Set in Silver
that I would make two of her. Evidently I once had a prophetic soul. I
only wish I had it still, so I might see beforehand what will happen to
the Me-ness of Ellaline in the next few weeks. Anyhow, whatever comes, I
expect to be supported by the consciousness that I'm paying a debt of
gratitude as perhaps such a debt was never paid before.
Of course I shall have a perfectly horrid time. Not only shall I be
wincing under the degrading knowledge that I'm a base pretender, but I
shall be wretchedly homesick and bored within an inch of my life. I
shall be, in the sort of environment Ellaline describes, like a mouse in
a vacuum--a poor, frisky, happy, out-of-doors field-mouse, caught for an
experiment. When the experiment is finished I shall crawl away, a
decrepit wreck. But, thank heaven, I can crawl to You, and you will
nurse me back to life. We'll talk everything over, for hours on end, and
I'll be able to abuse the Dragon to my heart's content. I know you'll
let me do that, provided I don't use naughty words, or, if any, disguise
them daintily in a whisper.
Ellaline and I have discussed plans and possibilities, and if all goes
as she expects (I don't see why it shouldn't), I ought to be freed from
the unpleasant role of understudy in five or six weeks. The instant my
chains are broken by a telegram from the bride saying, "Safely married,"
or words to that effect, I shall do "all my possible" to fold, my tent
like an Arab and silently steal--not to say sneak--away from the lair of
the Dragon, without his opening a scaly red eye to the dreadful reality,
until I'm beyond his power.
It must be either that or the most awful scene with him--a Regular Row.
He, saying what he thinks of my deception; me, defending myself and the
real Ellaline by saying what I think of his general beastliness. If it
came to that, I might in my rage wax unladylike; so perhaps, of the two
evils, the lesser would be the sneak act--_n'est ce pas_? Well, I shall
see when the time comes.
In five or six weeks I had thought, in any case, of allowing you to
leave Champel-les-Bains, should you grow too restive lacking my society.
I thought of proposing by then, if you were sufficiently braced by Swiss
air, milk, and honey and Champel douches, that we should join forces at
a cheap but alluring farmhouse somewhere.
That idea may still fit in rather well, mayn't it? But if, for any
unforeseen reason, I should have to stay sizzling on the sacrificial
altar longer than we expect, you mustn't come home to hot Paris to
economize and mope in the flat. You _must_ stop in Switzerland till I
can meet you in some nice place in the country. Promise that you won't
add to my burdens by being refractory.
I'll wire you an address as soon as I am blessed--or cursed--with one.
And _whatever_ you do, don't forget that I'm merged in Ellaline
Lethbridge. If her identity fits me as badly as her dresses would do it
will come about down to my knees and won't meet round the waist.
As soon as I have your letter to-morrow morning, dearest, I'll write
again, if only a few lines. Then, when I've seen the Dragon and have
gained a vague idea how and where he means to dispose of his prey, I'll
scribble off some sort of description of the man and the meeting, even
if it's on board the Channel boat, in the midst of a tossing.
Your
Iphegenia.
(Or would Jephtha's daughter be more appropriate? I'm not quite sure how
to spell either.)
III
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Rue Chapeau de Marie Antoinette_,
_July 6th. Early Morning_
Dearest Dame Wisdom: You ought to be Adviser-in-Chief to
Crowned Heads. You'd be invaluable; worth any salary. What a shame you
aren't widely known: a sort of public possession! But for my sake I'm
glad you aren't, because if you were discovered you'd never have a spare
minute to advise me.
Of course, dear, if you hadn't reached your conclusions just as you did
about this step you wouldn't have counselled, or even allowed, me to
take it. And I will remember every word you say. I'll do exactly as you
tell me to do. So now, don't worry, any more than you would if I were an
experienced and accomplished young parachutist about to make a descent
from the top of the Eiffel tower.
It's eight o'clock, and I've satisfied my soul with your letter and my
body with its morning roll and coffee. When I've finished scribbling
this in pencil to you, I shall pack, and be ready--_for anything_.
By the way, that reminds me. What a tangled web we weave when first we
practise to deceive, etc.
Won't the Dragon think it queer that his rich ward should make no better
toilettes than I shall be able to produce--after living at Versailles,
practically in Paris, with a huge amount of spending money--for a
schoolgirl?
I thought of that difficulty only last night for the first time, after I
was in bed, and was tempted to jump up and review my wardrobe. But it
was unnecessary. Not only could I call to mind in the most lively way
every dress I have, but, I do believe, every dress I ever did have since
my frocks were let down or done over from yours. I suppose that ought
to make me feel rather young, oughtn't it? To remember every dress I
ever owned? But it doesn't. I'll be twenty-one this month, you know--a
year older than you were when your ears were gladdened by my first howl.
I'm sure it was unearthly, yet that you said at once to Dad: "The dear
child is going to be musical!"
But to return to the wardrobe of the heiress's understudy. It consists
of my every-day tailor-made, two white linen coats and skirts, a darned
collection (I don't mean that profanely) of summer blouses, and the
everlasting, the immortal, black evening dress. Is it three or four
years old? I know it was my first black, and I did feel so proud and
grown-up when you said I might have it.
You'll be asking yourself: "Where is the blue alpaca she bought in the
Bon Marche sale, which was in the act of being made when I left for _la
Suisse_?" Up to now I've concealed from you the tragical fact that that
horrid little Mademoiselle Voisin completely spoiled it. I was so
furious I could have killed her if she'd been on the spot. There is no
rage like the dress rage, is there?
My one hope is that the Dragon may take as little interest in Ellaline's
clothes as he has taken in Ellaline's self, or that, being used to the
costumes of the Bengalese, which, perhaps, are somewhat sketchy, he may
be thankful that his ward has any at all.
You see, I can't tell Ellaline about this, because she couldn't help
thinking it a hint for her to supply the deficiency, and I wouldn't let
her do that, even for her own credit. Anyhow, there'd be no time to get
things, so I must just do the best I can, and carry off the old gray
serge and sailor hat with a stately air. Heaven gave me five foot seven
and a half on purpose to do it with.
Now I must pack like heat-lightning; and when I've finished I shall send
the brown box and the black Gladstone to the Gare de Lyon, where _he_
will arrive from Marseilles. That is rather complicated, as of course we
must go to the Gare du Nord for Calais or Boulogne; but he mayn't wish
to start at once for England, and in my new character, as his ward, I
must be prepared to obey his orders. I hope he won't treat me as he
seems to have treated the Bengalese! The luggage of Miss Ellaline
Lethbridge obviously can't be called for at the flat of Mrs. Brendon and
her daughter Audrie, for there would be questions--and no proper
answers. Therefore, when I present myself at the Gare de Lyon, I intend
to be "self-contained." All my worldly goods will be there, to be
disposed of as the Grand Mogul pleases.
When I've packed I shall hie me to Madame de Maluet's, looking as good
and meek as a trained dove, to take charge of Ellaline--and to change
into Ellaline.
After that--the Deluge.
Good-bye, darling!
Me, to the Lions!
But I shall have your talisman-letter in my pocket, I can't be eaten,
though I do feel rather like
Your
Martyr Child
IV
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_On Board the Boat, half-Channel over_,
_July 6th. Night_
Mother Dear: The dragon-ness doesn't show at all on the
outside.
I expected to meet a creature of almost heraldic grimness--rampant,
disregardant, gules. What I did meet--but I'm afraid that isn't the
right way to begin. Please consider that I haven't begun. I'll go back
to the time when Ellaline and her chaperon (me) started away from school
together in a discreet and very hot cab with her trunks.
She was jumpy and on edge with excitement, and got on my nerves so that
it was the greatest relief when I'd seen her off in her train for St.
Cloud. Just at this point I find another break in my narrative, made by
a silly, not at all interesting, adventure.
I'd been waving my hand for the twenty-fifth time to Ellaline, in
response to the same number of waves from her. When at last she drew in
her head, as the train steamed away, I turned round in a hurry lest she
should pop it out again, and bumped into a man, or what will be a man in
a few years if it lives. I said, "_Pardon, monsieur_," as gravely as if
it were a man already, and it said in French made in England that 'twas
entirely its fault. It was such a young youth, and looked so utterly
English, that I smiled a motherly smile, and breathed, "Not at all," as
I passed on, fondly thinking to pass forever out of its life at the same
time. But, dearest, the absurd little thing didn't recognize the smile
as motherly. Perhaps it never had a mother. I had hardly observed it as
an individual, I assure you, except as one's sub-conscious self takes
notes without permission from headquarters. I was vaguely aware that the
creature with whom I had collided was quite nice-looking, though
bullet-headed, freckled, light-blue-eyed, crop-haired, and possessing
the shadow of a coming event in the shape (I can't call it more) of a
moustache. I had also an impression of a Panama hat, which came off in
compliment to me, a gray flannel suit, the latest kind of collar (you
know "Sissy Williams says, 'the feeling is for low ones this year'!")
and mustard-coloured boots. All that sounds hideous, I know, yet it
wasn't. At first sight it was rather attractive, but it lost its
attractiveness in a flash when it mistook the nature of my smile.
You wouldn't believe that a nice, clean little British face could change
so much for the worse in about the eighth part of a second! It couldn't
have taken longer, or I shouldn't have seen, because it happened between
my smile and my walking on. But I did see. A disagreeable kind of
lighting up in the eyes, which instantly made them look full
of--consciousness of sex, is the only way I can express it. And instead
of being inoffensive, boyish, blue beads, they were suddenly transformed
into the sharp, whitey-gray sort that the Neapolitans "make horns" at.
Well, all that was nothing to fuss about, for even _I_ know that
misguided youths from Surbiton or Pawtucket, who are quite harmless at
home, think they owe it to themselves to be gay dogs when they run over
to Paris, otherwise they'll not get their money's worth. If it hadn't
been for what came afterward I wouldn't be wasting paper and ink on a
silly young bounder. As it is, I'll just tell you what happened and see
if you think I was to blame, or whether there's likely to be any bother.
At that change my look slid off the self-conceited face, like rain off a
particularly slippery duck's back. He ought to have known then, if he
hadn't before, that I considered him a mere It, but I can just imagine
his saying to himself: "This is Paris, and I've paid five pounds for a
return ticket. Must have something to tell the chaps. What's a girl
doing out alone?"