His Monkey Wife by John Collier

Author:John Collier [Collier, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: schoolmaster, 1920's, love triangle, satire, chimp, social critism, London, South Africa
ISBN: 9781618865052
Publisher: eNet Press Inc.; Lake Oswego OR 97034 USA; www.enetpress.com
Published: 2012-08-22T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

I told my love, I told my love,

I told her all my heart,

Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.

Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,

A traveler came by,

Silently, invisibly:

He took her with a sigh.

“Darling! What marvelous flowers! Are they really for me?”

“How wonderful you look!” returned Mr. Fatigay, with equal enthusiasm, for on this, the night of the party, Amy had abandoned the rather demurely period sort of frock she usually affected, with its tight bodice and full skirt, and had put on a far simpler garment of black and vermilion, which was, however, so up to date, so deadly Parisian, that its simplicity only lent it the final touch, the hint of the prematurely vicious little girl. Lipstick a shade hotter and drier than usual, startling as a gout of arterial blood coughed up into the midst of Amy’s smiling features, added to the effect of sweet innocence playing the cocotte. The speculation aroused, of course, was on how far the game might proceed.

Taking her lover by the hand, Amy ran with him lightly, laughingly, madly up the stairs, drawing ahead a little before they had reached the top, in order to wait for him in an attitude of provocative welcome on her own landing.

“You won’t mind just a scratch meal in the kitchen tonight, will you, dear? Nothing’s nicer than party clothes in the kitchen. Because the room is all ready for the people who’re coming. Put your hat and coat in here.” And she flung open the door of her bedroom, and, still prattling, followed Mr. Fatigay inside.

Now, whether it was the novel aspect of Amy in the new dress; or whether it was the touch of abandon she had put on in keeping with it; or whether it was that her chamber, which was to take on for this evening the cold and formal aspect of a cloakroom, was not thus petrified in our hero’s eyes by his own entrance, but awaited some more alien garrison of hats and wraps before suffering the change, and was still the rosy, scented sheath of Amy’s intimate life; or whether it was that tawny August, cruel oppressor of the long-engaged, had fermented Mr. Fatigay’s blood, like Dante’s, to a liquor pale and ardent as the most potent of dry sherries; or whatever it was, the fact remains, that after a minute or two the door slammed violently, and Emily, washing radishes in the kitchen, found that, though she strained very hard to hear the urgent voices within, she could distinguish nothing but a throaty rumble from her master and a few sharp and angry ejaculations from Amy.

Shortly the door was plucked open again, and Amy emerged with the expression of one who has been mortally hurt by a trusted hand, and her lover followed with chagrin and regret mixed on his face in the most hangdog look that any lover can wear. Emily glanced from one to the other and nervously dropped her eyes to the floor.

The

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