Patrine knelt beside the bed in her charming chintz-draped, white-enamelled room at Harley Street, and clumsily thanked God for having taken away von Herrnung. She petitioned that darling Bawne might be quickly found and brought back, and that if he were not, Lynette might not die. And she wound up with 'Our Father,' rather imperfectly remembered, and got into bed wondering whether Sherbrand would be pleased if he could know her not quite as irreligious as she had boasted—and lay revelling drowsily in the comfort of cool lavender-scented linen, until she fell asleep.
She had not tasted sleep for nights: age-long nights of broad staring wakefulness. Now Somnos, the gentle brother of Thanatos, took her and lapped her divinely round. She felt herself drifting away on a wide-flowing tide of deep sweet restfulness. Then it was as though an electric light were suddenly switched on in the dark galleries of her brain. Insomnia, the malevolent hag-witch, jests thus merrily with her victims, suffering them to taste sleep, and then whisking the cup away. Like many other practical jests, this ends in breakdown and brain-fever, or drives its victims to the chemist for sleepy drugs, and to the madhouse subsequently.
In the middle of the dazzling cocoon-shaped patch of brightness thus created, Patrine recognized the outlines of an ornamental fountain that occupied the centre of the vestibule leading to the supper-room of the Upas Club. Executed in the New Art style of sculpture, of white and black, and tawny marble, it was shaded by tall palms with gilded leaves.
On low pedestals rising from the rim of the shallow oval basin of the fountain were three nude life-sized shapes delicately tinted, with gilt hair, carmined lips, darkened eyebrows, vague round eyes of pale blue. They had the flattened breasts and narrow hips of masculine adolescence with women's faces and shoulders, arms and thighs. One held a finger hushingly on its lip; another was putting on a black vizard through which its pale eyes peeped slyly, the third was smiling over the rim of a golden drinking-cup. The Three were sharing a pleasant secret between them—or so it had seemed that night to Patrine.
After complying with certain formalities, and paying a heavy fee for admission, Patrine with her friend had passed through to a wonderfully decorated supper-room with a big grill at the end, where white-capped cooks were busy with savoury things. Wind and strings filled the room with great waves of music. Liveried attendants were serving champagne in crystal jugs to men and women seated supping at the daintily-appointed tables. The hot eyes and lividly-pale or purple-flushed faces of many of the revellers, already told their tale of excess.
The champagne at a guinea a jug, a speciality of the Upas, had seemed excellent to Patrine. She was out for enjoyment, and fizz made you feel top-hole. They had supped—was it lobster Américaine or grilled oysters that had preceded the other things?—when there came a change in the music. The unseen orchestra sighing and thrilling forth the amorous phrases of Samson et Dalila, leaped all at once into another familiar theme. To wit, the dance of the Jaguars in the Jungle, with its wail, clang, clash and growl as of strange, discordant, exotic instruments.
"Drums covered with serpent-skin, gombos of elephant-tusk, human skull-rattles and all the paraphernalia of Voodoo," to quote Lady Beauvayse.
Couples rose, and began passing out through a wide curtained exit at the farther end of the supper-room. The music grew madder. Patrine, laughing, took von Herrnung's offered arm.
"Now," he told her, "you are going to see something that is very chic! We shall dance in the Hall of the Hundred Pillars!"
"How frightfully ripping!" said Patrine.
Thus they joined the mob of people—a singularly quiet mob,—and passed through the heavy, curtained entrance. The much-talked-of Hall was merely a big circular ballroom, lighted by groups of electric lilies, set about with pillars of tinted glass, slanting from a dado of black marble, ending at a broad frieze of black beneath the ceiling-dome. Theatrical and tawdry, gaudy and glittering, the scheme of decoration reminded Patrine of the inside of a solitaire marble. The walls of fierce bright orange were striped in curving oblique and transverse lines of black-and-silver, the silver dome was decorated with similarly curving lines of orange-and-black.
To the strange barbaric music of the dance from São Paulo men and women were gyrating and posturing, gliding and pausing, as other men and women had done at the Milles Plaisirs. Presently Patrine and her friend were revolving like the others, in the Valse with the hesitations and the Tango steps in it. You had only to know Tango and the thing came easily—or you imagined it did, after so much champagne. Reflected in the wall and ceiling-mirrors the girl had seen herself, twisting and twirling amidst the mob of dancers, with her head thrown back, and her long eyes blazing, and her wide red mouth laughing wantonly, before the black-and-orange-and-silver walls, the silver-and-black-and-orange dome spun giddily round her with the mob of dancers. Dazed, she had shut her eyes. She had felt herself being hurried somewhere—out of the pillared dancing-hall....
She shivered, lying there in the sunshine remembering.... She recalled von Herrnung's face as they had passed out of velvet-curtained, soundless darkness into a tapestry-hung, softly-carpeted corridor. The inner angles of the eyebrows were lifted, the laughing mouth under the red-rolled moustache displayed the big white teeth in a tigerish way. The pupils of his eyes were dilated, the irises pale as water. He had looked at her curiously, and said with a strange accent:
"So, Isis, you are mine now!"
"I suppose so!"
"I did not suppose so. The experience has been very real for me. Shall we go back—or would you prefer——"
She said with her face turned from him sullenly:
"I should prefer to go—to where I live!"
He had been loth to let her go. Then under a promise of renewal of those strange, shameful, secret relations, he had wrapped her theatre-mantle about her, and helped her arrange her lace scarf about her head, and taken her through a passage back to the vestibule where the three ambiguous statues stood about the central fountain, upon whose restless jet of water played shifting lights of different hues. By some arrangement of those who had planned the Upas, there faced you as you issued with your companion from the furtive side-passage the figure that had its finger on its smiling, carmined lips....
And then—the stale air of London at dawn in midsummer. In the shabby side-street where long ranks of private cars stood waiting, von Herrnung had signalled the chauffeur of one of them—could the man have been the German who had leered at her that day at Hendon?—and then he had put her in, and followed her, and taken her back to Berkeley Square....
It irked her to remember that she had told to the sleepy manservant who had admitted her at 3 A.M. an absolutely supererogatory falsehood to account for her return at that belated hour. For Lady Beau wouldn't have bothered if you'd arrived with the milkman, so long as you turned up smiling at her bedside with your fountain-pen, and her coroneted paper-pad, when she'd had her early grape-fruit, and roll, and coffee, and was ready to tackle her morning mail.
Patrine must be discreet. Cautious. Must tell no lies of the unnecessary kind. For even though von Herrnung had been removed, just when his attitude had become formidable and menacing—there might yet be pitfalls of her own digging to brave and shun.
Pitfalls ... Perils ... As she lay wakeful, conscious through shut eyelids of the white mouldings of the ceiling her face was turned to, suddenly a keen sharp terror ran her through. She had heard her own voice say to von Herrnung:
"My God! Can't you understand that I ask nothing better than never to see nor hear of you again!"
He had mocked her with his hateful smile, and she had not understood.
"Under no—possible conditions? Just think a bit, my dear! Because—to burn one's boats behind one—that is not prudent at all!"
And later:
"You give me to understand that whatever happens—whatever happens—you will have nothing more to do with me?"
Idiot!—besotted idiot! She leaped up in the bed, visualising the peril, clearly as though a shutter had snapped back within her brain. Horror froze her, realising the shame she might live to bring upon those who loved Patrine. Uncle Owen ... Lynette ... Bawne....
Mildred and Irma were minor considerations, shadowy silhouettes, negative quantities. Neither Irma nor Mildred had ever loved Patrine. Dad had though. Poor, dear Dad! She was glad he wasn't alive now. And Margot ... Would Kittums cut one if—that happened? And—Sherbrand! A blush burned over her, and she flung herself face downwards, burying her scorching face among the pillows, stifling the scream that the sheer torture wrung from her, by nipping a fold of the smooth linen in her teeth.
So she lay and writhed on the red-hot griddle of her anguished recollection, until a neat housemaid knocked at the door and brought her morning tea. And as she set down the emptied cup, someone else knocked, and opened the door softly, and Patrine turned—to meet the look of Lynette.
And then, though her struggling conscience warned her that she was unworthy to be held in arms so pure, she cried out wildly, and felt herself enfolded, and the fierce emotional tumult within her broke forth in wild sobs and drenching tears. She heard herself saying:
"I would have given my life over and over to have saved you from grief like this!"
And yet these were not the words she would have spoken. We are actors often and often when we least suspect ourselves, even when Calamity with one swift stroke of the scalpel has divided the palpitating flesh and quivering nerves down to the living bone.
"I would have given my life!" she wept, and Lynette seated by the bedside and bending over her, answered tenderly:
"I know it, my kind heart! You have always loved him. You wished him not to go—you begged Owen not to allow——"
There was unutterable loyalty in the breaking of the sentence: "He thought it best. I trust my husband," said the sweet voice. "But yet I thank you, dear one, for your loyalty to me."
"Don't touch me! I'm not fit!" Patrine stammered, resisting the mothering, encircling embrace. But the cup of pure sweetness was held to her feverish lips, she craved it too much to thrust it from her. You can see her coming out of the bed in a galumphing outburst of passionate, remorseful tenderness:
"Here is my place!—here!" she gulped out brokenly, hiding her wet face on the elder woman's knees. Together they made a group not unlike Bouguerau's great canvas of the Consolatrix, save that there was no dead, lovely boy lying amidst the scattered petals of the fallen roses on the stone. Perhaps if there had been and the worst known, Bawne Saxham's mother could hardly have suffered more.
Not to understand ... not to be sure. To be bereaved, and never to know just how the Beloved was taken from you.... Can there be anything more fantastically horrible than this, the fate of thousands of sorrowing women since the beginning of the Great War?
It was Sunday morning, brilliant and hot even for July weather. The clangour of church-bells mingled with the clashing of milk-cans, and the scent of pot-roses mingled with the hot smell of London in midsummer. Lynette shivered in spite of the sultriness, and looked down at the girl, spilt out at her knees under the meretricious splendour of her dead beech-leaf hair. She did not—how could she?—fathom the secret of such wretchedness, but love and pity flooded her heart, thawed out of its frozen misery by the vital warmth of the contact. She drew the unresisting arms upwards and about her, and lifted the prone head and took it to her bosom, saying:
"My poor girl! My dear Patrine!"
They were silent awhile. Then Lynette asked, her soft breath stirring the heavy tresses:
"Why did you do this, dearest? Wasn't it sufficiently beautiful?"
Patrine choked out, blazing crimson to the tips of her little ears:
"No! At least!—It is hideous now and he hated it! I—I had to tell him," a sob and a laugh tangled together, "it was the effect of Paris air!"
Lynette smiled, though the golden eyes were running over: "Bawne thinks so much of you, always!"
"I don't deserve that any one should!"
"Nobody shall speak ill before me of any one I care for! Why did you start?"
For a vision had flashed into the brain of Patrine, of all the world mocking and jeering and vilifying, and Saxham and Lynette upholding and defending David's daughter, who had brought disgrace upon them. She lifted her head and released herself almost roughly from Lynette's embrace. She stooped down and took the hem of Mrs. Saxham's gown and kissed it, and rose up looking wonderfully big and stately, and extraordinarily tall.
"I love you!" she said in her large warm voice. "You are the best woman I ever met or shall meet, and I am a rotten bad hat! Not worth a penn'orth of monkey-nuts, take my word for it! But—if somebody like you had been my mother—perhaps there'd have been something to show for it to-day."
Lynette might have replied, but just then through the quiet house, unnaturally still without the boyish voice and the boyish laughter, and the clumping of little thick-soled brogues upon the stairs and in the passages, there sounded the sharp whirring ting-a-ting of the hall telephone-bell. She turned and was gone with no more noise than a thrush makes in departure. Left alone, Patrine threw on her bathrobe over the thin nightgown of revealing transparency, lined with the opulent beauty that captures the desires of men, and looked at her fair reflection in the long cheval-glass, smiling with something of the subtlety of the androgynous genius of the Upas Club fountain—the figure that faced the guests as they entered, tying a vizard over its mocking eyes.
"You're worse even than I thought you!" Patrine said calmly to Patrine, "but now you know what he meant by what he said, you're not going to trust to Chance and Luck. You're going—for Uncle Owen's sake, and Aunt Lynette's, and Bawne's—and Mother's and Irma's and your own—don't pretend you're a victim!—to marry Sherbrand, the Flying Man!"
Not a notion of any possible or eventual wrong or injury to Sherbrand troubled her conscience. She had yet to develop on the side of moral sensitiveness. Responsibility towards God, and duty towards her neighbour—the sense of these two obligations that are the foundation and cornerstone of Christianity—had not as yet awakened in Patrine.
She liked Sherbrand. It troubled her more that he had not the cachet of one of the great public Schools, than to know him poor, with his four hundred per annum—as the proverbial church-mouse. But she herself was not altogether penniless. There would be a hundred and fifty pounds a year for Patrine when she married; derived from moneys bequeathed to his daughter's children by Grandpapa Lee Hailey, strictly tied up and protected by various legal provisos, from depredations on the part of the unknown possessive male.
Five hundred and fifty between them. Anyhow, she told herself, that was better than a jab in the eye with a burnt stick. How soon might the marriage be brought off? One must bend one's energies to the solving of that question. How many sleepless nights—they were horribly unbecoming!—lay between Patrine and Security? The Fear that lurked in her dried her palate at the question. She felt like the runner of a Marathon fainting in sight of the goal.