue and invidious attachments. + + ++WHY SHE LEFT HIM.+ By Florence Warden, Author of "Love's Sentinel," +etc. + +Miss Warden's gypsy heroine forms a very interesting study. It would be +unfair to explain the plot of the story, but behind it is tragedy. The +hero, Lord Tregaron, is a well-drawn personage, and so, indeed, are the +other characters clustered around the charming heroine. + + ++THE MAZE.+ By A. L. Stewart. + +"The Maze" is the love story of a famous operatic singer who marries +her protege, a violinist considerably younger than herself. As is +inevitable, their gifts clash and jealousy ensues. The plot is cleverly +unfolded, and the book reaches a satisfactory conclusion. The scene is +laid in London, Paris, and the West of England. + + ++THE OYSTER.+ By a Peer, Author of "The Hard Way," "The Decoy Duck," +etc. + +The Novels of a Peer are distinguished among present-day fiction by +their brilliant literary qualities and their deep emotional appeal to +human hearts and sympathies. They are addressed to men and women who +know the world and the significance of life: their keynote is strength. +The _motif_ of this enthralling story is centred upon the maternal +instinct--the profoundest of all human feelings. An idea of consummate +originality is presented in a manner free from reproach or any +suspicion of pruriency. + + ++A MILLION FOR A SOUL.+ By Mrs. C. E. Phillimore, Author of "Two Women +and a Maharajah." + +An Irish patriot bequeaths to his child, as her sole inheritance, his +love for drink. She marries in India and through constant strain +succumbs to the degrading habit. Cast off by her husband, her lover +seeks to regain her and effect her regeneration. The story ends with +this achieved, though the manner of its accomplishment is by way of the +unexpected. + + ++THE WHITE VAMPIRE.+ By A. M. Judd, Author of "Lot's Wife," etc. + +This is a powerful story of love, hate, revolution, and revenge, woven +around the central figure of a beautiful, fascinating, unscrupulous +woman who lures men to ruin and then dooms them to a horrible fate. +Retribution overtakes her at last through the love of one of her +victims. The book contains many thrilling episodes, and the ending is +highly dramatic. + + ++LAW THE WRECKER.+ By Charles Igglesden, Author of "Clouds," etc. + +Is it feasible that a sane man may be sent to a lunatic asylum? This +vital question is answered by Mr. Igglesden in "Law the Wrecker." The +author is especially qualified to deal with the subject, as he has +acted as certifying magistrate for many years and been a governor of a +county lunatic asylum. Life in a lunatic asylum is vividly and +truthfully described. The plot is an exciting one with many dramatic +situations, a young Colonial trying against heavy odds to prove his +sanity to the girl he loves, and she in turn struggling with the doubt +that racks her mind. + + ++MARY'S MARRIAGE.+ By Edmund Bosanquet, Author of "A Society Mother," +"Catching a Coronet," etc. + +Securing public favour at the first time of asking--such is this +author's almost unique record. That he has come to stay may be gathered +from the progressive successes he has achieved since the days of "A +Society Mother." This novel follows its predecessors in that it makes +the same direct appeal to the average human heart. Readers in their +thousands and tens of thousands will rejoice to know something about +the heroine and her wayward marriage. + + ++THE ENCHANTING DISTANCE.+ By Lilian Arnold, Author of "The Storm-Dog," +etc. + +This is a love story, in the development of which it becomes apparent +that things are seldom what they seem and that the most passionate +attachments are rarely based on pure reason. The adventures of the +heroine in search of a life of her own in London are told with much +humour. + + ++A BESPOKEN BRIDE.+ By Fred Whishaw, Author of "Nathalia," etc. + +Mr. Fred Whishaw's description in this novel of the gallant little +nation, Finland, fighting to a man and woman against inevitable +absorption by the irresistible giant at the threshold, is moving and +holds the reader. Every Finn is a resister, active or passive. Some +fight wisely, some foolishly, but all fight and all sacrifice self for +the sake of the Motherland and her disappearing rights and privileges. + + ++SALAD DAYS.+ By the Author of "Improper Prue," "The Price of +Possession," etc. + +This amusing novel can well be called a comedy of youth, for it depicts +the invasion of a well-ordered English bachelor by a good-intentioned +humourless Irish girl and twin young men of free and easy disposition. +The bachelors are Mr. Weatherby, most chivalrous of victims, and his +nephew, Richard Torr, an Oxford exquisite, who tries hard to save his +own and his uncle's dignity under the most trying conditions. It is a +book that men and women will laugh at and enjoy. + + ++FROM PILLAR TO POST.+ By Alice M. Diehl, Author of "Incomparable +Joan," etc. + +For the many readers of Mrs. Diehl's novels the present story will be +rather a new departure in female portraiture. The heroine's +aristocratic descent, conflicting with her father's democratic ideas, +is the pivot on which much of the tale turns. Her experiences as a +wife, and yet all the time no wife, go to make up a very fascinating +romance which shows that the author has lost none of her power. + + ++CALLISTA IN REVOLT.+ By Olivia Ramsey, Author of "A Girl of No +Importance," etc. + +This dainty love-story is told with great charm and skill. A beautiful +girl is forced, through adverse circumstances, to lead a monotonous +existence in an isolated village. It is here that she is discovered by +the wealthy Bruce Armadale, whose force of character is powerfully +drawn. A dazzling dancer of London fame is introduced as a dangerous +rival for his affection, and her plot to separate the lovers is +convincingly told. + + ++THE RANSOM FOR LONDON.+ By J. S. Fletcher, Author of "The Bartenstein +Case," etc. + +This is one of the most enthralling conceptions that has yet appeared +in realistic fiction. From the advent of the stranger at the week-end +retreat of the Prime Minister, with his demand for ten millions +sterling as the ransom for London, right through to the end, the +narrative compels attention. Mr. Fletcher has in this story surpassed +himself. + + ++ANGELS IN WALES.+ By Margam Jones, Author of "The Stars of the +Revival," etc. + +A tale of Welsh life in the last century, describing faithfully and +vividly, in the glow of a sympathetic imagination, the joys and sorrows +of the Celtic soul, and having for its central theme the all-important +problem of true life. Here the lover of fiction will be continually +charmed by a mysterious revelation of hidden life clothed in a new +dress of spiritual psychology. + + ++THE PRICE OF CONQUEST.+ By Ellen Ada Smith, Author of "The Only +Prison," etc. + +The story has its setting partly in the west country and partly amidst +the changes and chances of London musical life. As a risen Star, +Sigismund Wirth is happy as only the successful can be. How at last his +weakness is discovered and his final victory over self achieved is +shown in this clever novel. + + ++FAITH AND UNFAITH.+ By James Blyth, Author of "Rubina," "Amazement," +etc. + +This novel is the study of a woman's love. The theme is developed with +the certainty of touch and the clearness of vision which are the gifts +of experience in life and art. It is as engrossing as the author's +previous works, and a notable addition to his gallery of brilliant pen +portraits of beautiful, frail women. + + ++THE RED WEDDING.+ By E. Scott Gillies, Author of "A Spark on Steel," +etc. + +The novel deals with one of the stormiest periods of history and of the +fierce feud between two Highland Clans, each so powerful that Queen +Elizabeth sought to gain their friendship for England against the +Scottish Sovereign, James IV. It is a story of love and jealousy and +the gradual success of the true lover in the face of all obstacles. + + ++ENVIRONMENT.+ By Mrs. A. M. Floyer. + +The story illustrates the influence of environment upon character. The +plot consists of episodes, amatory, humorous and otherwise, in the +lives of people who are not always in their proper element. It should +appeal to all who like something out of the beaten track. + + +RECENT POPULAR NOVELS + +SIX SHILLINGS EACH + +Several of these novels were the successes of last year. Some reached +the distinction of a Second Edition and even a Third Edition, whilst +with "The Lure of Crooning Water" a Thirteenth Edition was called for. + + LOVE ON SMOKY RIVER Theodore G. Roberts + SOWING CLOVER George Wouil + THE PARAMOUNT SHOP H. Maxwell + A FORTUNE AT STAKE Nat Gould + THE EURASIAN Henry Bruce + MAZE OF SCILLY E. J. Tiddy + ETELKA Stanley Ford + A SOCIAL INNOCENT R. St. John Colthurst + GREEN GIRL Mrs. Henry Tippett + THE WISDOM OF THE FOOL By "coronet" + THE ELUSIVE WIFE R. Penley + LOT'S WIFE A. M. Judd + AN OFFICER AND A-- E. D. Henderson + YOUNG EVE AND OLD ADAM Tom Gallon + THE VAUDEVILLIANS Anonymous + A HANDFUL OF DAYS Hal D'arcy + CROSSROADS D. H. Dennis + LIGHT FINGERS AND DARK EYES Vincent Collier + THE MAN IN THE CAR Alan Raleigh + THE LURE OF CROONING WATER Marion Hill + THE DECOY DUCK By a Peer + LEVITY HICKS Tom Gallon + OUR ALTY M. E. Francis + QUEER LITTLE JANE Curtis Yorke + CATCHING A CORONET Edmund Bosanquet + THE HOUSE OF THE OTHER WORLD Violet Tweedale + THE ONLY PRISON Ellen Ada Smith + A GIRL OF NO IMPORTANCE Olivia Ramsey + UNQUENCHED FIRE Alice Gerstenberg + MARY IN THE MARKET H. Maxwell + THE IMPENITENT PRAYER Amy J. Baker + THE LITTLE MAISTER R. H. Forster + LOVE'S SENTINEL Florence Warden + INCOMPARABLE JOAN Alice M. Diehl + THE VISION OF THE YEARS Curtis Yorke + HIS AMERICAN WIFE George H. Jessop + WEIRD WEDLOCK R. Murray Gilchrist + THIN ICE Anne Weaver + A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE Charles Loewenthal + (Low Lathen) + + + +THE WORLD'S FAVOURITE AUTHOR + +ATHENAEUM, June 10th, 1911, says:--"All living writers are headed by Mr. +Nat Gould, and of the great of the past, Dumas only surpasses his +popularity." + +TRUTH, Jan. 22nd, 1913, says:--"Who is the most popular of living +novelists? Mr. Nat Gould easily and indisputably takes the first place." + + +The Novels of Nat Gould + +Sales now exceed NINE MILLION Copies! + +NAT GOULD'S NEW 6/- NOVEL + + +A GAMBLE FOR LOVE + +[Ready in April, 1914] + +All Mr. Nat Gould's NEW Novels will now be issued at the outset at 6s., +Crown 8vo., in handsome Cloth Gilt, over 300 pages, with Wrapper in +Three Colours. They will also be issued simultaneously in John Long's +Colonial Library at 3s. 6d., Cloth, with Special design, also Wrapper +in Three Colours; and 2s. 6d. with Stiff Paper Covers in Three Colours. + + +RECENTLY PUBLISHED AND UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE + +A FORTUNE AT STAKE + +[Third Edition.] + +Remarkable success attended the publication of this, Mr. Nat Gould's +First Novel to be issued at the outset at 6s. The large First Edition +was soon exhausted, and Second and Third Editions have been called for, +thus proving that Mr. Nat Gould has a very big following in the Library +and Colonial form. + +N.B.--Messrs. JOHN LONG are the SOLE Publishers of all Mr. Nat Gould's +New Novels and control the output. To ensure a long run with the +Library and Colonial Editions they will not publish the 1s. net Edition +until at least a year, and the 6d. Edition until over two years, after +the publication of the more expensive Edition. But in the meantime +there will be the usual periodical 6d. issues of Novels by Mr. Nat +Gould that have already appeared at 2s. and 1s. + + +NAT GOULD'S NOVELS at 1s. and 2s. + +Crown 8vo. Paper Cover, three colours, 1s. net; cloth gilt, 2s. + + THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME + THE KING'S FAVOURITE + A CAST OFF + *THE PHANTOM HORSE + *LEFT IN THE LURCH + *THE BEST OF THE SEASON + GOOD AT THE GAME + A MEMBER OF TATT'S + THE TRAINER'S TREASURE + THE HEAD LAD + +* Nat Gould's Annual, 1911, '12, '13 respectively. + + +NAT GOULD'S NOVELS at 6d. + +In large demy 8vo., thread sewn. Striking cover in three colours + + #A GREAT COUP January 21st, 1914 + + *ONE OF A MOB + *THE SELLING PLATER + A BIT OF A ROGUE + *THE LADY TRAINER + *A STRAIGHT GOER + *A HUNDRED TO ONE CHANCE + *A SPORTING SQUATTER + THE PET OF THE PUBLIC + *CHARGER AND CHASER + THE LOTTERY COLT + A STROKE OF LUCK + *THE TOP WEIGHT + #THE KING'S FAVOURITE April, 1914 + *THE DAPPLE GREY + *WHIRLWIND'S YEAR + *THE LITTLE WONDER + A BIRD IN HAND + *THE BUCKJUMPER + *THE JOCKEY'S REVENGE + THE PICK OF THE STABLE + #THE STOLEN RACER + #A RECKLESS OWNER + #THE ROARER + #THE LUCKY SHOE + QUEEN OF THE TURF + #A CAST OFF July, 1914 + +* Also at 2s. picture boards, and 2s, 6d. cloth gilt. + +# Also at 2s. cloth gilt, and 1s. net paper. + + + +NAT GOULD'S ANNUAL, 1914 + +THE FLYER + +(Twelfth Year) + +Cleverly illustrated. Cover in three colours. Paper, thread sewn, 1s. +Large demy 8vo. + +READY FOR EXPORT END OF AUGUST. ORDER NOW. + + + +THE MAGIC OF SPORT + +Being the LIFE STORY OF NAT GOULD, written by himself + +With over 50 Illustrations of Notable Sportsmen, Places and Horses and +Photogravure Portrait of the Author. Demy 8vo. 370 pages, handsomely +bound, Gilt Top. Price 12s. 6d. net. + +For further List of Nat Gould's Novels see page facing + + + ++JOHN LONG'S FAMOUS 1/- NET SERIES+ + +N.B.--All the Volumes in this Series are most attractively bound in +three-colour covers, art paper, thread sewn + ++NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914+ + + ++LIFE OF MY HEART.+ By VICTORIA CROSS. + +_Now first published in 1/- form._ + +Victoria Cross's immense popularity rests on the fame she achieved with +"Anna Lombard" and "Five Nights," and in "Life of My Heart" we have a +worthy successor. It is a story of intense passion and dramatic +interest. + + ++THE STORY OF MY LIFE+. By EVELYN THAW. With 8 portraits of the +principal characters. _Now first published._ + +In this remarkable book Evelyn Thaw unbosoms herself to the world, and +now for the first time gives her full life history in all its vivid +details. + + ++THE LIFE OF LENA.+ By W. N. WILLIS, ex-M.P. + +(Australia), Author of "Why Girls Go Wrong," "The White Slave Market," +etc. _Now first published._ + +Few tales within recent years have been so realistic, and the book from +its sincerity should appeal to the hearts of all thinking men and +women. Mr. W. N. Willis is an author whose books sell in tens of +thousands. + + ++SONNICA.+ By VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ, Author of "Blood and Sand," "The +Shadow of the Cathedral," etc. + +_Now first published._ + +Vicente Blasco Ibanez is the most brilliant author of the modern school +of Spanish fiction, and in this daring novel he is probably seen at his +best. In "Sonnica" the publishers believe they have discovered a second +"Quo Vadis." + ++Volumes already published+ + + THE LIFE SENTENCE Victoria Cross + FIVE NIGHTS Victoria Cross + ANNA LOMBARD Victoria Cross + A WIFE IMPERATIVE By a Peer + THEO By a Peer + TO JUSTIFY THE MEANS By a Peer + THE HARD WAY By a Peer + THE SPINSTER Hubert Wales + CYNTHIA IN THE WILDERNESS Hubert Wales + MR. AND MRS. VILLIERS Hubert Wales + THE WIFE OF COLONEL HUGHES Hubert Wales + HILARY THORNTON Hubert Wales + A PRIESTESS OF HUMANITY Mrs. Stanley Wrench + A PERFECT PASSION Mrs. Stanley Wrench + BURNT WINGS Mrs. Stanley Wrench + LOVE'S FOOL Mrs. Stanley Wrench + FOLLY'S GATE James Blyth + A COMPLEX LOVE AFFAIR James Blyth + THE MEMBER FOR EASTERBY James Blyth + THORA'S CONVERSION James Blyth + THE PENALTY James Blyth + AMAZEMENT James Blyth + RUBINA James Blyth + CHICANE Oliver Sandys + THE WOMAN IN THE FIRELIGHT Oliver Sandys + DECREE Lady X + THE DIARY OF MY HONEYMOON Lady X + THE STORM OF LONDON F. Dickberry + A SOCIETY MOTHER Edmund Bosanquet + I TOO HAVE KNOWN Amy J. Baker + THE DUPLICATE DEATH A. C. Fox-Davies + A HOUSEHOLD Jerrard Syrett + CONFESSIONS OF CLEODORA Carlton Dawe + SECRET HISTORY OF THE COURT OF BERLIN Henry W. Fischer + MIGHTY MAYFAIR "Coronet" + CONFESSIONS OF A PRINCESS Anonymous + IMPROPER PRUE Anonymous + THE PRICE OF POSSESSION Author of "Improper Prue" + THE PROGRESS OF PAULINE KESSLER Author of "The Adventures + of John Johns" + + +JOHN LONG'S 1/- NET (CLOTH) NOVELS + +_Crown 8vo. Cloth gilt. Wrappers in three colours_ + +NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914 + + THE LURE OF CROONING WATER Marion Hill + OFF THE MAIN ROAD Victor L. Whitechurch + THE STORM-DOG Lilian Arnold + THE REALIST E. Temple Thurston + +_Volumes already published_ + + THE GREAT GAY ROAD Tom Gallon + HIS MASTER PURPOSE Harold Bindloss + THE MASK William Le Queux + FOR FAITH AND NAVARRE May Wynne + KISSING CUP THE SECOND Campbell Rae-Brown + THE GREAT NEWMARKET MYSTERY Campbell Rae-Brown + A JILT'S JOURNAL Rita + ADA VERNHAM--ACTRESS Richard Marsh + SWEET "DOLL" OF HADDON HALL J. E. Muddock + THE OLD ALLEGIANCE Hubert Wales + ++JOHN LONG'S 7d. NET (CLOTH) NOVELS+ + +A New Series of copyright Novels which, in more expensive form, have +achieved marked success. They are printed in clear type, newly set, on +good paper, tastefully bound in Red Cloth, full gilt back, with +attractive pictorial wrapper in three colours. Each volume has a +decorative title-page with frontispiece, both on Art paper. + ++_NEW VOLUMES FOR 1914_+ + + 19 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA (2nd Feb.) Guy Boothby + 33 THE GOLD RAIL (2nd Feb.) Harold Bindloss + 23 THE GRASS WIDOW (2nd Mar.) Dorothea Gerard + 25 THE GIRL IN GREY (2nd Mar.) Curtis Yorke + 24 THRICE ARMED (1st Apr.) Harold Bindloss + 38 OUR ALTY (1st Apr.) M. E. Francis + 34 MOLLIE DEVERILL (4th May) Curtis Yorke + 39 MEMORY CORNER (4th May) Tom Gallon + 35 A GLORIOUS LIE (25th May) Dorothea Gerard + 40 THE BARTENSTEIN CASE (25th May) J. S. Fletcher + 36 ALTON OF SOMASCO (22nd June) Harold Bindloss + 37 IRRESPONSIBLE KITTY (22nd June) Curtis Yorke + ++_VOLUMES NOW READY_+ + + 1 FATHER ANTHONY Robert Buchanan + 2 DELILAH OF THE SNOWS Harold Bindloss + 3 ONLY BETTY Curtis Yorke + 4 THE GARDEN OF MYSTERY Richard Marsh + 5 IN SPITE OF THE CZAR Guy Boothby + 6 THE VEILED MAN William le Queux + 7 THE SIN OF JASPER STANDISH Rita + 8 A BORDER SCOURGE Bertram Mitford + 9 WAYWARD ANNE Curtis Yorke + 10 THE GREATER POWER Harold Bindloss + 11 A CABINET SECRET Guy Boothby + 12 THE EYE OF ISTAR William le Queux + 13 A WOMAN PERFECTED Richard Marsh + 14 HYPOCRITES AND SINNERS Violet Tweedale + 15 THE SILENT HOUSE Fergus Hume + 16 BY RIGHT OF PURCHASE Harold Bindloss + 17 THE OTHER SARA Curtis Yorke + 18 LITTLE JOSEPHINE L.T. Meade + 20 THE MAGNETIC GIRL Richard Marsh + 21 THE MATHESON MONEY Florence Warden + 22 CRIMSON LILIES May Crommelin + 26 THE LADY OF THE ISLAND Guy Boothby + 27 THE WHITE HAND AND THE BLACK Bertram Mitford + 28 THE STOLEN EMPEROR Mrs. Hugh Fraser + 29 A MAN OF TO-DAY Helen Mathers + 30 THE PENNILESS MILLIONAIRE David C. Murray + 31 LINKS IN THE CHAIN Headon Hill + 32 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR Maxwell Gray + + + ++JOHN LONG'S NEW 6d. (PAPER) NOVELS+ + +The new, up-to-date Cover Designs by leading Artists, printed in three +colours on Art paper, are the most effective that have ever adorned a +Sixpenny Series. This, combined with the established popularity of the +authors, will ensure for JOHN LONG'S 6d. (Paper) Novels first place in +the public esteem. Good paper, clear type. Thread sewn. Size 9 inches +by 6. + + +Volumes for 1914 + + 1. SOMETHING IN THE CITY Florence Warden + 2. THE TURNPIKE HOUSE Fergus Hume + 3. MIDSUMMER MADNESS Mrs. Lovett Cameron + 4. MRS. 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