Esmé Carteret had chosen her own picture in thetableaux vivantsat 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. SogladI 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 itisgood." 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—Ihave 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; theyareso 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 agrande 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 wantallnew 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.
"Iwantto 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.
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 achefof 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 noteintimewhich 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?"
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.
TheMorning Posthad 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.
"Iam 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 fordéjeuner?"
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.