_ BOOK III. IN WASHINGTON
CHAPTER VI
Lady Clifton-Wyatt, like many another woman, was kept in order by the presence of men. She knew that the least charming of attributes in masculine eyes are the female feline, the gift and art of claws.
Men can be catty, too--tom-catty, yet contemptibly feline when they are not on their good behavior. There are times when the warning, "Gentlemen, there are ladies present," restores them to order as quickly as the entrance of a teacher turns a school-room of young savages into an assembly of young saints.
The women in Mrs. Prothero's drawing-room could not hear any of the words the men mixed with their smoke, but they could hear now and then a muffled explosion of laughter of a quality that indicated what had provoked it.
The women, too, were relieved of a certain constraint by their isolation. They seemed to enjoy the release. It was like getting their minds out of tight corsets. They were not impatient for the men--as some of the men may have imagined. These women were of an age where they had something else to think of besides men. They had careers to make or keep among women as well as the men among men.
The servants kept them on guard till the coffee, tobacco, and liqueurs were distributed. Then recess was declared. Marie Louise found herself on a huge tapestried divan provided with deep, soft cushions that held her like a quicksands. On one side of her was the mountainous Mrs. Dyckman resembling a stack of cushions cased in silk; on the other was Mildred Tait Fargeton, whose father had been ambassador to France.
Marie Louise listened to their chatter with a frantic impatience. Polly was heliographing ironic messages with her eyes. Polly was hemmed in by the wife of a railroad juggler, who was furious at the Administration because it did not put all its transportation problems in her husband's hands. She would not have intrusted him with the buying of a spool of thread; but that was different.
Mrs. Prothero was monopolized by Lady Clifton-Wyatt. Marie Louise could see that she herself was the theme of the talk, for Mrs. Prothero kept casting startled glances Marie-Louise-ward, and Lady Clifton-Wyatt glances of baleful stealth.
Marie Louise had proved often enough that she was no coward, but even the brave turn poltroon when they fight without a sense of justification. Her pride told her that she ought to cross over to Lady Clifton-Wyatt and demand that she speak up. But her sense of guilt robbed her of her courage. And that oath she had given to Mr. Verrinder without the least reluctance now loomed before her as the greatest mistake of her life. Her sword and shield were both in pawn.
She gave herself up for lost and had only one hope, that the men would not come in--especially that Ross Davidge would not come in in time to learn what Lady Clifton-Wyatt was so eager to publish. She gave Mrs. Prothero up for lost, too, and Polly. But she wanted to keep Ross Davidge fond of her.
Then in a lull Mrs. Prothero spoke up sharply:
"I simply can't believe it, my dear. I don't know that I ever saw a German spy, but that child is not one. I'd stake my life on it."
"And now the avalanche!" thought Marie Louise.
The word "spy" was beginning to have more than an academic or fictional interest to Americans, and it caught the ear of every person present.
Mrs. Dyckman and Mme. Fargeton sat up as straight as their curves permitted and gasped:
"A German spy! Who? Where?"
Polly Widdicombe sprang to her feet and darted to Mrs. Prothero's side.
"Oh, how lovely! Tell me who she is! I'm dying to shoot a spy."
Marie Louise sickened at the bloodthirstiness of Polly the insouciante.
Mrs. Prothero tried to put down the riot of interest by saying:
"Oh, it's nothing. Lady Clifton-Wyatt is just joking."
Lady Clifton-Wyatt was at bay. She shot a glance at Marie Louise and insisted:
"Indeed I'm not! I tell you she is a spy."
"Who's a spy?" Polly demanded.
"Miss Webling," said Lady Clifton-Wyatt.
Polly began to giggle; then she frowned with disappointment.
"Oh, I thought you meant it."
"I do mean it, and if you'll take my advice you'll be warned in time."
Polly turned, expecting to find Marie Louise showing her contemptuous amusement, but the look she saw on Marie Louise's face was disconcerting. Polly's loyalty remained staunch. She hated Lady Clifton-Wyatt anyway, and the thought that she might be telling the truth made her a little more hatable. Polly stormed:
"I won't permit you to slander my best friend."
Lady Clifton-Wyatt replied, "I don't slahnda hah, and if she is yaw best friend--well--"
Lady Clifton-Wyatt hated Polly and was glad of the weapon against her. Polly felt a sudden terrific need of retorting with a blow. Men had never given up the fist on the mouth as the simple, direct answer to an insult too complicated for any other retort. She wanted to slap Lady Clifton-Wyatt's face. But she did not know how to fight. Perhaps women will acquire the male prerogative of the smash in the jaw along with the other once exclusive masculine privileges. It will do them no end of good and help to clarify all life for them. But for the present Polly could only groan, "Agh!" and turn to throw an arm about Marie Louise and drag her forward.
"I'd believe one word of Marie Louise against a thousand of yours," she declared.
"Very well--ahsk hah, then."
Polly was crying mad, and madder than ever because she hated herself for crying when she got mad. She almost sobbed now to Marie Louise, "Tell her it's a dirty, rotten lie."
Marie Louise had been dragged to her feet. She temporized, "What has she sai-said?"
Polly snickered nervously, "Oh, nothing--except that you were a German spy."
And now somewhere, somehow, Marie Louise found the courage of desperation. She laughed:
"Lady Clifton-Wyatt is notori--famous for her quaint sense of humor."
Lady Clifton-Wyatt sneered, "Could one expect a spy to admit it?"
Marie Louise smiled patiently. "Probably not. But surely even you would hardly insist that denying it proves it?"
This sophistry was too tangled for Polly. She spoke up:
"Let's have the details, Lady Clifton-Wyatt--if you don't mind."
"Yes, yes," the chorus murmured.
Lady Clifton-Wyatt braced herself. "Well, in the first place Miss Webling is not Miss Webling."
"Oh, but I am," said Marie Louise.
Lady Clifton-Wyatt gasped, "You don't mean to pretend that--"
"Did you read the will?" said Marie Louise.
"No, of course not, but--"
"It says there that I was their daughter."
"Well, we'll not quibble. Legally you may have been, but actually you were their adopted child."
"Yis?" said Marie Louise. "And where did they find me? Had you heard?"
"Since you force me to it, I must say that it is generally believed that you were the natural daughter of Sir Joseph."
Marie Louise was tremendously relieved by having something that she could deny. She laughed with a genuineness that swung the credulity all her way. She asked:
"And who was my mother--my natural mother, could you tell me? I really ought to know."
"She is believed to have been a--a native of Australia."
"Good Heavens! You don't mean a kangaroo?"
"An actress playing in Vienna."
"Oh, I am relieved! And Sir Joseph was my father--yes. Do go on."
"Whether Sir Joseph was your father or not, he was born in Germany and so was his wife, and they took a false oath of allegiance to his Majesty. All the while they were loyal only to the Kaiser. They worked for him, spied for him. It is said that the Kaiser had promised to make Sir Joseph one of the rulers over England when he captured the island. Sir Joseph was to have any castle he wanted and untold wealth."
"What was I to have?" Marie Louise was able to mock her. "Wasn't I to have at least Westminster Abbey to live in? And one of the crown princes for a husband?"
Lady Clifton-Wyatt lost her temper and her bearings.
"Heaven knows what you were promised, but you did your best to earn it, whatever it was."
Mrs. Prothero lost patience. "Really, my dear Lady Clifton-Wyatt, this is all getting beyond me."
Lady Clifton-Wyatt grew scarlet, too. She spoke with the wrath of a Tisiphone whipping herself to a frenzy. "I will bring you proofs. This creature was a paid secret agent, a go-between for Sir Joseph and the Wilhelmstrasse. She carried messages. She went into the slums of Whitechapel disguised as a beggar to meet the conspirators. She carried them lists of ships with their cargoes, dates of sailing, destinations. She carried great sums of money. She was the paymaster of the spies. Her hands are red with the blood of British sailors and women and children. She grew so bold that at last she attracted the attention of even Scotland Yard. She was followed, traced to Sir Joseph's home. It was found that she lived at his house.
"One of the spies, named Easling or Oesten, was her lover. He was caught and met his deserts before a firing-squad in the Tower. His confession implicated Sir Joseph. The police raided his place. A terrific fight ensued. He resisted arrest. He tried to shoot one of our police. The bullet went wild and killed his wife. Before he could fire again he was shot down by one of our men."
The astonishing transformations the story had undergone in its transit from gossip to gossip stunned Marie Louise. The memory of the reality saddened her beyond laughter. Her distress was real, but she had self-control enough to focus it on Lady Clifton-Wyatt and murmur:
"Poor thing, she is quite mad!"
There is nothing that so nearly drives one insane as to be accused of insanity.
The prosecutrix almost strangled on her indignation at Marie Louise's calm.
"The effrontery of this woman is unendurable, Mrs. Prothero. If you believe her, you must permit me to leave. I know what I am saying. I have had what I tell you from the best authority. Of course, it may sound insane, but wait until you learn what the German secret agents have been doing in America for years and what they are doing now."
There had been publication enough of the sickening duplicity of ambassadors and attaches to lead the Americans to believe that Teutonism meant anything revolting. Mrs. Prothero was befuddled at this explosion in her quiet home. She asked:
"But surely all this has never been published, has it? I think we should have heard of it here."
"Of course not," said Lady Clifton-Wyatt. "We don't publish the accounts of the submarines we sink, do we? No more do we tell the Germans what spies of theirs we have captured. And, since Sir Joseph and his wife were dead, there would have been no profit in publishing broadcast the story of the battle. So they agreed to let it be known that they died peacefully or rather painfully in their beds, of ptomaine poisoning."
"That's true," said Mrs. Prothero. "That's what I read. That's what I've always understood."
Now, curiously, as often happens in court, the discovery that a witness has stumbled on one truth in a pack of lies renders all he has said authentic and shifts the guilt to the other side. Marie Louise could feel the frost of suspicion against her forming in the air.
Polly made one more onset: "But, tell me, Lady Clifton-Wyatt, where was Marie Louise during all this Wild West End pistol-play?"
"In her room with her lover," snarled Lady Clifton-Wyatt. "The servants saw her there."
This threw a more odious light on Marie Louise. She was not merely a nice clean spy, but a wanton.
Polly groaned: "Tell that to Scotland Yard! I'd never believe it."
"Scotland Yard knows it without my telling," said Lady Clifton-Wyatt.
"But how did Marie Louise come to escape and get to America?"
"Because England did not want to shoot a woman, especially not a young woman of a certain prettiness. So they let her go, when she swore that she would never return to England. But they did not trust her. She is under observation now! Your home is watched, my dear Mrs. Widdicombe, and I dare say there is a man on guard outside now, my dear Mrs. Prothero."
This sent a chill along every spine. Marie Louise was frightened out of her own brief bravado.
There was a lull in the trial while everybody reveled in horror. Then Mrs. Prothero spoke in a judicial tone.
"And now, Miss Webling, please tell us your side of all this. What have you to say in your own behalf?"
Marie Louise's mouth suddenly turned dry as bark; her tongue was like a dead leaf. She was inarticulate with remembrance of her oath to Verrinder. She just managed to whisper:
"Nothing!"
It sounded like an autumn leaf rasping across a stone. Polly cried out in agony:
"Marie Louise!"
Marie Louise shook her head and could neither think nor speak. There was a hush of waiting. It was broken by the voices of the men strolling in together. They were utterly unwelcome. They stopped and stared at the women all staring at Marie Louise.
Seeing Davidge about to ask what the tableau stood for, she found voice to say:
"Mr. Davidge, would you be so good as to take me home--to Mrs. Widdicombe's, that is. I--I am a little faint."
"Delighted! I mean--I'm sorry--I'd be glad," he stammered, eager to be at her service, yet embarrassed by the sudden appeal.
"You'll pardon me, Mrs. Prothero, for running away!"
"Of course," said Mrs. Prothero, still dazed.
He bowed to her, and all round. Marie Louise nodded and whispered, "Good night!" and moved toward the door waveringly. Davidge's heart leaped with pity for her.
Lady Clifton-Wyatt checked him as he hurried past her.
"Oh, Mr. Davidge, I'm stopping at the Shoreham. Won't you drop in and have a cup of tea with me to-morrow at hahf pahst fah?"
"Thank you! Yes!" _