She said: "So you have heard. ..."
"Mr. Holland has told me, and it has been confirmed by the servants, that Monsieur de la Roche was seen swimming only a short while after the accident, so . . ."
"I have heard," she said.
"So much scandal. So much gossip . . ." he said. "It is so unfortunate. And you?"
She cried out: "I want to go away. I want to go away from everything . . . everyone. I want to hide myself where no one can find me."
He laid a hand on her shoulder. "I understand. You shall go away from here. I shall not tell . . . him where you are ... if that is your wish. It is as well for you to go away. You will want to think of so much, and it is always possible to see things clearer when one is a long way from them."
She smiled. "It is convenient . . . these two things together," she said.
He answered her: "I will arrange everything. You need have no fears of the future. I will see that you are well-cared for. You may leave everything to me."
"You are very kind," she said, "to one who is . . . not your daughter."
She could bear no more and, turning, she ran out of the room.
She, who wanted to love all the world, despised too many people in it. There were three men whom she had wanted to love: Sir Charles, the rescuer, the man of dignity, the man of honour who trembled for his reputation; Leon who acted a part, gentle Leon, such a contrast to Fermor, sinister Leon who said he could not swim and had allowed a little boy to die when his death would enrich him and bring him all his desires—that dignity of which he had talked with passion, that security, that plantation in New Orleans; and Fermor, who had no sense of honour, who had nothing but his own violent appetites, who would stoop to any meanness, any unkindness to satisfy his carnal desires.
Yes, she wished to get away, to shut herself in with herself, to understand more, to leave this world where men looked like heroes and, beneath their shining armour, were cowards or brutes.
She lay on her bed for a long while. Caroline came to comfort her —Caroline her sister. Poor Caroline, who was as defenceless as herself in this wicked world of men.
PART THREE
FENELLA'S SALON
Wh
hen Fenella Cardingly received the letter from her old friend Charles Trevenning she lay back in bed gently fanning herself with it and smiling as she did so.
Polly Kendrick, her personal maid and constant adorer, came and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her expectantly, like a spaniel hoping for a walk or a titbit. Polly's treats were the pieces of gossip Fenella threw to her from time to time. Polly was good-hearted and grateful, but Fenella knew that not even her private affairs were held sacred by Polly. Polly must know everything; she gave faithful service in exchange for her share in her mistress's confidences.
Fenella, mischievous by nature, liked to keep Polly in suspense, so she continued to look round the ostentatiously luxurious bedroom, still smiling, still fanning herself with the letter.
The bed was a large one; Fenella herself was large and she liked her possessions to be in proportion. It was a modern bed; Fenella was modern. The back piece was inlaid with mother of pearl designs. In these could be seen nymphs—large nymphs of the same proportions as Fenella's own—and gods who bore a striking resemblance to some of the famous figures of the day; no shepherds these, but fine handsome gentlemen of dignity and poise. The sheets were of silk—pale blues or pale mauves; the quilt was of the same blue and mauve decorated with gold thread. The bed itself was set upon a dais and the steps which led up to this were carpeted in blue; there were heavy blue curtains which could be drawn, shutting off the steps and dais from the rest of the room. The walls about that alcove in which the bed was placed were covered with tapestry in which nymphs and gods, similar to those on the bed-back, were depicted. Once there had been mirrors where the tapestries now hung, but Fenella had had these taken away some years ago. She had told Polly—to whom she told most things—that when gentlemen came into the sanctum she could delude them into believing that they resembled the figures on the bed-back. They took on greater stature, she had declared, new virility; but the mirrors had lately proved a deterrent and the tapestries were so much more effective. "You go on," said Polly at that, for her devoted affection made up for her lack of respect, "it's your own figure that's made you take the mirrors away, Madam dear." Fenella had laughed and not denied it. She was growing old; but there was still much in life
to delight her; her life was as rich and colourful as her establishment.
In the bedroom there were many vases and statues—all presents from admirers—and every object was of high value. The painted ceiling was decorated with nymphs and gods similar to those already in evidence.
To Polly—child of the slums of St. Giles's—the house of Fenella Cardingly was an exotic palace over which Madam reigned as supreme Caliph; but Polly was the Grand Vizier of especial powers; and Fenella's life was not more full of pleasure and excitement than was Polly's.
Polly was small—no more than four feet eleven inches in height; she was so thin that she resembled a child, except that her face betrayed her age; her features were small and wizened, but her close-set darting eyes were so bright that they gave her a look of intelligence while they betrayed her overwhelming inquisitiveness. Beside Fenella, five feet nine inches, with her large bust and hips, dark hair —which Polly declared grew darker every year—large round brown eyes, jewelled and clad in colourful garments of fantastic design, Polly was an excellent foil. Polly Kendrick and Fenella Cardingly lived in their magnificent world, and neither of them could imagine what life would be like without the other.
Fenella's carriage had run over Polly one day; this had happened at the time when Fenella had been disastrously married, and before she had reigned in her own right in the social world she had made her own. In those days Fenella had been the wife of Ralph Cardingly, and it was not until he died that she had found her own personality and had created this world of excitement, extravagance and impudence of which she was the undisputed queen.
To the poor waif of the slums whose daily lot had been starvation and bestiality, Fenella had become goddess-mistress; and to Fenella the loyalty of this poor little woman had become very precious indeed. From the beginning they had played an important part in each other's lives. Polly had been saved from a life of misery; Fenella had been goaded to greater daring in order to shine more brightly in the eyes of her slave.
And what excitement Polly glimpsed through the love affairs of their young ladies! They were hers, she considered, as much as Fenella's. All lived fantastically in Fenella's temple, for Fenella had, with Polly's help, created a fantastic world about them.
Fenella grew rich. She sold lotions for the beautifying of women, and concoctions to restore virility to men. Any member of either sex could trust Fenella. They could come to her temple unseen and leave it, as she said, new men and women. That she had a dressmaking establishment in the upper rooms of her large house was well known. Her young ladies—the six goddesses of grace, as she