Читать книгу The Oyster - Peer - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Esmé Carteret had chosen her own picture in the tableaux vivants at the Leigh-Dilneys. It was called Joy.

"I'm so happy," she had said merrily, "it will suit me."

The Leigh-Dilneys gave entertainments in the name of charity, and since charity is all-powerful, and the pheasants at Leigh Grange were as flies in summer, everyone who was anyone in London gasped for air in the big drawing-room.

Faint breaths of summer breeze eddying over scarlet geraniums and white marguerites were powerless to stir the heat generated by the crowd which packed itself in resignation on hired chairs and dreamt of getting away. Lady Delilah Leigh-Dilney looked as though she spent life trying to live down her name. A high-nosed, earnest woman, with an insatiable appetite for organized entertainment. Her bridge winnings went to support missions in distant China; an invitation to tea was certain to plunge the accepter into the dusty uncertainty of a bran pie at five shillings a dip, proceeds for something; or the obligatory buying of tickets for a vase or cushion which was too ugly ever to be used.

Electric fans, Lady Delilah said, were noisy, useless and merely fashionable. Her guests sweltered on hard chairs as an overheated stage manager scrabbled the blue curtains of the miniature stage to and fro and wished he had never seen a tableaux.

And Esmé was Joy. Merely herself, dressed in a cloud of rosy pink, her setting an ordinary room; her hands outstretched to, as it were, meet Life; her radiant face lighted by smiles; her burnished hair fluffed out softly.

"Yet not so much Joy as self-satisfaction," murmured a panting cynic as he finished applauding. "For true Joy is a simple thing—its smile of the eyes and not of the teeth."

Esmé had chosen the scene because she was really so happy. She seemed to have everything she wanted. Popular, young, helped by a dozen kindly friends, with Bertie as lover and husband satisfying every whim.

The audience fled from sandwiches and thin coffee to amuse themselves after self-sacrifice. Esmé, in her pink gown, had danced the night away at two balls.

She had not felt ill again; she put her secret fear away, hoping eagerly that she was mistaken. Went out next morning to shop. Was there not always something one wanted?

Joy! She had acted her part yesterday, flashed her dazzling smile at the world. To-day discontent walked with her on the hot pavement.

She had been contented, happy, in her little flat, childishly pleased with her new life, her pretty clothes, her gaieties. And now she wanted more. Electric motors glided by, silent, powerful; wealth which would not have missed the Carterets' yearly income for a day passed her on all sides.

A fat woman got out of a car; the Pekingese dog she carried had cost two hundred pounds.

"Oh! Mrs Carteret!" Mrs Holbrook held out a fat hand. "Hot, isn't it? I'm just going in to Benhusan's here. This necklace Luke gave me yesterday has a bad clasp. So dangerous! I want a pendant for it too. Come in and advise me—do!"

Into the shop with its sombre splendour. Background to pearl and ruby, to diamond and opal and sapphire and emerald.

These spread before this merchant's wife, dazzling toys of pink and blue and sparkling white.

Esmé wanted them. Mere youth ceased to content her. She could not buy even one of these things. She must look and long.

"This one is two hundred guineas, madam."

"Oh! Luke said I might go to that. Mrs Carteret, do advise me. This pearl, the pear shaped; or the circle of opals—or what do you think of the sapphires? I am so stupid."

Sapphires would not go with the pearl and diamond necklace. Esmé's slim fingers picked up the pearl pendant, held it longingly.

It was the only possible thing, and even then not quite right, but it would do, she said.

"You've such perfect taste, child. Luke always says so. So glad I met you. Well, see you soon again—to-morrow. We've a large party."

Men and women buying lovely—perhaps unneeded—jewels, spending hundreds, thousands, that they might see someone turn to look at their adornments. A millionaire American grumbled over the merits of pearls spread on purple velvet.

He wanted something extra. "Get these anywhere. Mrs Cyrus J. Markly was going to Court. He'd promised she should have a string to knock creation. No, these wouldn't do."

Hurried calling on heads of departments, rooting into hidden safes. Fresh glistening treasures laid out.

Mr Markly might trust Benhusan's. The rope with its diamond links and clasps should be magnificent. He might leave it in their hands. They would ransack London for perfect pearls.

With a little gasp of impatience Esmé Carteret went out.

She wanted money. Mere comfort was nothing to her to-day.

Furs are neglected in summer, but Esmé strolled into the great Bond Street store. She was sending a coat for alteration and storage.

Denise Blakeney was there, a stole of black fox spread before her.

"Summer prices, my lady. See, a rare bargain."

"And out of fashion by September or October; but it is good." Denise held up the soft fur. "Oh! you, Esmé! See, shall I have it? These things are always useful."

Esmé stroked the supple softness of the furs, held the wrap longingly.

"Twenty pounds off our winter prices, madam. And perfection. Skins such as one seldom sees. The price a mere bagatelle—seventy guineas."

"Oh! put it with my other things then. Store it. Are you bargain-hunting, Es?"

"No—I have no money." Esmé looked almost sullenly at the stole which Denise did not want and bought so carelessly. "No, I cannot bargain-hunt. I came to see about my one coat."

"What is it, my Joy? You are out of spirits to-day. You looked so lovely yesterday, dear."

Lady Blakeney touched Esmé's arm affectionately.

"Tired of genteel poverty, Denise. I paddle on the edge of the world's sea, where you people swim. Yes—we'll meet at the Holbrooks' lunch. Will their new gold plate have diamond crests on it? Good-bye."

Left alone again in the fur shop, envying, longing for the treasures there.

Out into the crowded streets. A flower-shop caught her eyes. One sheaf of roses and orchids, pale cream and scarlet and mauve, made her stop and long. Denise could take these home if she wanted them.

Esmé went in, paid five shillings for a spray of carnations.

"Those orchids and roses? Oh! they were ten guineas. Mr Benhusan had just bought them for his table that evening."

So on again with this new discontent hurting her. She went on to another shop; saw a painted, loud-voiced girl buying silk lingerie, taking models carelessly, without thought of price. Her dog, a pathetic-looking white poodle, had on a gold collar set with jewels. The girl struck him once, roughly, across the nose, making him howl.

"Straighten him up," she said carelessly. "There, that's all. You know the address. Enter the lot; send 'em with the other things."

Esmé knew the girl by sight; had seen her dancing at the Olympic. She knew, too, who would pay for those cobwebby things of silk and real lace.

The spirit of discontent held Esmé Carteret with his cruel claws, rending her, hurting her mentally.

She was Joy no longer. Her little flat, her merry, careless life, could not content her.

Her mood led her to her dressmaker's to look at model gowns, and on to Jay's and Fenwick's. Discontent urging her to look at rich things which she could not buy; the blended beauty of Venetian glass, jewels, laces, silks, all seemed to come before her with a new meaning.

And then the sudden fear; stopping as if a blow had been struck at her. She was not safe; hope was not realization. The flat and the life she grumbled at might—would—pass to something smaller. To a house in a cheaper district, to money spent on cabs and dinners going to keep the child she dreaded.

Esmé hurried on, faster and faster, as if she would escape the fears which followed her. She wheeled, panting, into Oxford Street; turned from its crush and flurry, and went again down Bond Street, her colour high as she raced on.

"Dear lady, is it a walking race or a wager?" Esmé cannoned into Gore Helmsley. He stopped her, holding her hand impressively.

A handsome man, if sloe-black eyes and high colour constituted good looks. Women admired him. Men shrugged their shoulders impatiently.

"Neither. I was running away from my own thoughts."

"Ah!" He drew a soft breath. When women hurried to escape their thoughts Gore Helmsley thought he could guess at the meaning.

"I feel lost to-day." Esmé was glad to find a friend to speak to. "Poor, an outcast amid the wealth of London."

"Joy," he said caressingly, "looked yesterday as though the world denied her nothing."

"A week ago she would have said so. To-day—" Esmé frowned.

The dark man used his own dictionary. He had grown to admire this dazzling woman. Discontent on married lips generally meant the fruit grew weary of its tree and would come lightly to the hand stretched to pick it.

"Lunch with me," he said. "I can break a dull engagement. To-morrow we shall endeavour to assail eight courses at the Holbrooks. To-day we might try the Berkeley, or the Carlton, or the Ritz."

Esmé had promised to meet Bertie at his club; the club was dull; she wanted to play at being rich to-day, to look enviously at the people who spent money.

"The Ritz," she said. "If you'll tempt me with quails and asparagus. And if you can get a table."

Jimmie was not given to extravagance, but this was worth it.

They strolled across seething Piccadilly, with its riot of noise and traffic; they went into the big hotel.

An ordered luncheon takes time. They sat in the hall waiting, watching the tide of wealth sweep in. The glass doors swung and flashed as motors and taxis brought the luncheon-goers to their destination.

Jimmie knew everyone.

"Coraline de Vine." He nodded at the girl whom Esmé had seen buying. "And Trent. He says he does not know what his income is. People say he may marry her—he's infatuated. Did you see her new car? It cost two thousand. I saw him buying it for her. That emerald she's wearing is the celebrated Cenci stone. He got it at Christie's for her last week—outbid everyone."

Thousands—thousands. Esmé's eyes glittered hungrily. She opened her pretty mouth as if she were thirsty for all this gold, as if she would bathe herself in it, drink it if she could.

"And see Lord Ellis and the bride. She was no one—his parson's daughter. She has probably spent more on that frock than papa has for half a year's income."

A big, rather cunning-looking girl, healthy and young.

"Mamma wanted to send the two children up to me this week," she said, as she paused near Esmé. "I said it was absurd, in the season. They can slip up in July before we shut up the house. Doris wants to see a dentist, mamma says; they are so expensive up here. I have discouraged her; the man at home is much cheaper."

Already anxious to keep her prize money to herself. Not to share it with her sisters. Later, when they grew up, she would give them a chance, not now. Already a grande dame, spending only where it pleased her.

Wealth everywhere, and with Esmé this new discontent.

The table next to theirs was half smothered in orchids. The American millionaire was giving a luncheon party. A duchess honoured him, a slender, dark little lady, shrugging mental shoulders at the ostentation. Lady Lila Gore, heavily beautiful, was one of the party. The sallow master of millions devoured her with his shrewd, sunken eyes. This splendid pink-and-white piece of true English beauty made his own thin, vivacious wife nothing to him.

He had bought Mrs Markly a rope of pearls that she might shine at the Court, but he was prepared to pay ten times their price for a smile from the big blonde Englishwoman, who knew it, and considered the question.

The quails were tasteless to Esmé. She could not eat. The fear returned as she felt a distaste for her food, as she refused the ice which she had specially ordered.

She grew restless, tired of Jimmie Helmsley's caressing manner, of the undercurrent of meaning in his voice.

"I shall see you to-morrow at Luke's," he said. "You are looking pale, fair lady. What is it? Can I help? You know I'd do anything for you."

"I've not been well," she said irritably. "We're so far out. The flat's so poky and stuffy. Oh! I shall be all right in a day or two."

She would be. Hope spread his wings again.

She telephoned to Bertie and met him for tea.

For a few hours she was content again. The flat looked its prettiest. Her flowers were lovely. Denise Blakeney had sent her a sheaf of roses; their fragrance filled the air. Marie had put them in the vases.

Esmé tried to love it all, to realize that in her way she wanted nothing. She had been so happy with Bertie in their careless life.

She sat on the arm of his chair. He was allowed one big one in the flat. She laughed as he did accounts.

"Butterfly, we spend every penny we have got, and a little more besides." He looked up into her radiant face. "We seem—we seem to buy a lot of things, Es."

"Not half as many things as we ought to." She put her cheek to his. "We want all new chair coverings, Bert, and I got the old ones cleaned."

"Oh! model of economy," he said gravely.

"And I bought a new hat instead. I should have to have got the hat in any case, you see. And if I do spend a little, am I not worth it, boy?"

With the fragrance of her hair so close to him, with her soft cheek against his own, could he say or think so? He was losing time up there, rusting when he ought to have been with his regiment, all for Esmé's sake, because she loved London. But if it made her happy it was enough.

He told her so, holding her closely. Told her how everyone loved her; poured out the flattery she was never tired of.

"We can't do anything for these people; they are content to see you. Your face is repayment," he said. "No one would bother about me without you, sweetheart. You were born for society."

"Yes." Esmé's voice grew strained. If Fate had sent her Arthur Ellis and his coal mines! How she would have loved to act hostess in the big town house, in Ellis Court, and Dungredy Lodge; she put the thought away, almost angrily, for she loved Bertie.

Yet, clinging to him, his arms about her, his lips on hers, she missed something. Was she growing older that kisses failed to thrill?

"I am so tired, Bertie," she said suddenly. "I have not been well all day."

Fear and discontent swept love aside. In a moment she was querulous, irritable, all the evening's happiness gone again.

It was time to dress. People were coming to dine; there would be new salad; iced rice cunningly flavoured. But the thought of food made Esmé wretched.

"I want to be happy. Why cannot the Fates let me be?" she almost whimpered to her glass.

Brilliantly pretty, slim, young, she wanted to lose nothing.

"If I were happy again I would not fret for all the impossible things as I did to-day," she said aloud, with the idea—too common with humanity—that one may strike a bargain with Fate.