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.