The Rustle of Silk
awfully in love with some one else and it's a difficult world. That's
the truth. I have to tell it to you. I can never, never marry you,
never. Please accept this. Whatever happens to me, and I don't know
whatever _will_ happen to me, I shall always remember how good you were
and how proud you made me feel. But I'm so awfully in love with some one
else. Awfully. And perhaps I shall never be married. That's the truth,
Simpky."
And she bent down and kissed him on the forehead, and then got up
quickly and raised the kneeling man to his feet. And he stood there,
shattered, empty and wordless, with the blow that she had given him ever
so softly marking his face, marking his soul.
And Lola was very, very sorry. Poor old Simpky. Poor little Ellen. It
was indeed a difficult world.
VI
The next day was Saturday,--a busy day for the Breezys, the one day in
the week upon which they pinned their faith to make up for slack
business during the remainder of it. In the morning Lola helped her
mother to make an enticing display in the windows and along the counter
in the shop itself. Mrs. Breezy had recently broadened out a little and
now endeavored to sell kodaks and photographic materials, self-filling
pens and stationery for ladies, which is tantamount to saying that it
was stationery unfit for men. During this busy and early hour, while
John Breezy, one-eyed, was looking into the complaints of wrist watches,
most of which were suffering from having been taken into the bath, Lola
answered her mother's silent inquiry as to what had happened the
previous evening. With a duster in one hand and a silver sugar basin in
the other, she looked up suddenly and said, "No, Mother, it wasn't and
will never be possible. Poor old Simpky."
And Mrs. Breezy nodded and shrugged her shoulders. And Lola hoped that
that would be the end of it. But why should she have hoped so, knowing
women? A few minutes later Mrs. Breezy began.
"The inn at Wargrave would have been so nice. He said that it had an
orchard on one side and a large lawn running down to the river on the
other, shaded with old trees,--little tables underneath and lovers'
nooks and sweet peas growing in tubs. Ah, how nice after Queen's Road,
Bayswater. And your father could have fished for hours and I could have
rearranged the furniture--and very good furniture too, he said--and made
things look spick and span. And he's a good man, is Albert Simpkins, a
very unusual man, educated, religious, honest, with a sort of white
flame burning in him somewhere. He would have made a good husband,
dearie.--However, I suppose you know best." And she threw an anxious
glance at her little girl who had become, if anything, more of an enigma
to her than ever. It didn't matter about the apron that she wore; nor
did the fact that she was very efficiently cleaning that silver thing
detract from the new and subtle dignity and poise that she had acquired.
And her accent, and her choice of words,--they were those of Mrs.
Breezy's favorite actress who played fashionable women. It was very
extraordinary. What a good ear the child must have and what a very
observant eye,--rather like her father's, although he had to be assisted
by a microscope. "You won't think it over, I suppose?" she asked
finally, long after Lola had believed the subject to be closed. Mothers
have an amazing way of recurring to old arguments. But Lola shook her
head again and gave a little gesture that was peculiarly French, as who
should say, "My dear! Marriage!"
As soon as the shop was opened and Mrs. Breezy was on duty and John
Breezy was humming softly over his most monotonous job, Lola went
upstairs to the little bedroom which she had completely outgrown now,
put on her hat and presently slipped out of the house. All the usual
musicians were already at work on the curbstone of Queen's Road. The
strains of "Annie Laurie" were mixed with those of "Son o' Mine" and
there was one daring creature with a concertina who was desecrating
Gounod's "Ave Maria." Perambulators cluttered the pavements and eager
housewives were in earnest conversation with butchers and greengrocers
who had arranged their wares temptingly outside their shops so that they
could be handled and considered and sampled. Lola made her way to
Kensington Gardens filled with a desire which had been growing upon her
ever since she woke up to make another Cinderella dash into the great
world. She was seized with another overpowering eagerness to meet
Fallaray on his own level. He was to be in town over the week-end. She
knew that. The Government, as though it had not already enough troubles
to contend with--Germany haggling and France ready to fly at her throat
and America hiding her head in the sand of dead shibboleths like an
ostrich--was in the throes of the big strike and its members were
hurrying from one conference to another with the labor leaders. Lady Feo
away, she had a wonderful chance to use that night and nothing would be
easier than to dress once more at Mrs. Rumbold's and slip into her
mother's house with a latchkey. But she was not able to go into the
Gardens because they had been closed to the public. They had been turned
over to the military to be used as a center for the mobilization of
supplies. She could see men in khaki everywhere, going about their work
with a sort of merry energy. "Back to the army agin, Sergeant, back to
the army agin." Unconcerned by the crisis which had fallen upon England
and unable to wander along her favorite paths, she turned away just at
the moment when a large car, followed by a line of motor busses and
heterogeneous traffic, was being held up by a policeman to enable a
company of boy scouts to cross the high road. She heard a shout. She saw
a man in khaki with a red band round his cap and much brass on its peak
and two long lines of ribbons on his chest become suddenly athletic
under the stress of great excitement. The next instant her hand was
seized and she looked up. It was Chalfont.
"I was just going to think about you," she said.
"I've never stopped thinking of you," said Chalfont. "What became of
you? Where did you go? Where have you been? I searched every hotel in
the town. I've been almost through every street, like Gilbert a Beckett,
calling your name. Good God, why have you played with me like this?"
Somehow, for all his height and finish, in spite of his uniform and his
big car and his obvious importance, he reminded her of Simpkins. ("Lola,
I love you.") The same emotion was in the voice, the same desire in the
eyes. What _was_ there in her that made her do this thing to men,--while
the one man was unattainable, unapproachable? It was a difficult world.
"I'm very sorry," she said. "I had to go away that night. But I was just
on the verge of thinking about you again. You can't think how glad I am
to see you."
Still holding her hand as though he would never let her escape, Chalfont
mastered his voice. "You little lovely de Breze," he said, not choosing
his words. "You strange little bird. I've caught you again and I've a
damned good mind to clip your wings and put you in a cage."
And Lola laughed. "I've always been a canary," she said, "and some day
you may find me in a cage." But she didn't add, "not your cage, however
golden." Fallaray's was the only cage and if that were made of bits of
stick it would be golden to her.
"Well, you're back in town. That's the chief thing. Get into my car and
I'll drive you home and let's do something to-night. Let's dine at the
Savoy or the Carlton. I don't care. Or don't let's dine. Anything you
like, so long as you're with me. I've got to go along to the War Office
now, but I have my evening off, like any factory hand." And he drew her
towards the car, which was waiting by the curb.
"You can drive me as far as Marble Arch," said Lola. "I must leave you
there because I want to buy something in Bond Street."
"All right, Bond Street then. I want to buy something there too." He
helped her in and said to his man, "Masterman's, quick."
The scout master who had drawn his company up against the railings gave
a command as Chalfont helped Lola in. The boys presented arms and
Chalfont returned their salute with extreme gravity. "The future
strike-breakers of the country," he said. "The best institution we've
got.--How well you look. Don't you think you might have sent me a line?
I felt like a man in a parachute dropping from twenty-two thousand feet
in the dark when I found that you had left me. It was rather a rotten
trick of yours."
"It was very rotten," said Lola, "but it couldn't be helped, and I may
have to do it again. I don't want you to ask me why. I don't want you to
ask me anything. There's a wee mystery about me which I must ask you to
respect. Don't think about it. Don't let it worry you, but whenever we
go out again just let me disappear. One of these days I'll tell you all
about it, General, and probably you will be very much amused." She ran
her finger along his ribbons and gave him a little smile of respect and
admiration which almost made him blush. "Well, then," she added, "what
about to-night? I'm free. That's why I was just going to think of you
and really wasn't a bit surprised when you suddenly pounced upon me.
Things happen like that, don't they? I can meet you at the Savoy or the
Carlton or anywhere else you like. Personally, I'm all for the Carlton."
"The Carlton then," he said. "Seven-thirty, and after that,--what?"
"Let's leave it," said Lola. "I love doing things on the spur of the
moment."
"You swear you'll come?"
And Lola made a little cross over her heart.
Chalfont heaved a sigh and settled back and looked at her, longing to
touch her, longing, in front of all the world, to draw her into his arms
and kiss her lips. God, if only this girl knew what she had done to
him.--And all the while the car bowled along, competing with every other
type of car for precedence, all selfish and many badly driven. Lola had
no eyes for the undercurrent of excitement that gave the crowds the look
that they had worn in the first days of the War or for the outbreak of
khaki that lent the streets their old familiar appearance. She was
thinking ahead and making plans and tingling at the idea of dipping once
more into the current of life.
Masterman's, it turned out, was a florist's shop, filled attractively
with lovely blossoms. Chalfont sprang out and gave Lola his hand. "Come
in," he said, "and tell them where to send enough flowers to make a
garden of your house. Please,--to celebrate my having found you at
last." He wished to Heaven that he might have taken her to Aspray's and
covered her with diamonds. He would willingly have gone broke to do her
honor.
And one of the men came forward to offer his eager services to one who
certainly must be of great importance to appear so plainly dressed.
"How kind of you," said Lola. "Those, then," and she pointed to a bunch
of proud red roses that were standing in a vase.
"Is that all?"
"I want to carry them," she said.
Chalfont was almost boyishly disappointed. He would like to have
pictured her among a riot of color. He had not brought her there with a
Machiavelian desire to hear her give her address. He was not that kind
of man. "Won't you have some more?"
But somehow--what was it in her that did these things to men--Lola could
see the inn at Wargrave, its orchard and its smooth lawn with little
tables under the trees and the silver stream near by, and hear the
words, "I love you, Lola; am I good enough----" And she shook her head.
"No more," she said. "They're lovely," took them from the man and put
them to her lips.
Chalfont gave his name and followed her to the street. "Now where?" he
asked.