*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:

“It was given me in April, when I made my raid on Paris from Hanover, landing my Albatros once only during two days’ flight. The weather was magnificent. My engine gave no trouble. That is why I call the ring my mascot, you understand. Now that it has been worn by you, it is more precious than when I first received it. Whenever I look at it, it will speak to me of you.”

“Don’t let it!”

“Why should it not speak of you? Isis! My heart’s Queen!”

“I have told you—don’t revolt me with—piffle of that kind. And don’t touch me, unless you want me to jump out of the car!”

A voice that he barely knew had issued from the face she turned on him—a face all violet shadows and haggard drawn lines, under the burning splendour of the dead beech-leaf hair. She vibrated like an electrified wire, and round her pale pinched mouth and about her blue-veined temples were little points of moisture, fine and glittering as diamond-dust.

“Am I to understand that my touch is unpleasant to you? That you are angry with me? That you do not love me any more?”

“Love…”

She laughed out harshly, hugely disconcerting him.

“Lady Wathe said at that Grand Prix night dinner in Paris that you were without a sense of humour. But you must have a grain or so—to talk of love to me!”

She turned her face away, and the exquisite beauty of her small white ear appealed to him provokingly. He ground his teeth. He could have thrown his arm about her, and crushed the tall, full, womanly figure against him. How superb she was in her mood of hate. The strapped-up wound in his left hand was throbbing and smarting, just as when she had writhed her head free from his furious kisses and bitten him to the bone.

He had made her pay richly for her bite. He hugged himself as he remembered… Now the sting of desire was renewed in him and he eyed her with greediness. Presently he stooped and said in her ear, coaxingly:

“Let us be friends!	Dine with me at the Rocroy to-night.	We will have
a box at the Alhambra, and sup again at the Upas.	Say you will come,
loved one!	Will you not, Patrine?”

“No!”

“No? But I think you mean Yes! Do you not?”

“I have said No! Is that not enough?”

“You are mad!” he blustered at her—“mad as a March hare!”

She answered him:

“I have been mad, but I am sane now and I stay so.”

He said scoffingly:

“You may not always remain as you are now!”

If he launched a poisoned dart, its meaning glanced aside from her.

“Shall you not write to me when I am back in Germany? Not one line? Not one single word? Yet I have a few little notes from you that I particularly value…”

“Make the most of them. I shall write no more.” And suddenly her hate and loathing of him reached boiling point and ran over. “My God! Can’t you understand that I ask nothing better than never to see nor hear of you again!”

“Grossartig! You are hellishly conciliatory.” His voice was thick and shook with anger. His smile mocked and the look in his eyes was hateful as he pursued in a tone that was now quite gentle and purring: “Just think a bit, my dear! Because—to burn one’s boats behind one—that is not prudent at all!”

She did not answer, and he drove on to Hendon, planning fresh assaults upon this unconquerable woman’s pride.