The Rustle of Silk
Georgie stretched like a young Angora cat and yawned with perfect
frankness.
"I'll take whatever I can get, Feo," she said. "But what the devil are
you talking about? I haven't heard a blessed word."
And Feo's laugh must have carried into Bond Street.
III
And when Georgie had transferred herself from the many-cushioned divan
to her extremely smart car, in which, with an expressionless face and a
mind as calm as a cheese, she was going to drive to Hurlingham to be
present at, rather than to watch, the polo, Feo went upstairs.
She felt that she must walk, and walk quickly, in an endeavor to keep up
with her new line of thought, at the end of which she saw, more and more
clearly, a most worth-while goal. Before she could arrive at this, she
could see a vista of bunkers ahead of her to negotiate which all her
gifts of intrigue would have, happily, to be exercised. To give interest
and excitement to her plan of becoming Fallaray's wife in fact, as well
as by law, she required bunkers and needed difficulties. The more the
merrier. She knew that, at present, Fallaray was as far away from her as
though he were at the North Pole,--and as cold. She was dead certain of
the fact that she had been of no more account to him, from the first few
hours of their outrageous honeymoon, than a piece of furniture in one of
the rooms in his house of which he never made use. That being so, she
could see the constant and cunning employment of the brains that she had
allowed to lie fallow through all her rudimentary rioting,--brains that
she possessed in abundance, far above the average. In the use of these
lay her salvation, her one chance to swing herself out of the great
disappointment and its subsequent loose-endedness which had been brought
about by Arrowsmith's sudden deflection. Her passionate desire for this
man was not going easily to die. She knew that. Her dreams would be
filled with him for a considerable time, of course. She realized, also,
looking at that uncompleted episode with blunt honesty, that, but for
him, she would still be playing the fool, giving herself and her gifts
to the entertainment of all the half-witted members of the gang. To the
fastidious Arrowsmith and her unrequited love she owed her sudden
determination to make herself useful to Fallaray and finally to become,
moving Heaven and earth in the process, his wife. This was the
paradoxical way in which her curious mind worked. No tears and
lamentations for her. She had no use for them. On the contrary, she had
courage and pride, and by setting herself the most difficult task that
she could possibly have chosen, two things would result,--her sense of
adventure would be gratified to the hilt and Arrowsmith shown the stuff
of which she was made.
But on her way to her room, which was to be without Lola until the
following morning, she stopped in the corridor, turned and went to the
door of Fallaray's den. After a moment's hesitation she entered, feeling
that she was trespassing, never before having gone into it of her own
volition. She could not be caught there because Fallaray had escaped to
his beloved Chilton, she remembered. Her desire was to stand there alone
for a few moments, to merge herself into its atmosphere; to get from its
book-lined walls and faint odor of tobacco something of the sense of the
man who had unconsciously become her partner.
The vibrations of the room as they came to her were those of one which
had belonged to an ascetic, long dead and held in the sort of respect by
his country that is shown by the preservation of his work place. It was
museum-like and tidy, even prim. The desk was in perfect order and had
the cold appearance of not having been used for a century. The fireplace
was clean and empty. The waste-paper basket might never have been
employed. There was nothing personal to give the place warmth and life.
No photographs of women or children. No old pipes. And even in the cold
eyes of the bust of Dante that looked down upon her from the top of one
of the bookcases there was no expression, either of surprise or
resentment at her intrusion.
Most women would have been chilled, and a little frightened, there. It
would have been natural for them, in Feo's circumstances, had they
possessed imagination, to have been struck with a sense of remorse. It
should have been their business, if nothing else, to see that this room
lived and had personality, comfort and a little color,--flowers from
time to time, and at least one charming picture of a youngster on the
parental desk. And Feo did feel, as she looked about in her new mood, a
little shiver of shame and the red-hot needle of repentance pricking her
hitherto dormant conscience.
"Poor old Edmund," she said aloud, "what have I done to him? This place
is dry, bloodless, like a mausoleum. Well, I'll alter it all. I have a
job, thank God. Something to set my teeth into. Something to direct my
energy at,--if it isn't too late."
And as this startling afterthought struck her, she wheeled round, darted
across the room to the place where a narrow slip of looking-glass hung
in an old gold frame, and put herself through a searching examination.
"Mf! Still attractive in your own peculiar way," she said finally, with
relief. "The early bloom gone, of course; lines here and there,
especially round the eyes. Massage and the proper amount of sleep will
probably rub those away. But there's distinction about you, Feo dear,
and softness can be cultivated. You're as hard as an oil painting now,
you priceless rotter. However, hope springs eternal, and where there's a
will there's a way."
She laughed at herself for these nursery quotations and clenched her
fists for the fray. But as she turned, fairly well satisfied with the
result of her inspection, she heard steps in the corridor--Fallaray's
steps--and the blood rushed into her face. By George, she was going to
be caught, after all.
IV
Fallaray? This sun-tanned, smiling man with shoulders square, chin high,
and a song in his eyes, who came into the room like a southwest gale?
If he felt surprise at the unfamiliar sight of Feo in his den, he
allowed nothing of it to show. He held out a cordial hand and went to
her eagerly.
"I've come up to town to see you," he said. "You must have got my S. O.
S."
The manner provided the second shock. But Feo returned the pressure of
his hand and tried instantly to think of an answer that would be
suitable to her new role.
"I think I must have done so," she said quietly, returning his smile.
"Your holiday has worked wonders, Edmund."
"A miracle, an absolute miracle!"
A nearer look proved that his word was the right one. Here was almost
the young Fallaray of the tennis courts and the profile that she had set
herself impishly to acquire in those old days. Good Heavens, could it be
that she _was_ too late, and that another woman had brought about this
amazing change? She refused to permit the thought to take root. She told
herself that she had had her share of disappointments. He had needed
rest and his beloved Chilton, bathed in the most un-English sunlight,
had worked its magic. It must be so. Look at this friendliness. That
wasn't consistent with the influence of another woman. And yet, as an
expert in love, she recognized the unmistakable look.
"I'm only staying the night here," he said. "I'm off to Chilton again in
the morning. So there's no time to lose. Can you give me ten minutes?"
"Of course," she said. "And as many more as you care to ask for. I'm out
of the old game." She hurried to get that in, astonished at her
uncharacteristic womanliness.
But he was one-eyed, like a boy. What at any other time would have
brought an incredulous exclamation left him now incurious, without
surprise. He was driving hard for his own goal. Anything that affected
Feo, or any one else, except Lola, didn't matter. Her revolutionary
statement passed almost unheard. He pushed an armchair into place.
"Sit down," he said, "I want to talk to you."
And as she sat down it was with a sudden sense of fatalism. There was
something in all this that was predetermined, inevitable. That flame had
been set alight in him by love, and nothing else. She felt, sitting
there, like that most feeble of all figures, Canute. What was the use in
trying to persuade herself that what she dreaded to hear was not going
to be said? She was too late. She had let this man go.
He walked up and down for a moment, restless and wound up, passing and
repassing the white-faced woman who could have told him precisely what
he was about to say.
"I want to be set free," he said, with almost as little emotion as would
have been called up by the discussion of a change of butchers. "I want
you to let me arrange to be divorced. Something has happened that has
altered my entire scheme of life. I want to begin all over again. I have
come back this afternoon to put this to you and to ask you to help me. I
think I know that many times since we've been married you would have
asked me to do this, if I hadn't been in politics. I'm grateful to you,
as I'm sure you know, for having respected what was my career to that
extent. I am going out. My resignation is in my pocket. It is to be sent
to the P. M. to-night. When I go back to-morrow, it will be as a free
man, so far as Westminster is concerned. I want to return to Chilton,
having left instructions with your lawyers, with your permission, to
proceed with the action. The evidence necessary will be provided and the
case will be undefended. I shall try to have it brought forward at the
earliest possible moment. May I ask you to be kind enough to meet me in
this matter?"
He drew up in front of her and waited, with as little impatience as
breeding would permit.
If this question had been put to her a week ago, or yesterday, she would
have cried out, "Yes," with joy and seen herself able to face a future
with Arrowsmith, such as she had pictured in her dreams. It came upon
her now, on top of her determination to turn over a new leaf, like a
breaker, notwithstanding the fact that she had seen it coming. But she
got up, pride and courage and tradition in every line of her
eccentrically dressed body, and faced him.
"You may," she replied. "And I will help you in every possible way. It's
the least that I can do."
"Thank you," he said. "I am deeply grateful. I knew that you would say
just that." And he bowed before turning to go to his desk. "Who _are_
your lawyers?"
She hadn't any lawyers, but she remembered the name of the firm in which
one of the partners was the husband of a woman in the gang, and she gave
it to him.
He wrote it down eagerly. "I'm afraid it will be necessary for you to
see these people in the morning. Is that perfectly convenient?"
"Perfectly," she said. "I have no engagements, as it happens."
"Then I will write a statement of the facts," he said, "at once. The
papers can be served upon me at Chilton."
It was easy to get out of marriage as it had been to get into it.
"Is that all?" she asked, with a touch of her old lightness.
He rose. "Yes, thank you," he said, and went to the door to open it for
her. There were youth and elasticity and happiness all about him.
But as she watched him cross the room, something flashed in front of her
eyes, a vivid ball of foolish years which broke into a thousand pieces
at her feet, among the jagged ends of which she could see the ruins of a
great career, the broken figure of a St. Anthony, with roses pinned to
the cross upon his chest.
He stopped her as she was going and held out his hand again.
"I am very grateful, Feo."
And she smiled and returned his grasp. "The best of luck," she said. "I
hope you'll be very happy, for a change."
V