That Which Hath Wings: A Novel of the Day
Archbishops, Bishops and their wives at the Mansion House to-morrow
night. Music just after the flesh-pots and before the speeches or
after--a select company of Concert Artistes, the gemmen in boiled shirts
and the usual accompaniments; the ladies in white with black sashes and
black gloves. And that's where I shall come in--in white with black
trimmings. Land of Hope and Glory!--when I get up and ask the
Archbishop of Canterbury to plump for Female Suffrage!--or shall it be
the Lord Mayor? ... Won't my Uncle Gustavus burst the buttons off his
episcopal waistcoat. You've seen him. He's Bishop of Dorminster--and
they fasten 'em at the back."
"Let the Bishop keep his buttons on!" said Patrine, suddenly and
savagely. "What the--devil does it matter whether women get the Vote?
Would we keep it if we got it, or throw it away--oh! idiots--idiots!--to
gratify some vulgar vanity, or some beastly sensual whim?"
"Gee-whillikins!" Rhona whistled shrilly in astonishment. "Why, I
thought you were one of Us. Not actively militant, but a sympathiser,
no end. Didn't you get our Committee in touch with Mrs. Saxham, when
we'd set our hearts on having her speak at the Monster Meeting of Women
we're going to have in October at the Grand Imperial Hall? She's
promised to address us on Suffrage and we're all over ourselves to hear
her. That last article of hers in _The National Quarterly_--'The Burden
of Tyre,' has collared the literary cake. People tell me who've read it
that she doesn't care a hang about the Vote for Women in any other sense
than that it'd open a gateway to legislation on the Sex Question of a
much more drastic kind. She'd bring in a Bill to have moral offences
against children dealt with by a Jury of Mothers--a lot they'd leave of
the offender once they'd their claws on him!--and make it a Life
Sentence every time, for the fellow who seduces a girl."
Patrine listened in stony silence. Rhona chattered on. "Of course the
work she does amongst those unlucky wretches--young girls and women
who've come to grief--is topping. But why waste herself rescuing
prostitutes and street-walkers? Aren't any of us good enough--or bad
enough to interest her? I'm going to ask her that when you introduce
me--remember you've promised to!"
Patrine said in a voice jarred and harsh with anger:
"Since your declared intention is to be offensive to Mrs. Saxham, whose
shoes neither you nor myself, nor any woman of our set is worthy to
unlace, I take back the promise, if it was ever given!"
"What's up?" Rhona turned and stared. "I say!--but you look fearfully
seedy! Worried about Margot, is that it?" She was off on another tack,
carried by the light shifting breeze of her imagination. "Poor little
Margot!--in spite of good advice and top-hole mascots--booked for the
Nursery Handicap--and out of the running for a year!"
"Who told you--that?--about Margot?"
"Melts--the head housemaid here--had it from Kittum's maid Pauline, who
dropped in to fetch away some stored luggage of her ladyship's....
They've furnished a house at Cadogan Place--Margot and her Franky-wanky.
West End enough, and quite exquie inside, but not as convee as the dear
old Club. But--I believe I'm boring you." Her nimble glance left
Patrine's face, and darted in the direction of von Herrnung. "Who's the
big, good-looking, carroty man, gobbling you up with his eyes while he's
talking piffle to Cynthia and Trix? Now I remember--I _have_ heard some
hints of your going over to the Common Enemy." Rhona's sharp light eyes
sparkled like polished gold-stones. "Is that the reason why you've
bleached your hair? What a putrid shame of you! And the Enemy's a
foreigner--a German! Did he give you that gorgeous ring?"
Upon the third finger of Patrine's left hand was the magpie pearl set in
platinum, gleaming to its wearer's fevered fancy, like some malignant
demon's eye. Rhona caught the hand, and uttered a little squeak as
Patrine wrenched it away. She--Patrine--was driven beyond endurance:
her self-command was breaking. Her hair seemed to creep upon her
tingling scalp. Down her spine and along the muscles of her thighs
passed slow recurrent waves of physical anguish. She could have
screamed aloud, torn her garments, set her teeth in her own flesh. But
she mastered herself sufficiently to say:
"I won the ring over a bet in Paris. You can see for yourself I don't
wear it on the engagement left. Do not despair of me. At this moment I
do not particularly esteem women. But on the other hand, I absolutely
abominate men!"
"Hope for you then, politically speaking," said the misanthropic Rhona.
"What, are you going?"
Patrine had thrown aside her paper and risen, towering over her. She
nodded without speaking, and went out of the smoking-room, crumpling the
letter she had written in her strong white hand. She would not post it,
she told herself as she passed through the outer lounge. She would go
and look up Uncle Owen at Harley Street. She spoke a word to an agile
hall-boy in the vestibule and he skipped out, and signalled a taxi-cab.
A handsome Darracq four-seater, enamelled bright yellow and fitted in
ebonized steel, was waiting by the kerbstone. As the taxi manoeuvred to
get round it, von Herrnung's voice said, speaking behind Patrine:
"Stop the boy, that machine will not be wanted.... I have here a car
that is lent me by a friend."
She turned and saw him, standing hat in hand. His tone was pleasant,
and he was smiling. He went on:
"He--my friend--is a Secretary of our German Embassy. He has three
automobiles--why should he not lend me one?" He replaced his hat and
pulled a curved gold cigar-case out of the breast-pocket of his
waistcoat asking: "I may light a zigarre after these stupid cigarettes I
have been smoking? It will not be unpleasant to _gnaediges Fraeulein_?"
His courtesy insulted. His smile was an outrage. She controlled the
trembling of her lips with difficulty. Whether he observed or not was
uncertain, he seemed to busy himself solely with the selection and
kindling of his cigar.
"Pardon that I get in first, as I shall be driving!" he said, and threw
away the smoking vesta, pushed back the hall-boy who was wrestling with
the door-handle, got in and took his place at the steering-wheel,
beckoning to Patrine.
"Thanks, but I cannot.... I am going to Berkeley Square."
"I will drop you at Berkeley Square." He met her eyes hardily. "You
will not refuse me this pleasure, when I have not seen you since--" The
slight significant pause stabbed as it had been meant to. He saw her
wince, and finished: "Since two days. Will you not get in?"
She took the seat beside him. He stretched his arm across her knees and
shut the door neatly. She leaned back to avoid his touch, and he
smiled, feeling her shudder. Her eyes were on his gloved left hand as
he drew it back.
He manipulated the electrical starter and the yellow Darracq moved up
and out of Short Street. Patrine stared before her, sitting rigid in
her place. Not once did her glance visit _him_. But every skilful
movement of his hands upon the steering-wheel, every creak of the
springy leather cushion under his great body, every tightening of his
mouth or twitch of his thick red eyebrows, were photographed upon her
brain.
He was irreproachably got up in thin, loose grey tweed morning clothes,
cut by a West End tailor, and his feather-weight grey felt hat testified
to the make of Scott. His knitted silk tie, a combination of electric
blue and vivid yellow, was a discordant note. Patrine was certain it
must have been the work of some other woman in Berlin. The heavy flat
gold ring through which the ends were drawn was set with a ruby and two
diamonds, another false note that jarred her painfully. But he was
looking strong and well and in admirable condition. His blue eyes were
bright, his red hair and his tightly-rolled moustache glittered in the
sunshine, there was a bloom of perfect health upon his florid skin.
If Patrine did not look at von Herrnung, his eyes were less abstemious
with regard to her. Under cover of their short red eyelashes, they
scrutinised her from time to time. There was unbridled curiosity in
their regard, and also a retrospective vanity, admiration, and
resentment as well. She rode the high horse. She was hellishly sure of
herself. Sure of von Herrnung, it might be. This passed in his mind as
he said to her:
"Do you know that this car has had the honour to carry the Emperor of
Germany? When _Seine Majestaet_ paid a visit to England in the year
1907, he used it every day."
Patrine returned indifferently:
"It seems to go smoothly."
Von Herrnung said, as the car obeyed every motion of his practised hands
upon the steering-wheel:
"It is a wonderful traveller. It has been fitted with a Heinz motor,
three times more powerful to its weight than any other known
petrol-engine. Some journeys, I can tell you, it has had with the All
Highest. Travelling incognito, driven always by a--certain young
Prussian officer; then of Engineers--attached to the Personal Staff
specially for this work."
"I daresay you mean yourself?"
"That is a clever piece of guessing; I congratulate you, _gnaediges
Fraeulein_. Well, it is now no secret. I do not object to admit having
been the young _Leutnant_ in the case. So now you know how I gained my
_flair_ for English scenery and my violent penchant for English beauty.
A weakness of which I am rather proud, since it is one the Emperor
shares."
The final sentence might have conveyed a jeer. But Patrine was not
listening. She called to her companion: "You are driving in the wrong
direction for Berkeley Square, but it does not matter. Please put me
down just here at the corner of Harley Street. I can leave this letter
at a house there instead of putting it in the pillar-post."
"You are not getting out, _gnaediges Fraeulein_. You are coming with me
to Hendon. I have there a little business which will occupy an hour."
He added with a familiarity that stung, looking at the tense white
profile and the black brows knitted in anger: "You are yourself to blame
that I cannot part with you. You are really as magnificent by day as by
evening--with your so-gloriously-coloured hair. May I also congratulate
you on the effective costume? Black and white are our Prussian colours.
I take that as a personal compliment."
"Take it as you like, it will not make it one."
"_Sehr gutig_. I do not need telling. When I want things I take them.
It is a habit of mine."
He spoke sheer, brutal truth. Oh God! what of Patrine's had he not
coveted and taken, only two horrible days ago. "So," he went on, "you
will have to post your letter. I will stop at a _Postammt_ and drop it
in for you. You see, I am greedy of your society. At any moment I may
be recalled to Germany. One must catch the Bird of Happiness and hold
it while one can. Now tell me, is not that a pretty speech?"
"Extremely, but it does not alter the situation. I have a particular
appointment. I cannot go to Hendon with you."
"I have already told you that we are going there. _Grosse Gott!_" His
tone was savage. "How is it that you are so confoundedly stubborn? Do
you think such behaviour sensible--or wise?"
"I am certainly wiser than I was two days ago."
He slewed his head round to look at her with a greedy curiosity. He saw
the lines of face and figure grow rigid, and her bare hands clench
themselves together in her lap.
He glanced at her ringed hand, then transferred his regard to his own
left hand, the glove upon which he had retained at the Club. The soft
dressed _suede_ bulged as though a bandage were concealed underneath.