Herrnung's eloquence at every pore," affirmed Trixie. She added: "Like
you I have been deeply intrigued by his descriptions of his countrymen.
So, _so_ different from our poor creatures, who don't drink glorious
wine because they funk gouty complications, and leave their noble horses
eating their heads off in loose-boxes while they're scorching about the
country in racing-cars. And as for dancing all night--" She shrugged
her frail shoulders, and elevated her Pierrot eyebrows beneath the veil
that tightly swathed her white triangular face.
"Doesn't it fire you to go to Germany?" gushed Mrs. Charterhouse.
"Why"--she demanded, raising her fine eyes to the genuine Adam
ceiling--"why can't my husband get a post in the Berlin Diplomatic,
instead of stupid old Petersburg? One never _dreamed_ Germans could be
so interesting before!"
"We are interesting, yes!" blandly agreed von Herrnung. He lighted a
fresh cigarette, balanced his magnificent person upon an inlaid Oriental
chess-stool, folded his huge arms upon his broad breast, and turned upon
Trixie and the impressionable Cynthia the batteries of his superb blue
eyes. "_Es mag wohl sein_--it may possibly be because the Englishman is
a human machine--a cold and formal, if intelligent being; while the
German is a child of Nature, whatever his calling may be. His bounding
pulses throb under the official or military uniform as though it were a
fawn-skin worn by a young satyr. He can sing. He can revel. He can
enjoy. He can love----"
"He can love! Now you're getting really quite too interesting!" Mrs.
Charterhouse exclaimed in seeming ecstasy: "Do go on, Count. Pray, pray
tell us how German officers love!"
"Yet this exuberance, and seeming-careless child-likeness," pursued von
Herrnung, "co-exists in the representative male of our glorious German
nation with an energy which is pitilessly indomitable, and a hardness
like that of diamond, or of the metal of the Hammer of Thor. Scratch
the child, joyous and voluptuous"--the ladies nodded to each other
delightedly at this second reference to voluptuousness--"you will find
beneath its rosy skin the German Superman. _Gnaedige Graefin_, may I
give you a cigarette?" He pulled out a massive silver-gilt case, and
offered it to Lady Wastwood, who had thrown away the end of a tiny Pera.
"Thanks," said the lady, "but it might turn out a super-cigarette and
disagree with me. How astonishingly well-informed you Germans are upon
the subject of yourselves! I've met heaps of your countrymen whom the
subject seemed perfectly to obsess. I suppose they begin to teach you
at a very early age, don't they? Don't you suppose they would, Cynthia
dear?"
Mrs. Charterhouse agreed.
"Of course. But I wonder if that sort of--might one call it--intensive
culture?--can be good for you?" With her charming head on one side she
regarded von Herrnung pensively. "Don't you _sometimes_ get fed up with
yourselves? One would somehow suppose you would! Like the East End
Board School children whose mother had to write to the Fifth Standard
teacher to ask her not to tell Hemma and 'Arriet any more nasty things
about their insides."
Courtley and Lady Beauvayse, who under cover of a separate conversation
had been listening, were seized with simultaneous attacks of coughing,
rose and escaped from the smoking-room. Patrine Saxham remained,
seeming to study the newspaper she had picked up. But only a confused
jumble of letters, big and little, danced up and down the columns she
held before her eyes.
And yet there were lines scattered here and there throughout the
newspapers, that boded ill for the peace of the world. How little we
dreamed of what was coming while crowded London audiences applauded
Jimmy Greggson in the "Dance of the Varalette." The River was ablaze
with multi-coloured sweaters, vast crowds planked their gate-money to
witness cricket-matches, lawn-tennis and polo-matches, Flying contests,
and bouts between International champions at the ancient game of
fisticuffs.
Even while the handsome young French heavy-weight Carpentier was
whacking the Yankee Smith at Olympia, white-faced, weary-eyed men of
great affairs were spending the hot hours of the July days and
nights--_minus_ a stray half-hour for a meal and a snatched eyeful of
sleep now and then--in reading reports in cipher sent by lesser men,
agents of the Secret Intelligence Department--who were registered as
numbers and owned no names.
These told of vast preparations long complete, and terrible designs
perfect and perfecting. Poison-fruit, grown and matured in shade, now
bursting-ripe and ready to kill. The aerials thrilled, the long waves
travelled through invisible ether, carrying the despatches for the
weary-eyed men.
The despatches were not all in cipher. Thus little polyglot employes,
youthful radiotelegraphic operators in charge of ship-stations in
Territorial or foreign waters, or Wireless posts quite recently
established on foreign frontiers, found themselves sharers in the secret
councils of Ambassadors, Emperors, Kings, and Presidents.
In their ear-pieces such words as "situation," "utmost gravity,"
"friction avoided," "Triple Alliance," and "Triple Entente," were
repeated over and over. To them the tuned spark sang what the Tsar was
saying to his Cousin of Great Britain and the Dominions overseas. They
heard the British Foreign Secretary talking from Downing Street to the
British Ambassador at Berlin, and the British Ambassador at Paris, and
the French President, on a visit to Tsarskoe Selo, replying to
_communiques_ from the Quai d'Orsay. Also de Munsen from the Embassy at
Vienna, confirming Whitehall views as to the extreme gravity of the
Austro-Servian situation.
Last, but not least, the voice from a certain guarded sanctum in the
Kaiserlicher Palais on the Schloss Platz, Berlin, saying in a cipher of
grouped numbers, the secret language of Hohenzollern intrigue not
understood of little operators--things that bleached the face of the
listener in London to the yellow of old cheese.
"As Vicegerent of the World, charged by Almighty God with the supreme
duty of maintaining peace among nations ... warn these silly devils of
the danger in which they stand! Just for the word 'neutrality'--a word
in War-time often disregarded--they risk annihilation of a dynasty by my
conquering sword, and the inevitable blotting-out of the British race.
Invasion Belgium indispensable.... Must strike the blow before Russia
could get to the frontier. Life and death as regards the Success of my
Plan. Delay by diplomacy. Promise anything for neutrality. Obtain an
understanding of non-intervention. Bluff for all you are worth!"
Again in yet more groups of numbers, the vocal spark sang on and on:
"Attention. If the Secret Service agent who has managed to get into
Lord Clanronald's service as under-librarian at Gwyll Castle can secure
complete copies--or better still, the originals--of the old Lord's plans
for construction of the secret War-machine that hypocritical England has
kept up her sleeve out of so-called humanity since the days of the
British Regency--strike a deal with him at once. To the _menu_ that
will presently be served to our enemies--beginning with
Super-Explosive--explosive bullets, incendiary shells, lachrymatory
shells serving as _entrees_--the bombardment of Dover from Calais--the
destruction of London and the chief Naval Ports of Great Britain by our
Zeppelin Fleet being the _piece de resistance_ of the banquet--the
Clanronald Death-engine will be added as fifth course! Thou wilt pay
the rogue who has dared to stickle for higher terms ten thousand pounds
in English banknotes on account of the sum of twelve million marks he
presumptuously demands of us. The balance will be paid him on personal
application at the Wilhelmstrasse--you understand! Warn Prince Henry
and von Moltke not to risk bringing the Secret Plans personally. Should
the loss of the documents be discovered, suspicion would instantly
attach to one of these two. Trust not the thief; he may be tempted to
betray us. Send the plans by Undersea Boat 18 now on coast-observation
duty in Area 88--fathoms 50--44, east of Spurn Head. Annulled. Forward
by air. Squadron-Captain-Pilot von Herrnung of my 10th Field Flight
will be detailed for this duty, being now in London investigating the
value of a new stabiliser--rejected by the English War Office--which the
French Chiefs of the Service Ae are anxious to secure. Tell him to
obtain a personal flying-test from the inventor. I say no further! As
the Hohenzollern were noble robber-knights, so also were von Herrnung's
ancestors. Let the eagle fly home to his Imperial master with booty
from across the sea. England may suppose him drowned. France also....
We shall know better.... A hearty welcome awaits the proud bird-knight
alighting on our German soil."
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*DISILLUSION*
Rhona Helvellyn came stalking in, looked round, recognised Patrine, came
over and dropped down beside her on the divan, full to the brim of the
invariable subject, and suffering to talk.
Through the good offices of a legal pal she had got in to hear the
Suffragette Trial at the Old Bailey that day. Fan Braid and Kitty Neek
had been frightfully plucky. Full of grit and vim, in spite of the six
weeks' hunger-strike. Began shrieking like Jimmy O! the moment they
were brought into the dock by the warders and wardresses. On being
rebuked by the Judge, Fan had bunked a bundle of pamphlets at the head
of his lordship, catching the Clerk of the Court, who was seated
immediately underneath the Bench, no end of a biff in the eye.
"And then?"
Patrine heard a strange voice from her own stiff lips asking the
question.
"Then both of 'em were removed from the Dock. It was done--in time!"
Rhona's light eyes danced with enjoyment. "Such a scrimmage! Such a
rumpus! Took three men and a woman to tackle each of 'em. We could
hear 'em giving tongue all the way down to the cells. Then they had to
go on with the Trial without 'em." She chuckled. "You may guess there
were a lot of us at the back of the Court waiting--just for that!
Perfect wadge all together. Hell and trimmings when we started. They
had to eject us before they could jog on with their gay old summing-up!"
"But in the end they got through?" The weary voice was so unlike
Patrine's that she wondered why Rhona did not jump and stare at her.
But Rhona was mounted on her hobby-horse, and unobservant of other
things.
"Through right enough! And Fan and Kitty--" Rhona screwed up her lips
into the shape of a whistle, and winked away a tear that hung on one of
her fair eyelashes; "It's too brutal! Three months each, and poor
little Kitty dying of lung-trouble. They only brought her back from
Davos in May. That riles me!" She clenched her hands fiercely and went
on, cautiously lowering her tone: "So far I've taken no active share in
any Militant Demonstration. Partly because I'd be wiped off the Club
books if I got spouting in public, or was mixed up in any police-court
business, partly because I'm funky--there's the word! But at last I'm
wound up! It was Kitty's little peaky-white face did it! ... She--she
broke a blood-vessel as the warders were carrying her down to the
cells."
A sob choked Rhona's voice, and a spasm of misery wrenched her. She
controlled herself. She was deadly in earnest--wound up to go, as she
had said. She went on, talking rapidly, in a tone that only reached the
ear it had been meant for. How many such secret disclosures the Club
divan had known.
"I've thought.... A regular swarm of Distinguished French and Belgian
Big Pots and Little Pots--Mayors--Prefects and Deputies, Judges, Press
Representatives and Inspectors-General--are engaged in Discovering
England this week as ever is. It's an echo of the Entente Cordiale.
Behind the badge of the International Advancement Association--I've got
one!--I might drop in at one of their farewell speechifications, I
believe the next's on Friday at Leamington--and heckle 'em like one
o'clock! Ask 'em why women don't have the Vote in France and
Belgium----"
"Don't they?"
"Nix a bit! Not for all the fuss they make about the sex. Or--to fix
the scene of my maiden effort nearer home--there's a Banquet of
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.
She averted her eyes hastily as though she shunned some ugly, sickening,
spectacle. He said:
"I see that you honour me by wearing my mascot. The magpie pearl most
excellently becomes your beautiful hand, my dear!"
They had reached Regents Park Square and were turning into the Broad
Walk. She plucked the ring from her bare finger, and held it out to
him, saying in a low tone:
"Please take it back!"
"I am to take it back? ... You are in earnest?"
She repeated her words, holding out the bauble. He released his gloved
left hand from the steering-wheel to take it. His eyes were on the road
ahead and his face was hard as pink stone. But she heard him give a
little sigh of relief as he slipped the ring into an inside coat-pocket.
He said, as though to excuse the sigh: