That Which Hath Wings: A Novel of the Day
that tinged with violet a plump face coated with the latest
complexion-cream.
"How very charming your wife is--still!"
The speaker, her recent character of patient now merged in that of
visitor, plucked down her veil of violet gauze with a gesture that
betrayed her wrath. But her voice was carefully honeyed to match her
smile--as she continued:
"You have been married quite an age, haven't you?"
The anniversary of her own second honeymoon was due next week. She went
on answering her own query:
"Nearly fourteen years, I think?"
Saxham answered, not glancing at the silver table-almanac but at the
threefold photograph frame:
"To be precise, just fourteen years and six weeks. We were married on
the 6th of June, 1900."
"You have a good memory--for some things!"
The undisguised resentment in her tone pulled Saxham's head round. He
surveyed her with genuine surprise. She bit her lips and tossed her
head, waggling her tall feather, jingling her strings of turquoise and
amber, coral and onyx, kunzite and olivine, big blocks of which
semi-precious stones were being worn just then, strung on the thinnest
of gold chains. Each movement evoked a whiff of perfume from the scanty
folds of her bizarre attire. Her frankly double chin quivered, and her
redundant bosom, already liberally displayed through its transparent
covering of embroidered chiffon, threatened to burst its confining bands
of baby-ribbon, as the Doctor said:
"Is it not natural that I should have a particularly clear recollection
of the greatest day of all my life--save one?"
"You're quite too killing, Owen!"
She laughed tunelessly, clanking her precious pebbles.
"Of course, we all know you're fearfully swanky about your wife's
beauty. I saw her yesterday at Lord's--sitting under the awning on the
sunny side, with the Duchess of Broads and Lady Castleclare. Your boy
was with them, jumping out of his skin over Naumann's bowling for
Oxford. Really marvellous! Your poor dear Cambridge hadn't a chance!
Tremendously like you he grows--I mean Bawne. Really, your very image!"
"I should prefer," said Saxham, stiffly, "that my son resembled his
mother."
"Ha, ha, ha! How quite too romantic!" She threw back her head, its
henna-dyed hair plastered closely about it and fastened with buckles of
jade, set with knobs of turquoise. A kind of stove-pipe of enamel green
velvet crowning her, was trimmed with a band of miniature silk roses in
addition to the towering violet plume. The plume, carefully dishevelled
so as to convey the impression of a recent wetting, threatened the
electric globe-lamp springing from a standard near. Her crossed legs
liberally revealed her stockings of white silk openwork, patterned with
extra-sized dragon-flies in black chenille, and her laugh rattled about
Saxham's vexed ears like Harlequin's painted bladder, full of little
pebbles or dried peas. "In love with your wife--and after fourteen
years and six weeks!" Her fleshy shoulders shook, and her opulent bosom
heaved stormily. She passed a little filmy perfumed handkerchief under
her violet gauze veil and delicately dabbed the corners of her eyes.
"You remind me of my poor David. I was always the _one woman on earth_,
in his opinion. To the last, he was jealous of the slightest reference
to you!"
"To _me_? Why should he have been?"
Mildred--for this was Saxham's faithless bride-elect of more than twenty
years previously--swallowed her wrath with an effort, and went on with
the mulish obstinacy of her type:
"Perhaps it was absurd. But men in love are unreasonable creatures, and
David was perfectly mad where I was concerned. He worshipped me to the
point of idolatry! He never could _quite_ believe that I did not regret
my--my choice--that my heart did not sometimes escape from his keeping
in dreams, and become yours again, Owen! He never _really_ cared for
Patrine, because she has a look of you.... Absurd, considering that she
was born two years after you disappeared into South Africa.... Though
of course I could not truthfully say that I did not--think of you a
great deal!"
It seemed to the silent man who heard, that Mildred offended against
decency. His soul loathed her. She went on:
"Her brother--my darling boy who died--was the very image of David!"
Her tone was even womanly and tender in speaking of the dead boy. "But
Patrine--a year younger--Patrine is really wonderfully like you, with
her commanding figure and almost Egyptian profile, those long eyes under
straight eyebrows--and all those masses of dead-black hair!" As Saxham
writhed under the category she gave out her irritating laugh again.
"Ah!--I forgot! When Patrine was in Paris with Lady Beauvayse for the
Big Week--Lady Beau took her to the Atelier Wiber--the famous
hairdresser's establishment at 000, Rue de la Paix--where they
specialise in _Chevelures des Teintes Moderne_--all the newest effects
displayed by stylish mannequins--and really the change is
astonishing--her sister Irma and I hardly knew Patrine when she came to
see us at Kensington--looking superb, with hair--one might almost call
it terra-cotta coloured--showing up her creamy-white skin."
"Do you tell me that Patrine has bleached her splendid hair and stained
it with one of those vile dyes that are based on aniline--or Egyptian
henna at the best?"
Mildred retorted acidly:
"It was a very expensive process.... Five hundred francs--but I
understand that Lady Beauvayse was so good as to insist on paying
Wiber's charges herself."
Saxham answered brusquely:
"I would have given ten times the money to know my niece's hair
unspoiled. Whoever paid, the process will prove an expensive one to
Patrine when she finds herself excruciated by headaches, or when the
colour changes--as it will by-and-by!"
Mildred shrugged:
"She can have it re-dipped, surely? Or let it return to its original
black!"
"There are many chemical arguments against human hair so altered
returning to its original colour," came from Saxham grimly. "As these
women who have made coiffures of orange, pink, crimson, blue and green,
fashionable, had previously found to their cost. Do you not realise
that from mishaps of this kind resulted the chromatically tinted heads
one sees at public functions? Bizarre and strange in the electric
lights, hideous in the sun."
"Ha, ha, ha!" Mildred's laugh rattled about the Doctor's ears like a
shower of walnuts. "I shall certainly bring Patrine to call upon you,
if her hair happens to turn peacock-green or pinky-crimson. I would not
miss seeing your face for all the world! But seriously, my dear Owen,
when a girl is as handsome as my girl and has no _dot_ to back her, she
must make herself attractive and desirable to eligible men."
"By trying to make herself look like a Parisian _cocotte_, she renders
herself neither attractive nor desirable--to the kind of man whom I
should like to see married to my niece. The cleanly kind of man, with
wholesome tastes, a sound constitution, and an upright character."
"My dear Owen, you might be composing an advertisement for a butler or a
_chauffeur_!"
Mildred ostentatiously controlled a yawn as the Doctor continued:
"As to a provision for Patrine on her marriage, you know that I shall
gladly give it. Of course, upon condition----"
"Yes, yes, I know what your condition would be!" Mildred's finger-tips,
adorned with nails elaborately veneered and dyed, drummed a maddening
little tattoo on the table-ledge. "That she marries the 'right kind of
man, with wholesome tastes,' and all the rest of it. The question
is--would Patrine be able to endure him? She is--let us say--more than
a little difficult to get on with--and essentially an independent,
up-to-date girl."
"If Patrine would have subdued her ideas about independence and given up
this idea of taking a place as salaried companion, I would have welcomed
her, and so would my wife!"
"Patrine is--as you are very well aware--something very different to a
mere companion. She is reader and secretary to Lady Beauvayse. Her
Club subscription is paid, she moves there amongst gentlewomen, and is
treated at Berkeley Square exactly like a favoured guest. You should
see the presents Lady Beauvayse absolutely showers upon her--and she
gets all her expenses and a hundred a year."
Saxham was silent. Patrine might have had all this and much more, if
she would have accepted the home he offered. Not only because she was
his niece, but the girl was dear to him. His wife loved her, and in her
strange, wild way Patrine returned some measure of Lynette's tenderness.
"She is worth loving," Lynette had told her husband. "She has a
generous, brave, independent nature and a deep heart. She is not easily
won because she is so well worth winning. Ah! if the Mother were only
with us, how well she would understand and help Patrine!"
But Mildred had risen to depart. Saxham rose too, not without alacrity,
and taking her offered hand, pressed it and let it fall to her side.
"Well, good-bye. My kind regards to Captain Dyneham." He referred to
the second legal possessor of Mildred's once coveted charms. "When can
I dine with you at Kensington, do you ask? I fear I have very few
opportunities for sociality. Some day! ... Tell Patrine to come and see
me. Half-past one o'clock to-morrow. Lunch after my scolding--and a
chat with Lynette."
"You are extremely kind to Patrine." Mildred's tone was sweetly
venomous. "But I fear just at present she has little time to spare.
Men in love are so exacting. Dear me, what a feather-brained creature I
am! ... Haven't I told you about Count von Herrnung?"
"You have told me nothing," said Saxham, "and you know it. Who and what
is the man?"
Mildred said with a great air of dignity:
"He is a distinguished officer of the Prussian Flying Service, the son
and heir of a high official in the German Foreign Office. He holds the
rank of Count by courtesy. I assure you I never met a more agreeable
young man."
"Even were he all that you say, and more, and even while I regard the
German Army as a marvel of organisation and efficiency--I should not,
knowing the type of man that is the product of their military system,
desire my niece to marry a German officer."
Mildred mocked:
"'Marry'--who said anything about marriage? ... When they have not known
each other for a month. Not"--her tone became sentimental--"that I am a
disbeliever in love at first sight. No one could doubt that Patrine is
attracted, and he--the Count"--she dropped her eyelids--"is simply too
fearfully gone for words. Absolutely dead-nuts!"
"'Gone.' ... 'Dead-nuts.' ..."
"I give you my word. Entangled hopelessly. 'What a captive to lead in
chains,' I said to Patrine--he is quite six feet in height or over, and
has the most perfect features; simply magnificent eyes, the most
fascinating manner, and the build of a Greek athlete. He is staying at
the 'Tarlton,' and I must say Lady Beauvayse is extremely sympathetic.
For since they came back from Paris together the Count has been taking
Patrine about everywhere. She can hardly have had a glimpse of my gay
girl.... Dinners, theatres, the opera, and heaven knows what else, they
have crowded into the week!" The smiling speaker shrugged her ample
shoulders. "To say nothing of cabaret suppers and dances. He even
promises to take her to the famous 'Upas Club.' Wonderful, by all
accounts. They say the French Regency came nowhere near it. Dancing in
the Hall of the Hundred Pillars, a simply wonderful three A.M. supper,
and champagne of the most expensive brands, served up in gold-mounted
crystal jugs."
"Can it be possible? ..." broke from Saxham. "Are you mad, that you