The Oyster Part 12

"He hates Italy. This was my fancy--this coming here."

Her fancy! The big, bare rooms had made Esme 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."

Esme 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 m.u.f.fled 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, Esme. 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." Esme 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 Esme, 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 Esme's arms.

"Lady Blakeney, is it not? I am the nurse, Mrs Stanson, engaged for your ladys.h.i.+p. 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!" Esme swept the mite out of Denise's hold. "Here! give him to me.

H'sh, baby, hus.h.!.+"

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 ladys.h.i.+p." She looked at Denise.

"_I_ am Lady Blakeney," said Denise, angrily. "Oh! two taxis, please. I am tired of crying babies. Take him in one."

Mrs Stanson looked grave.

Esme'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 ladys.h.i.+p," said Mrs Stanson, later, as she put her charge to sleep, "does not seem to care for children, ma'am."

"Some people do not." Esme looked at the sleeping face. "He is happier now that you have him, nurse."

Downstairs the G.o.d 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 Ma.r.s.eilles. 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."