The Rustle of Silk
words of blasphemous anger crowded to her lips. With distended nostrils
and widening fingers, she took on the appearance, briefly, of a figure,
half man, half woman, stirred to its vitals with a desire to kill in
punishment of treachery, suffering under the sort of humiliation that
makes pride collapse like a toy balloon. And then a sense of humor came
to the rescue. She sprang to her feet and burst into peal after peal of
laughter so loud and irresistible and prolonged, that it brought on
physical weakness and streaming tears. Finally, standing in her favorite
place with her back to the fireplace, dabbing her eyes and steadying her
voice, she began to talk huskily, with anger, and sarcasm, and
looseness, puncturing her sometimes pedantic choice of words with one
that was appropriate to a cab driver.
"Well, I'll be damned," she said, "Lola--purring little Lola, and in
those clothes, too! I don't mind confessing that I would never have
believed it possible. I mean for you to have had the courage to aim so
high. It's easy to understand _his_ end of it. The greater the ascetic,
the smaller the distance to fall. Ha!--And you, you busy patriot, you
earnest, self-confident young Lochinvar, if only I could make clear to
you the whole ludicrous aspect of this bitter farce, this mordant slice
of satire. You wouldn't enjoy it, because you're a hero-worshipper, with
one foot in the Albert period. And in any case I can't let you into it
because my inherited instinct of sportsmanship is with me still, even in
this. And so you'll miss the point of the orgy of laughter that gave me
the stitch. But I don't mind telling you that it's a scream, and would
make a lovely chapter in the history of statesmen's love affairs."
That Fallaray should have turned from her to pick up this bourgeois
little person, a servant in his house,--that was what rankled, in spite
of her saying that she understood his end of it. Good God!
But to Lytham, who knew Lola as Madame de Breze, and had found her to be
willing to make a great sacrifice for love, the inner meaning of Feo's
outburst was lost. He told himself, as he had often done before, that
Feo was an extraordinary creature, queer and erotic, and came back to
the main road bluntly.
"May I ask you to be so kind as to tell me," he said, "what answer you
gave to Mr. Fallaray when he asked you to give him a divorce? A great
deal depends upon that."
"You mean because of his career and the success of your political
plans?"
"Yes."
"And why do you want to know, pray?" Feo shot the question at Lola.
"Because of Mr. Fallaray's career," Lola replied simply, "and the
success of these political plans."
But this was something much too large to be swallowed, much too good to
be true. Regarding Lola as a deceitful minx, a most cunning little
schemer, Feo took the liberty to disbelieve this statement utterly,
although on the face of it Lola appeared to have thrown in her lot with
Lytham. Why?--What was she up to now?--An impish desire to keep these
two on tenterhooks and get a little fun out of all this--it was the only
thing that she could get--suddenly seized Feo strongly. Here was a
gorgeous chance for drama. Here was an epoch-making opportunity
unexpectedly to force Lytham and the young vamp, as she called her, to
ask Fallaray himself for an answer to this question, and watch the
scene. It was probably the only opportunity to satisfy an avid curiosity
to see how Fallaray would behave when faced with his "affinity," and
find out what game the girl who had been her servant was playing. This
high-faluting attitude of Lola's was all nonsense, of course. She had
caught Fallaray with her extraordinary sexiness and meant to cling to
him like a limpet. To become the second Mrs. Fallaray was naturally the
acme of her ambition, even although she succeeded to a man who must
place himself on the shelf in order to indulge in an amorous adventure.
A great idea! But it would have to be carried out carefully, so that no
inkling of it might escape.
"Excuse me for a moment," said Feo, and marched out of the room with a
perfectly expressionless face.
Shutting the door behind her, she caught the eye of a man servant who
was on duty in the hall. He came smartly forward.
"Go up to Mr. Fallaray and say that I shall be greatly obliged if he
will come to my den at once on an important matter." And then, having
taken two or three excited turns up and down the hall, she controlled
her face and went back into the room.
"Saint Anthony, Young Lochinvar, the lady's maid," she said to herself,
"and the ex-leader of the erotics. A heterogeneous company, if ever
there was one."
Once more, standing with her back to the fireplace, her elbows on the
low mantel board, Feo looked down at Lola, whose eyes were very large
and like those of a child who had cried herself out of tears.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"At Whitecross, with Lady Cheyne," replied Lola.
"Oh!--The little fat woman who has the house near the gate in the wall?
I see. And you came back this afternoon?"
"Yes," said Lola.
"With my husband?"
"No," said Lola.
"Does he know that you intended to give me the pleasure of seeing you
here with our mutual friend?"
"No," said Lola.
Was that a lie or not? The girl had been crying, that was obvious.
Something had evidently gone wrong with her scheme. But why this
surreptitious meeting, this bringing in of Lytham? It was easy, of
course, to appreciate _his_ anxiety. He needed an impeccable Fallaray.
He was working for his party, his political campaign, and in the long
run, being an earnest patriot, for his country.--She had a few questions
to put to him too.
"Where did you meet Lola de Breze, Young Lochinvar?" she asked.
"At Chilton Park," said Lytham, who had begun to be somewhat mystified
at the way in which things were going; and, if the truth were told,
impatient. All he had come to know was whether he had an ally in Lady
Feo or an enemy, and make his plans accordingly. He could see no reason
for her to dodge the issue. His game of tennis looked hopeless. What
curious creatures women were.
"When?"
There was the sound of quick steps in the hall.
"Last night."
The door opened and Fallaray walked in.
With a gleeful smile Feo spoke through his exclamation of surprise.
"Edmund, I would like you to tell your friends what my answer was to
your request for a divorce."
Hating to be caught in what was obviously an endeavor to influence his
chief's wife against a decision to unhitch himself from marriage and
politics, Lytham sprang to his feet, feeling as disconcerted as he
looked.
Lola made no movement except to stiffen in her chair.
Watching Fallaray closely, Feo saw first a flare of passion light up his
eyes at the sight of Lola, and then an expression of resentment come
into them at not being able, others being present, to catch her in his
arms. An impetuous movement had taken him to the middle of the room,
where he drew up short and stood irresolute and self-conscious and
looking rather absurd under the gaze of Lytham and his wife.
"What is all this?" he asked, after an awkward pause, during which he
began to suspect that he had been tricked by Feo and was faced by a
combination of objection.
"Don't ask me," said Feo, waving her hand towards Lytham and Lola.
"Then I must ask you, George," said Fallaray, making an effort to
disguise his anger. He could see that he had been made the subject of
discussion, as if he were some one to be coerced and who did not know
his own business.
"This is not quite fair," said Lytham. "Our intention was to see Lady
Feo, get her views and cooperation, and then, to-night or to-morrow,
come to you and beg you to do the sane thing in this affair. We had no
hand in your being dragged into this private meeting."
He too was angry. Feo had cheated and brought about the sort of crisis
that should have been avoided. Any one who knew Fallaray's detestation
of personalities must have seen what this breaking down of his fourth
wall would bring about.
"Who do you mean by 'we'?" demanded Fallaray.
"Madame de Breze and myself," said Lytham.
"What! You ask me to believe that Madame de Breze has come here with you
to persuade my wife to go back on her promise to set me free? What do
you take me for?" He laughed at the utter absurdity of the idea and in
doing so, broke the tension and the stiltedness of the scene, as he
realized that Feo had deliberately intended it to become. And then, with
a certain boyishness that went oddly with his monk-like face, he went
over to Lola and put his hand on her shoulder.
"All right," he added. "Let's have this out and come to a final
understanding. It will save all further arguments. Just before you
brought Lola here, having, as I can see, worked on her feelings by
talking about your party and telling her that her coming into my life
would ruin my career--I know your dogged enthusiasm, George--I saw my
wife. I put my case to her at once and she agreed very generously to
release me. A messenger will be here in ten minutes to take my statement
to her lawyers and my resignation to the Prime Minister. I shall return
to Chilton to-morrow to wait there, or wherever else it may suit me,
until the end of the divorce proceedings. You won't agree with me, but
that is what I call doing the sane thing. Finally, all going well, as
please God it may, this lady and I will get married and live happily
ever after."
He spoke lightly, even jauntily, but with an undercurrent of emotion
that it was impossible for him to disguise.
And then, to Feo's complete amazement, Lola, who had been so quiet and
unobtrusive, rose and backed away from Fallaray, her face as white as
the stone figures at Chilton under moonlight, her hands clasped together
to give her strength, her eyes as dry as an empty well. She was bereft
of tears.
"But I am not going to marry you," she said, "because if I do everything
will go badly."
Fallaray sprang forward to take her in his arms and kiss her into love
and life and acquiescence, as he had done before,--once at the gate and
once again last night under the stars.
But she backed away and ranged herself with Lytham.
"I love Fallaray," she said. "Fallaray the leader, the man who is
needed, the man who has made himself necessary. If I were to marry
Fallaray the deserter, there would be no such thing as happiness for me
or for him."
Fallaray's eager hands fell suddenly to his sides. The word that had
come to Lola as an inspiration, though it broke her heart to use it, hit
him like a well-aimed stone. Deserter!--A man who turned and ran, who
slunk away from the fight at its moment of crisis, who absconded from
duty in violation of all traditions of service, thinking of no one but
himself. Deserter! It was the right word, the damnable right word that
rears itself up for every man to read at the crossroads of life.--And he
stood looking at this girl who had brought him back to a momentary youth
through a glamor that gave way to the cold light of duty. His was a
pitiful figure, middle-aged, love-hungry, doomed to be sacrificed upon
the altar of public service.
Lytham didn't rejoice at the sight, having sympathy and imagination.
Neither did Feo, who had just lost her own grasp upon a dream.
"Is it possible that you love me so much?" he asked.
And Lola said, "Yes, yes!"
It was on Lytham's tongue to say, "My dear man, don't you gather what I
mean by the 'sane thing'? There's no need to take this in the spirit of
a Knight Crusader. A little nest somewhere, discreetly guarded."
And it was on Feo's tongue to add, also completely modern, "Of course.
Why not? Isn't it done every day? No one need know, and if it's ever