by Sax Rohmer
“No, but I think I should like it.”
“Quite agree. It is soothing. You will wait here, then, Don? Come along, dear.”
IV
An hour later when Flamby and Don came out of The Hostel, the rain clouds were breaking, and sunlight — somewhat feeble, but sunlight withal — was seeking bravely to disperse the gloom. Flamby was conscious of an altered outlook; the world after all was not utterly grey; such was the healing influence of a sympathetic soul.
“You know,” said Don, as they passed through the gateway, “I am delighted with the way you have taken to the dear old Aunt. She is so often misunderstood, and it makes me writhe to see people laugh at her — unkindly, I mean. Of course her method of conversation is ridiculously funny, I know; but a woman who can suffer the misfortunes which have befallen the Aunt and come out with the heart of a child is worth studying, I think. Personally, I always feel a lot better after a chat with her. She is a perfect well of sympathy.”
“I think she is the sweetest woman I have ever met,” declared Flamby earnestly. “How could anyone help loving her?”
“People don’t or won’t understand her, you see, and misunderstanding is the mother of intolerance. Ah! there is a taxi on the rank.”
“Oh,” cried Flamby quickly— “please don’t get another cab for me.”
“Eh? No cab?”
“I cannot afford it and I could not think of allowing you to pay for everything.”
“Now let us have a thorough understanding, Flamby,” said Don, standing facing her, that sunny rejuvenating smile making his tanned face look almost boyish. “You remember what I said on the subject of misunderstanding? Listen, then: I am on leave and my money is burning a hole in my pocket; money always does. If I had a sister — I have but she is married and lives at Harrogate — I should ask her to take pity upon me and spend a few days in my company. An exchange of views with some nice girl who understands things is imperative after one has been out of touch with everything feminine for months and months. It is a natural desire which must be satisfied, otherwise it leads a man to resort to desperate measures in the quest for sympathy. Because of your father you are more to me than a sister, Flamby, and if you will consent to my treating you as one you will be performing an act of charity above price. The Aunt quite understands and approves. Isn’t that good enough?”
Flamby met his gaze honestly and was satisfied. “Yes,” she replied. “Myself and what is mine to you and yours is now converted.” The end of the quotation was almost inaudible, for it had leapt from Flamby’s tongue unbidden. The idea that Don might suspect her of seeking to impress him with her learning was hateful to her. But Don on the contrary was quite frankly delighted.
“Hullo!” he cried— “is that Portia?”
“Yes, but please don’t take any notice if I say funny things. I don’t mean to. Dad loved The Merchant of Venice, and I know quite a lot of lines by heart.”
“How perfectly delightful to meet a girl who wears neither sensible boots nor spectacles but who appreciates Shakespeare! Lud! I thought such treasures were mythical. Flamby, I have a great idea. If you love Portia you will love Ellen Terry. I suppose her Portia is no more than a memory of the old Lyceum days, but it is a golden memory, Flamby. Ellen Terry is at the Coliseum. Shall we go to-night? Perhaps the Aunt would join us.”
“Oh!” said Flamby, her eyes alight with excitement; but the one word was sufficient.
“Right!” cried Don. “Now for Liberty’s.”
They entered the cab, and as it moved off, “What is Liberty’s?” asked Flamby.
“The place for rummy furniture,” explained Don. “Nobody else could possibly provide the things for your den. The Aunt once had a cottage in Devon furnished by Liberty and it was the most perfect gem of a cottage one could imagine.”
“Was she very well off once?”
“The Aunt? Why the dear old lady ought to be worth thousands. Her husband left her no end of money and property. She has travelled nearly all over the civilised world, Flamby, and now is tied to that one tiny room at The Hostel.”
“But how is it? Did she lose her money?”
“She gave it away and let everybody rob her. The world unfortunately is full of Dick Turpins and Jack Sheppards, not to mention their lady friends.”
“Ah,” said Flamby and sat silent for some time studying the panorama of the busy London streets. “Is Liberty’s dear?” she inquired presently.
“Not at all; most reasonable.”
“I’m glad,” replied Flamby. “I have got seven pounds ten saved. Will that be enough?”
Don held his breath. Flamby’s extraordinary erudition and inherent cleverness had not prepared him for this childish ignorance of the value of money. But he realised immediately that it was no more than natural after all and that he might have anticipated it; and secretly he was delighted because of the opportunity which it offered him of repaying in part, or of trying to repay, the debt which he owed to Michael Duveen. Moreover he had found that to give pleasure to Flamby was a gracious task.
“It may not cover everything,” he said casually, “but the sum held by Mr. Nevin will more than do so. Think no more about it. I will see that your expenditures do not exceed your means.”
* * * * * *
They alighted near that window of Messrs. Liberty’s which is devoted to the display of velvet robes — of those simple, unadorned creations which Golders Green may view unmoved but which stir the æsthetic soul of Chelsea. In the centre of the window, cunningly draped before an oak-pannelled background, hung a dress of grey velvet which was the apogee and culmination of Flamby’s dreams. For not all the precepts of the Painted Portico can quench in the female bosom woman’s innate love of adornment. Assuredly Eve wore flowers in her hair.
“Oh,” whispered Flamby, “do you think it is very dear?”
Don having paid the cabman, had joined her where she stood. “Which one?” he inquired with masculine innocence.
“The grey one. There is nothing on it at all. I have seen dresses in Dale’s at home with yards of embroidery that were only four pounds.”
“I don’t suppose so,” said Don cheerfully. “Let us go in and try it on. You try it on, I mean.”
“Oh, I daren’t! I didn’t dream of buying it,” cried Flamby, flushing hotly. “I was only admiring it.”
“And because you admire it you don’t dream of buying it? That is odd. And surely grey is what is known as ‘half-mourning’ too, is it not? Absolutely correct form.”
“But it may be frightfully dear. I will ask the price when Mrs. Chumley is with me.” Flamby was weakening.
Don grasped her firmly by the arm and led her vastly perturbed into the shop, where a smiling saleswoman accosted them. “This lady wishes to see the grey gown you have in the window,” he said. He drew the woman aside and added, “Don’t tell her the price! You understand? If she insists upon knowing take your cue from me.” He could say no more as Flamby had drawn near.
“How much is it?” she inquired naively.
“I don’t know yet,” replied Don. “Won’t you look at it first?”
“The dress is a model, madam,” said the puzzled modiste. “Probably we should have to alter it to fit you.”
“Would that be extra?” asked Flamby.
“Only a trifle,” Don assured her, “if you really like it.”
“How much is it please?” Flamby asked.
Don, standing just behind her became troubled with a tickling in the throat, and the woman, hesitating, looked up and detected his urgent glance. He raised three fingers furtively. She could scarcely conceal her amazement, but an emphatic nod from Don left her in no doubt respecting his meaning.
“I believe it is — three guineas, madam,” she replied in a forced and unnatural voice. She was wondering what would become of her if this very eccentric officer played her false.
Flamby turned thoughtfully to Don. “That’s expensive isn’t it?” she said.
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The saleswoman’s amazement increased; words failed her entirely, and to cover her embarrassment she opened the screen at the back of the window and took out the grey gown. Flamby’s eyes sparkled.
“But isn’t it sweet,” she whispered. “Where do I go to try it on?”
“This way, madam,” said the woman, darting an imploring glance at Don to which he was unable to respond as Flamby was looking in his direction.
Flamby disappeared into a fitting-room and Don sat down to consider the question of how far he could hope to pursue his plot without being unmasked.
He lighted a cigarette and gave himself up to reflection on the point. When presently Flamby came out, radiant, followed by the troubled attendant carrying the grey gown, he was prepared for her.
“I’m going to have it!” she said. “Am I frightfully extravagant?”
“Not at all,” Don assured her; and as she took out her purse. “No,” he added, “you must not pay cash, Flamby. It would confuse Nevin’s books. I will write a cheque and charge it to your account together with the other purchases.”
He withdrew with the saleswoman, leaving Flamby seated looking at the velvet frock draped across a chair. Having proceeded to a discreet distance— “What is the price of the dress, please?” he asked.
“With the alterations which madam requires, eighteen guineas, sir.”
“I will give you a draft on Uncle Cox,” replied Don, taking out his cheque-book and fountain-pen. “You must feel rather bewildered, but the fact of the matter is that the lady chances to be the orphan of a very dear friend, and coming from a country place she has no idea of the cost of things. I would not disillusion her for the world, just yet. Will you please make a note to send the gown to Miss Duveen at this address.” He laid one of his aunt’s cards upon the table. “But — an important point — enclose no receipt; nothing that would afford a clue to the price. Will you remember?”
“I shall remember,” said the saleswoman, greatly relieved and beginning to smile once more.
So the quaint comedy of deception began and so it proceeded right merrily; for passing on to the furniture department, Don took the man aside and succeeded, although not without difficulty in this case, in making him an accomplice. As a result of the conspiracy Flamby purchased an exquisite little dressing-table of silver-maple (for thirty-five shillings), a large Axminster carpet and a Persian rug (three pounds, fifteen shillings), a miniature Jacobean oak suite (six guineas), a quaint bureau and bookcase (fifty shillings), and a perfect stack of cushions (at prices varying from half-a-crown to three shillings and elevenpence-three-farthings, or, in technical terminology, “three-and-eleven-three.”) The man became infected with the quixotic spirit of the affair and revealed himself in his true colours as a hierophant of the higher mysteries. Producing secret keys, he exhibited those arcana, of the inner rooms which apparently are not for sale but which are kept solely for the purpose of dazzling the imagination: jade Buddhas, contemplative and priceless, locked in wonderful Burmese cabinets, strange ornaments of brass and perfume-burners from India, mandarin robes of peacock-blue, and tiny caskets of that violet lacquering which is one of the lost arts of Japan.
With some few items of glassware, vases and pictures purchased elsewhere, Flamby’s expenditure amounted to more than twenty-five pounds, at which staggering total she stared in dismay. “Shall I really be able to pay it?” she asked.
“My dear Flamby, you have only just begun. The really essential things you will be able to buy when the Aunt is with you. I am instructing all the shops with which you may have occasion to do business to send accounts to Nevin. He will let you know quickly enough if you overstep the margin.”
“How much money, for goodness’ sake, is the Government paying?”
“I don’t know exactly, but in addition to the regular allowance and arrears there is a gratuity of something over a hundred pounds to your account.”
They were crossing Regent Street, and Flamby narrowly escaped being run over; — but the pavement gained in safety, “ — A hundred pounds!” she exclaimed— “I have a hundred pounds!”
“Roughly,” said Don, smiling and taking her arm. “Then there are the weekly instalments, of course. Oh, you have nothing to worry about, Flamby. Furthermore it will not be very long before you find a market for your work and then you will be independent of State aid.”
In truth, now that he was hopelessly enmeshed in his own net, Don experienced dire misgivings, wondering what Flamby would say, wondering what Flamby would do, when she learned of the conspiracy as she could not fail to learn of it sooner or later. But at the moment he was solely concerned with making her forget her sorrows, and in this he had succeeded. Flamby was radiantly happy and at last could think of the sweet countryside she had left behind without discovering a lump in her throat.
* * * * * *
Luncheon in a popular Piccadilly grill-room provided an intensely thrilling experience. Flamby’s acute sensibilities and inherent appreciation of the fitness of things rendered her ill at ease, but the gay music of the orchestra did much to restore her to harmony with herself, and Don’s unaffected delight in her company did the rest. So in time she forgot the home-made black dress and became fascinated by her novel surroundings and lost in the study of these men and women who belonged to a new, a partly perceived world, but a world into which she had longed to enter. Her personal acquaintance with the ways of modern Babylon was limited to the crowded experiences of a day-visit with her father and mother, a visit eagerly anticipated and never forgotten. Michael Duveen had seemingly never regretted that place in the world which he had chosen to forfeit. He had lived and worked like a labouring man and had taken his pleasures like one. On that momentous day they had visited Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament and Nelson’s Monument, had lunched at one of Messrs. Lockhart’s establishments, had taken a ride in the Tube and performed a hasty tour of the Zoo, where they had consumed, variously, cups of tea, ginger beer, stale buns and ices. Hyde Park they had viewed from the top of a motor bus and descending from this chariot at London Bridge had caught the train home. In the train Flamby had fallen asleep, utterly exhausted with such a saturnalia, and her parents had eaten sandwiches and partaken of beer from a large bottle which Mrs. Duveen had brought in a sort of carpet-bag. Flamby remembered that she had been aroused from her slumbers by her father, who conceiving a sudden and violent antipathy against both bag and bottle (the latter being empty) had opened the carriage window and hurled them both out on to the line.
It was an odd memory but it brought a cloud of sadness, and Don, quick to detect the shadow, hurried Flamby off to the Coliseum and astounded her by booking a stage box. The Aunt was consulted over the telephone, the Aunt agreed to join the party in the evening, and during the remainder of that eventful afternoon there were all sorts of wonderful sights to be seen; delightful shops unlike any that Flamby had imagined, and an exhibition of water-colours in Bond Street which fired her ambition like a torch set to dry bracken, as Don had designed that it should do. They had tea at a fashionable tea-shop, and Don noted that even within the space of twenty-four hours the number of lovely women had perceptibly diminished. This historic day concluded, then, with dinner at the Carlton and Ellen Terry at the Coliseum. How otherwise an excellent programme was constituted mattered not, but when the red-robed Portia came finally before the curtain and bestowed one of her sweet smiles exclusively upon the enraptured girl, Flamby found that two big tears were trickling down her hot cheeks.
V
And now another figure in the pageant which Iamblichos called “the indissoluble bonds of Necessity” was about to reappear in his appointed place in response to the call of the unseen Prompter. Hideous are the settings of that pageant to-day; for where in the glowing pages of Dumas we see D’Artagnan, the gallant Forty-five and many another good friend riding in through the romantic gates of Old Paris, the modern historian finds himself concerned with railway stations
which have supplanted those gates of Paris and of London alike. Thus Don entered by the gate of St. Pancras, Flamby by the smoky portal of London Bridge; and, on the following morning, Yvonne Mario stood upon a platform at Victoria awaiting the arrival of the Folkestone boat-train. She attracted considerable attention and excited adverse criticism amongst the other ladies present not only because of her personal charm but by reason of her dress. She wore a coat of black coney seal trimmed with white fox, and a little cap of the same, and her high-legged boots had white calf tops. Her complexion alone doomed her to the undying enmity of her sex, for the humid morning air had enhanced that clear freshness which quite naturally and properly annoyed every other woman who beheld it.
Several pressmen and photographers mingled with the groups along the platform, for the party with which Paul had been touring the French and British fronts included at least two other notable personages; and Bassett, Paul’s press agent, said to Yvonne: “You will smile across a million breakfast tables to-morrow morning, Mrs. Mario, and from a thousand cinema screens later in the week.”
Yvonne smiled there and then, a charming little one-sided smile, for she was really a very pretty woman in spite of her reputation as a beauty. “Modern journalism leaves nothing to the imagination,” she replied.
“And very wisely. So few people have any.”
They paced slowly along the platform. Excepting the porters who leaned against uptilted trucks and stared stolidly up the line, a spirit of furtive unrest had claimed everyone. People who meet trains always look so guilty, avoiding each other’s glances and generally behaving as though their presence were a pure accident; periodically consulting the station clock as who should say, “If this train is not signalled very shortly I must be off. My time is of value.” There is another type of course, much more rare, who appears at the last moment from some subterranean stairway. He is always running and his glance is wild. As the passengers begin to descend from the train he races along the platform, now and again pausing in his career and standing on tiptoe in order to look over the heads of the people in front of him. To every official he meets he says: “This train is the Folkestone train?” He rarely waits for a reply.
