The Oyster. Peer
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