The Rustle of Silk Part 2

The reason, then, why Lola had turned the whole force of her concentration upon entering the house in Dover Street as lady's maid becomes clear. Here, suddenly, was her chance. Once in this house, in attendance upon Lady Feo, it would be possible for her not only to learn the manners and the language of the only women who were known to Fallaray, but eventually, with luck and strategy, to exercise her gift, as she called it, upon Fallaray himself. What did she care whether, as her aunt had said, she went down a peg in the social scale by becoming a lady's maid? She would willingly become a crossing sweeper or a beggar girl.

If it were true that Fallaray never went into the side of the house that was occupied by his wife, then she would eventually, when she felt that her apprentices.h.i.+p had been served, slip into the other side. Like all women she had cunning and like very few courage. Opportunity comes to those who make it and she was ready and eager to undergo any humiliation to try herself, so to speak, on Fallaray. Ernest Treadwell loved her and would, she knew, die for her willingly. There was the hero stuff in him.

Other boys, too numerous to mention, would go through fire and water for her kisses. Life was punctuated with turned heads, sudden flashes of eye and everyday attempts to win her favor. Once in that house in Dover Street--

VII

Sat.u.r.day came. Ernest Treadwell arrived early, his face s.h.i.+ning with Windsor soap. He had bought a spring tie at Hope Brothers, the name and the season going well with his mood. It was a ghastly affair,-yellow with blobs of red. It was indeed much more suited to Mr. Prouty, the butcher. It ill.u.s.trated something at which he frequently looked,-animal blood on a sawdust floor. But Ernest Treadwell was one of those men who could always be persuaded into wearing anything that was offered to him.

He was a dreamer, the stuff that poets are made of, impractical, embarra.s.sed. He went about with his young and incoherent brain seething with the tail end of big thoughts. If he had not been watched by a fond mother, he would probably have left the house with his trousers around his neck and his legs thrust through the sleeves of his coat. He walked up and down the street for half an hour with his cap on the back of his head and a tuft of hair sticking out in front of it,-an earnest, ungainly, intelligent, heroic person who might one day become a second Wells and write a Joan and Peter about the children of Joan and Peter.

Sat.u.r.day was a good day for the Breezys and much of Friday night had been spent cleaning and rearranging the cheap and alluring silverware-birthday presents, wedding presents, lovers' presents-which invariably filled the windows. Twice Lola had looked down and watched her young friend as he marched up and down beneath, with an ecstatic smile on his face. It was after her second look that she made up her mind to desert the crocuses in Hampton Court and make that boy escort her to Dover Street. Acting under a sudden inspiration she determined to go and see her aunt. She knew perfectly well that Miss Breezy had had time to think over the point which had been suggested to her and was by now probably quite ready to accept it. That was the woman's character.

She began by saying no to everything and ended, of course, by saying yes to most of them, and the more emphatic she was in the beginning the more easily she caved in finally. After all, she was very fond of her niece and would welcome the opportunity of having the girl's company at night and during the hours when Lady Feo was out. Lola knew all that and her entrance into Dover Street had become an obsession, a fixed idea, and if her aunt should develop a hitherto undemonstrated stiff back,-well then her hand must be forced, that's all, either by hook or by crook. Dressed as simply as usual but wearing her Sunday hat, Lola pa.s.sed through the shop, dropped a kiss on her father's head, twiddled her fingers at her mother, who was "getting off" a perfectly hideous vase stuck into a filigree silver support and must not, therefore, be interrupted in her diplomatic flow of persuasion. She was met at the door by Ernest Treadwell, who sheepishly removed his cap. He would have given ten years of his life to have been able to doff it in the manner of Sir Walter Raleigh and utter a string of highly polished phrases suitable to that epoch-making occasion. Instead of which he said, "'Ello," and dropped his "h" at her feet.

Queen's Road wore its usual Sat.u.r.day afternoon appearance and its narrow pavement was filled with people shopping for Sunday,-the tide of semi-society clas.h.i.+ng with that of mere respectability. "Hampton Court'll look great to-day," said Ernest, who felt that with the a.s.sistance of the crocuses he might be able to stammer a few words of love and admiration.

Lola glanced up at the clear sky and the April sun which was in a very kindly mood. "I'm sure it will," she said, "but I'm afraid I've got a disappointment for Ernie. I want you to be a dear and take me to see my aunt in Dover Street. It's-it's awfully important."

The boy's eyes flicked and a curious whiteness settled about his nose.

But he played the knight. "Whatever you say, Lola," he said, and forced himself to smile. Poor boy, it was a sad blow. He had gone to bed the night before, dreaming of this little adventure. It would have been the first time that he had ever spent an afternoon and evening alone with the girl who occupied the throne of his heart.

Lola knew this. She could see the whole story behind the boy's smile. So she took his arm to compensate him,-knowing how well it would. "There are crocuses in Kensington Garden," she said. "We'll have a look at those as we pa.s.s."

Every head that turned and every eye that flared made Ernest Treadwell swell with pride as well as resentment. A policeman held up the traffic for Lola at the top of the road and one of the keepers of the Gardens, an old soldier, saluted her as she went through the gates. She rewarded these attentions with what she called her best de Breze smile. Some day other and vastly more important men should gladly show her deference.

They followed the broad path which led to Marble Arch, raising their voices in order to overcome the incessant roar of traffic in the Bayswater Road. Lola did most of the talking that afternoon and it was all inspirational, to fire the boy into greater ambition and effort. She had read some of his poetry,-strange stuff that showed the influence of Masefield, crude and half-baked but not untouched with imagery. She believed in Ernest Treadwell and took a very real delight in his improvement. But for her encouragement it might have been some years before he broke out of hobble-de-hoydom and the semi-vicious inept.i.tude that goes with it. He was very happy as he went along with the warm hand on his arm. His vanity glowed under her friends.h.i.+p, as she intended that it should.

The old Gardens were green and fresh, gay with new leaves and daffodils.

Only the presence of smashed men made it look different from the good days before the War. Would all those children who played under the eyes of mothers and nurses be laid presently in sacrifice upon the altars of the old Bad Men of politics who had done nothing to avert the recent cataclysm?

Lola was excited and on her mettle. She was nearing the crossroads. On the one that she had marked out stood Fallaray,-the merest speck.

Success with Aunt Hannah meant the first rung of her ladder. Oxford Street was like a once smart woman who had become _decla.s.se_. It seemed to be competing with High Street, Putney. There was something pathetically blatant in the shop window arrangements, a strained effort to catch what little money was left to the public after the struggle to make both ends meet and pay the overwhelming taxation. The two young people were unconscious of the change. Lola babbled incessantly. Among other things she said, "I suppose you're a socialist, aren't you, Ernest? You've never discussed it with me, but I think you must be because you write poetry, and somehow all poets seem to be socialists. I suppose it's because poetry's so badly paid."

"I dunno about that. I've never tried to sell my stuff. I'm against everything and everybody, if that's what you mean. But I don't know whether it's true to call it Socialism. There's a new word for it which suits me,-intelligensia. I don't think that's the way to p.r.o.nounce it but it's near enough. It's in all the weekly papers now and stands for anarchy with hair oil on the bombs. Why do you ask me?"

Lola still had her hand on his arm. "Well, I'm afraid I'm going to give you a shock soon. I'm going to be a servant."

"Good G.o.d," said Ernest. His grandfather had been a valet, his father a piano tuner, he himself had risen to the heights of a.s.sistant librarian in a public library, and if his ambition to become a Labor member ever was realized he might very easily wind up as a peer. His children would then belong to the new aristocracy with Lola as Lady Treadwell. He gasped under the blow. "What will your mother say?"

"I'm afraid Mother will hang her head in shame until she gets my angle of it. Luckily I can always point to Aunt. She's a housekeeper, you see, and after all that's only a sort of upper servant, isn't it?"

"But,-what's the idea?"

This was not a question to which Lola had any intention of giving an answer. It was a perfectly private affair. She went off at one of her inevitable tangents so useful in order to dodge issues. She pointed to an enormous Rolls-Royce which stood outside Selfridge's. On the panel was painted a coat of arms as big as a soup tureen. She held Ernest back to watch the peculiar people who descended from it,-the man small and fat, with bandy legs and a great moustache waxed into points; the woman bulbous and wobbly, cluttered up with diamonds, made pathetic by a skirt that was almost up to her knees. What an excellent thing the War had been for them.

"New rich," said Lola. "I saw them the other day coming out of a house at the top of Park Lane which Father told me used to belong to a Duke.

Good Lord, why shouldn't I be a servant without causing a crack in the const.i.tution of the country?"

Fundamentally sn.o.bbish as all socialists are, the boy shook his head.

"You should lead, not serve," he said, quoting from one of his masters.

And that was all he could manage. Lola,-a servant! They turned into Bond Street in which all the suburban ladies who were not enjoying the matinees were gluing their noses to the shop windows. Ernest Treadwell was unfamiliar with this part of London. He preferred the democratic Strand when he could get away from his duties. He felt more and more sheepish and self-conscious as Lola drew up instinctively at every shop in which corsets were displayed and diaphanous underwear spread out. The silk stockings on extremely well-shaped wooden legs she admired extremely and desired above all things. The bootmakers' shops also came in for her close attention. The little French shoes with high vamps and stubby noses drew exclamations of delight and envy. Several spots on the window of Aspray's bore the impression of her nose before she could tear herself away. A set of dressing-table things made of gold and tortoisesh.e.l.l made her eyes widen and her lips part. Ernest Treadwell would willingly have sacrificed all his half-baked socialism to be able to buy any one of those things for Lola.

Finally they came to Dover Street, that oasis in the heart of Mayfair where even yet certain houses remain untouched by the hand of trade. The Fallaray house was on the sunny side, where it stood gloomily with frowning windows and an uninviting door. It was the oldest house in the street and wore its octogenarian appearance without camouflage. It had belonged originally to the Throgmorton family upon whom Fate had laid a hoodoo. The last of the line was glad to sell it to Fallaray's grandfather, the cotton man. What he would have said if he could have returned to his old haunts, opened his door with his latch key and walked in to find Lady Feo and her gang G.o.d only knows.

It was well known to Lola. Many times she had walked up and down Dover Street in order to gaze at the windows behind which she thought that Fallaray might be sitting, and several times she had been into her aunt's rooms which overlooked the narrow yards of Bond Street.

"Wait for me here, Ernest," she said. "I don't think I shall be very long. If I'm more than half an hour, give me up and we'll have another afternoon later on."

She waved her hand, went down the area steps and rang the bell. Ernest Treadwell, to whom the house had taken on a sinister appearance, sloped off with rounded shoulders and a tight mouth. They might have been in Hampton Court looking at the crocuses.-Lola,-a servant. Good G.o.d!

VIII

Albert Simpkins opened the door.

It wasn't his job to open doors, because he was a valet. But it so happened that he was the only person in the servants' quarters who was not either dressing, lying down after a heavy lunch or out to enjoy an hour's fresh air.

"Miss Breezy, please," said Lola.

Simpkins gasped. If he had been pa.s.sing through the hall and a footman had opened the front door to this girl he would have slipped into a dark corner to watch her enter, believing that she had come to visit Lady Feo. He knew a thoroughbred when he saw one. That she should have come to the area of all places seemed to him to be irregular, not in conformity with the rules of social rect.i.tude which were his religion.

All the same he thrilled, and like every other man who caught sight of Lola and stood near enough to catch the indefinable scent of her hair, stumbled over his words.

Lola repeated her remark and gave him a vivid friendly smile. If she carried her point with her aunt presently, this man would certainly be useful. "If you will please come in," said Simpkins, "I'll go and see if Miss Breezy's upstairs. What name shall I say?"

"Lola Breezy."

"Miss Lola Breezy. Thank you." He paused for a moment to bask, and then with a little bow in which he acknowledged her irresistible and astonis.h.i.+ng effect, disappeared,-valet stamped upon his respectability like a Cunard label on a suit case.

Lola chuckled and remained standing in the middle of what was used by the servants as a sitting room. How easy it was, with her gift, to shatter men's few senses. She knew the place well,-its pictures of Queen Victoria and of famous race horses cut from ill.u.s.trated papers cheaply framed and its snapshots of the gardens of Chilton Park, Whitecross, Bucks. Discarded books of all sorts were piled up on various tables.

_The Spectator_ and _The New Statesman_, Ma.s.singham's peevish weekly, _Punch_, _The Sketch_ and _The Tatler_, _Eve_ and the _Bystander_, which had come downstairs from the higher regions, were scattered here and there. They had been read and commented upon first by the butler and then downwards through all the gradations of servants to the girl who played galley slave to the cook. Lola wondered how long it would be before she also would be spending her spare time in that room, hobn.o.bbing with the various members of the family below stairs. A few days, perhaps, not more,-now that she had fastened on this plan.

Simpkins returned almost immediately. "If you will follow me," he said, and gave her an alluring smile which disclosed a row of teeth that were peculiarly English. He led the way along a narrow pa.s.sage up the back staircase and out upon a wide and imposing corridor, hung with Flemish tapestry and old portraits, which appealed to Lola's sense of the decorative and sent her head up with a tilt of proprietors.h.i.+p. This was her atmosphere. This was the corridor along which her imaginary sycophants had pa.s.sed so often to her room in Queen's Road, Bayswater.

"We're not supposed to go through here," said Simpkins, eager to talk, "except on duty. But it's a short cut to the housekeeper's quarters and there's no one in to catch us. You look well against that hanging," he added. "Like a picture in the Academy,"-which to him was the Temple of Art.

A door opened and there were heavy footsteps.

"Look out. The governor." He seized Lola's arm and in a panic drew her into the shadow of a large armoire.

Her heart jumped into her mouth!-It was her hero in the flesh, the man at whose feet she had wors.h.i.+pped,-within a few inches of her, walking slowly, with his hands behind his back, his mouth compressed and a sort of hit-me-why-don't-you in his eye. Still with Simpkins's hand upon her arm she slipped out,-not to be seen, not with any thought of herself, but to watch Fallaray stride along the corridor; and get the wonder of a first look.

A door banged and he was gone.

"A pretty near thing," said Simpkins. "It always happens like that. I don't suppose he would have noticed us. Mostly he sees nothing but his thoughts,-looks inwards, I mean. But rules is rules. He lives in that wing of the 'ouse,-has a library and a bedroom there and another room fitted up as a gym where he goes through exercises to keep hisself fit.

Give 'im enough in the House to keep 'im fit, you'd think, wouldn't yer?

A wonderful man.-Come on, Miss, nick through here." He opened a door, ran lightly up a short flight of stairs and came back again into the servant's pa.s.sage. "'Ere you are," he said and smiled brilliantly, putting in, as he thought, good work. This girl--! "I'll be glad to see you 'ome," he added anxiously.

Lola said, "Thank you, but I have some one waiting for me," and entered.