The Oyster. Peer
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