The Rustle of Silk
of the riding master of a Margate livery stable. And so it went on all
the way through.--And here was Fallaray.
The truth of the thing was that Fallaray had not married Lady Feo. Lady
Feo had married Fallaray. What she had said to Mrs. Malwood was
perfectly true. At eighteen her hobbies were profiles and tennis. At
twenty-four Fallaray's profile was at its best. He looked like a Greek
god, especially when he was playing tennis with a shirt open at the
neck, and she had met him during the year that he had put up that superb
fight against Wilding in the good old days. The fact that he was Arthur
Fallaray, the son of a distinguished father, born and bred for a place
on the front bench, a marked man already because of his speeches in the
Oxford Union, didn't matter. His profile was the finest that she had
seen and his tennis was in the championship class, and so she had
deliberately gone for him, followed him from house party to house party
with the sole intention of acquiring and possessing. At the end of six
weeks she had got him. He had been obliged to kiss her. Her face had
been purposely held in place to receive it. The rest was easy.
Whereupon, she had immediately advertised the engagement broadcast,
brought her relations down upon Fallaray in a swarm, sent paragraphs to
the papers and made it literally impossible for the unfortunate man to
do anything but go through with the damned thing like a
gentleman,--dazed by the turn of events and totally unacquainted with
the galloping creature who had seemed to him to resemble a thoroughbred
but untrained yearling, kicking its heels about in a paddock. It had all
been just a lark to her,--no more serious than collecting postage
stamps, which eventually she could sell or give away. If ever she were
to fall really in love, it would be perfectly simple, she had argued,
either to be divorced or to juggle affairs so that she might divorce
Fallaray. Any man who played tennis as well as he had done could do a
little thing like that for her. The result was well known. A man of high
ideals, Fallaray had gone through with this staggering marriage with
every intention of making it work. Being in love with no other girl, he
had determined to do his utmost to play the game and presently stand
proudly among a little family of Fallarays. But he had found in Feo some
one who had no standards, no sense of right and wrong, give and take; a
girl who was a confirmed anarchist, who cared no more for law and order,
Church and State or the fundamentals of _life_, _tradition_, _honor_,
womanhood than an animal, a beautiful orang-outang, if there is such a
thing, who or which delighted in hanging to branches by its tail and
making weird grimaces at passers-by. The thing had been a tragedy, so
far as Fallaray was concerned, an uncanny and terrible event in his
life, almost in the nature of an incurable illness. The so-called
honeymoon to which he never looked back, had been a nightmare filled
with scoffing laughter, brilliant and amazing remarks, out of which he
had emerged in a state of mental chaos to plunge into work as an
antidote. They had always lived under the same roof because it was
necessary for a man who goes into politics to truckle to that curious
form of hypocrisy which will never be eradicated from the British
system. Her people and his people had demanded this, and his first
constituency had made it a _sine qua non_. Not requiring much money, he
had been and continued to be very generous in his allowance to his wife,
who did not possess a cent of her own. On the contrary, it was
frequently necessary for her to settle her brother's debts and even to
pay her father's bills from time to time. The gallant old Marquis was
without anything so bourgeois as the money sense and couldn't possibly
play bridge under five pounds a thousand. There was also the system with
which he had many times attempted to break the bank at Monte Carlo.
To-day, never interfering with her way of life and living in his own
wing like a bachelor, he knew less of Feo's character than he did when
she had caught him first. What he knew of her friendships and her
peregrinations he got from the newspapers. When it was necessary to dine
at his own table, he treated her as though she were one of his guests,
or rather as though he were one of hers. There was no scandal attaching
to his name, because women played absolutely no part in his life; and
there was no actual scandal attaching to hers. Only notoriety. She had
come to be looked upon by society and by the vast middle class who
discussed society as a beautiful freak, an audacious strange creature
who frittered away her gifts, who was the leader of a set of women of
all ages, married and unmarried, who took an impish delight in flouting
the conventions and believed that they established the proof of unusual
intelligence by a self-conscious display of eccentricity.
VIII
And in the meantime Lola continued to be an apt little pupil. Her quick
ear had already enabled her to pick up the round crisp intonation of
Lady Feo and her friends and at any moment of the day she could now give
an exact imitation of their walk, manner of shaking hands and those
characteristic tricks which made them different from all the women who
had had the ill fortune to come into the world in the small streets.
Up in the servant's bedroom in Dover Street, before a square of mirror,
Lola practised and rehearsed for her eventual debut,--the form of which
was on the knees of the gods. She had entered her term of apprenticeship
quite prepared to serve conscientiously for at least a year,--a long
probation for one so young and eager. Probably she would have continued
to study and listen and watch, with gathering impatience, but for a
sudden hurrying forward of the clock brought about by the gift of a
frock,--rustling with silk. A failure, because the dressmaker, with the
ineffable cheek of these people, had entirely departed from Feo's rigid
requirements, it provided Lola with the key to life. Giving one yell at
the sight of it, Feo was just about to rip it in pieces when she caught
the longing eyes of her maid. Whereupon, with the generosity which is so
easy when it is done with other people's money, she said, "Coming over,"
rolled it into a ball and threw it at Lola. It was, as may be imagined,
a very charming and reasonable garment such as might have been worn by a
perfectly respectable person.
On her way home that night, Lola dropped in to her own little dressmaker
who lived in one of the numerous dismal villas off Queen's Road, for the
purpose of having it altered to fit her. It was miles too large. She had
eventually brought it back to Dover Street and hidden it away behind one
of her day frocks in her only cupboard, and every time that she took a
peep at it, her eyes sparkled and her breath came short and she wondered
when and how she could possibly wear it.
Filled with a great longing to try her wings and fly out of the cage
like the canary of which she had spoken to Ernest Treadwell, there were
moments in her life now when she was consumed with impatience. The poet
of the public library, the illiterate and ecstatic valet, the pompous
butler and the two cockney footmen,--she had grown beyond all these. She
was absolutely sure of herself as an honorary member of the Feo "gang."
She felt that she could hold her own now with the men of their class. If
she were right, her apprenticeship would be over. Fully fledged, she
could proceed with her great scheme. The chance came as chances always
do come, and as usual she took it.
Several days after Lytham's talk with Fallaray--which had left them both
in that state of irresolution which seemed to have infected every
one--Lady Feo went off for the week-end, leaving Lola behind. The party
had been arranged on the spur of the moment and was to take place in a
cottage with a limited number of bedrooms. If Lady Feo had given the
thing a moment's thought, she would have told Lola to take three days
holiday. But this she had forgotten to do. And so there was Lola in
Dover Street with idle hands. The devil finds some mischief still----
At four o'clock that evening Simpkins entered the servants' sitting
room. Lola happened to be alone, surrounded by _Tatlers_, _Punches_ and
_Bystanders_, fretting a little and longing to try her paces. "Good
old," he said, "Mr. Fallaray has got to dine at the Savoy to-night with
his Ma and Auntie from the country. One of them family affairs which,
not coming too frequently, does him good. And you're free. How about
another show, Princess?" He had recently taken to calling her princess.
"There's another American play on which ain't bad, I hear. Let's sample
it. What do you say?"
Mr. Fallaray.--The Savoy----
Without giving the matter an instant's thought, Lola shook her head.
"_Too bad, Simpky,_" she said, "I promised Mother to go home to-night.
She has some friends coming and I am going to help her."
"Oh," said Simpkins, extremely disappointed. "Well, then, I'll take you
'ome and if I'm very good and put on a new tie I may be asked,--I say I
may----" He paused, having dropped what he considered to be a delicate
hint.
This was a most awkward moment. Mr. Fallaray--The Savoy--That new frock.
And here was Simpkins butting in and standing with his head craned
forward as if to meet the invitation halfway. So she said, as cool as a
cucumber, "Mother will be very disappointed not to be able to ask you,
Simpky, because she likes you so much. She enjoyed both times you came
home with me. So did Father. But, you see, our drawing-room is very
small and Mother has asked too many people as it is. Get tickets for
tomorrow night and I shall be very glad to go with you."
There was no guile in Lola's eye and not the smallest hesitation in her
speech. Simpkins bore up bravely. He knew these parties and the way in
which some hostesses allowed their rooms to brim over. And, anyway, it
was much better to have Lola all to himself. He could live for Saturday.
"Righto," he said. "Let me know when you're ready to go and if you feel
like a taxicab----"
"I couldn't think of it," said Lola. "You spend much too much money,
Simpky. You're an absolute profiteer. I shall go by Tube and this time a
friend of mine is fetching me."
"Treadwell?" She nodded and calmly examined a picture of Lopodoski in
one of her latest contortions.
There was a black cloud on Simpkins's face. He had met Ernest at the
Breezys' house. He had seen the way in which this boy gazed at
Lola,--lanky, uncouth, socialistic young cub. He was not jealous, good
Lord, no. That would be absurd. A junior librarian with a salary that
was far less than any plumber got, and him a man of means with the
"Black Bull" at Wargrave on the horizon. All the same, if he heard that
Ernest Treadwell had suddenly been run over by a pantechnicon and
flattened out like a frog----
And that was why he sat down on the sofa a little too close to Lola and
dared to possess himself of her hand. "Princess,--you know 'ow I feel.
You know what you've done to me."
Lola patted his hand and gave it back and rewarded him with a smile
which she considered to be matronly. "Nice Simpky," she said. "Very nice
Simpky," as though he were a rather faulty terrier a little too keen on
the thrown stick. "I must go now," she added and rose. "I have some
sewing to do for Lady Feo."
And as Simpkins watched her go, his whole heart swelled, and something
went to his head that blurred everything for a moment. He would sell his
soul for that girl. For her sake he would even set light to the "Black
Bull" and watch it burn, if that would give her a moment's amusement.
Mr. Fallaray.--The Savoy----
What Lola did in Lady Feo's room was not to sew but to seat herself at