The Rustle of Silk
without the least reserve she roughed out the history of the man who had
come back,--a pucca soldier who had been in India since the War and was
one of Feo's earliest friends. He had loved her violently, been turned
down for Fallaray and had never married. It so happened that he had not
seen Feo during his periods of leave while the War was on and had told
her over the telephone that if he didn't see her then, at once, he'd
either have apoplexy or be taken to Bow Street for smashing the town.
Feo laughed when she repeated this.
"And he would too," she said. "He's just that sort. Those tall, dark men
with a dash of the Oriental in them somewhere go through life with the
apparent indifference of a greyhound until the bursting point comes, and
when they give way,--whew, look out for the splinters."
She was excited,--almost as excited as Lola was. And finally, dressed
and scented, with her nails pink and her full lips reddened, she had
never looked more characteristically Feo, more virile, more audacious,
more thoroughbred and at the same time more bizarre. "Now for the Ritz,"
she said (Ah, then the Carlton was safe), turned at the door and in a
moment of impulse took a diamond bracelet from her wrist and pitched it
at Lola as though it were a tennis ball. "You're a jolly good sportsman,
child," she added, with her widest smile.
All the way downstairs she sang an aria from "Le Coq d'Or,"--a strange,
wistful, moonlit thing.--And hardly had she gone before Lola seated
herself at the dressing table, where she commenced those operations
which would transform her also into a woman of the world.
V
And then, with her nose in the air and her hands folded over her tummy,
Miss Breezy marched into the dressing room. "Oh," she said, which was
quite enough.
And Lola sprang to her feet, caught in the act of using her mistress's
make-up. But it was so long, or it seemed to be so long, since she had
held any conversation with her aunt that nearly all sense of
relationship had faded out. This was Miss Breezy the housekeeper,
natural enemy of servants and on the lookout especially to find
something which would form the basis of an unfavorable report in regard
to Lola.
"Good afternoon, Miss Breezy."
"Oh, don't be absurd. I'm your aunt and there's no getting away from it.
This playing of parts makes me impatient." Her tone was snappy but there
was, oddly enough, nothing antagonistic in her expression. On the
contrary--and this put Lola immediately on her guard--there was all
about her a new air of armistice, an obvious desire to call off
unfriendly relations and bury the hatchet.
The thought that ran through Lola's head was, "What does she want to
know?"
With a touch of the adventurous spirit for which Lola had not given her
credit, the good lady, who had recently somewhat increased in bulk,
clambered into Feo's extraordinary chair, in which she looked exactly as
if she were waiting to have a tooth filled. Her thinning hair, streaked
with white, was scrupulously drawn away from her forehead. Her black
shiny dress was self-consciously plain and prim, and she wore those very
ugly elastic-sided boots with patent leather tips that are always
somehow associated with Philistinism. She might have been the Chairwoman
of a Committee of Motion Picture Censorship. "I spent Thursday evening
with your mother and father," she said. "I'm glad to hear business is
improving. Young Treadwell was there,--a precocious sort of person, I
thought."
"A poet," said Lola.
"Poet, eh? Yes, I thought he was something of that sort. If I were his
mother I'd spank the poetry out of him. What do we want poets for? Might
as well have fiddlers to imitate whatever the man's name was who played
frivolous tunes when some place or other was burning. Men should work
these days, not write sloppy things about gravestones."
"He'll make his mark," said Lola.
"You should say a scratch," corrected Miss Breezy. "However, that isn't
the point. It appears that Simpkins has become a friend of the family."
Ah, so that was it. She had heard the gossip about Simpky and it was
curiosity, not kindness, which had brought her into the dressing room.
"Simpkins," said Miss Breezy, "is a warm member. His father left him
some money and he has saved. For Ellen, for Elizabeth or even for Annie,
whose father is a Baptist minister, he would make a very desirable
husband. I have nothing to say against him--for them," and she looked
Lola fully and firmly in the eyes.
And Lola nodded with entire agreement, adding, "Simpky is a good man."
"So there's nothing in that, then? Is that what you mean?"
"Nothing," replied Lola.
And Miss Breezy gave a sigh of relief. It was bad enough for her niece
to have become a lady's maid.
Would she go now? Or was there something else at the back of her mind?
For several minutes Miss Breezy babbled rather garrulously about a
number of quite extraneous things. She talked about the soldiers in the
park, the coal strike, what was likely to happen during the summer, the
effect of unemployment on prices, all obviously for the purpose of
presently pouncing hawk-like on the unsuspecting Lola,--who, as a matter
of fact, had no intention of falling into any trap. "In yesterday's
_Daily Looking Glass_," she said suddenly, "there was a short paragraph
that set me thinking. I don't remember the exact wording but it was
something like this. 'A short time ago a beautiful young French woman,
bearing a name which occupies several interesting chapters in the past
history of her country, paid a brief visit to London, dined at the Savoy
with one of our best known generals and disappeared as though she had
melted with the morning dew. The said general, we hear on the best
authority, was distraught and conducted several days' search for his
dinner companion. Inquiries were made at every hotel in town without
success until the name of de Breze became quite well known."
Lola had caught her breath at the beginning of this quotation which Miss
Breezy obviously knew by heart, and had metaphorically clapped her hand
over her mouth to prevent herself from crying out. But knowing that her
aunt would turn round and fix her analytical eye upon her, Lola
immediately adopted an attitude of mild impersonal interest.
The eye duly came, in fact both eyes, and they found Lola polite and
unconcerned, the well-trained lady's maid who was forced to listen to
the gossip of her overseer. So that was what it was! Good Heavens, how
much did this woman know? And was she, acting on instinct, going to stay
in that room until it would be too late for Lola to dress and keep her
appointment "with one of our best known generals"? Never before had Lola
hung so breathlessly on her aunt's words.
"Did _you_ read these lines by any chance?"
"No," said Lola.
"I asked your father if there was anybody of the old name in France and
he said he didn't think so. He said he understood from his grandfather
that the name would die with him. It had already become Breezy in
England. Somehow or other, I think this is rather strange."
"Oh, I don't know," said Lola. "You see these famous names are never
allowed to die right out. This Madame de Breze is probably an actress
who is just using the name to suit herself. It has a good ring to it."
"That may be so, and it's true that actresses help themselves to any
name that takes their fancy. You, I remember, when you threatened to go
into the chorus, talked about claiming relationship with Madame de
Breze." And again she darted a sharp look at Lola.
"I have the right to do that," said Lola quietly, but with a very rapid
pulse.
"Well, sometimes I go out of my way to satisfy a whim. It so happens
that I have a friend in the detective department at Scotland Yard. I've
asked him to keep his eye open for me and let me know what he finds out.
As soon as he comes to me with any definite information, I'll share it
with you, Lola, you may be sure."
"Oh, thank you, Auntie. That's very kind of you."
But being unable to force back a tide of color that swept slowly over
her, Lola opened a drawer in the dressing table and began to put back
the various implements that she had used upon her mistress and herself.
To think of it! It was likely, then, that she was to be watched in
future and that presently, perhaps, the story of her harmless adventures
would become the property of her aunt and her parents, of Treadwell and
Simpkins, and that the detective, whom she could picture with a
toothbrush moustache and flat feet, would one day march into the rooms
of General Sir Peter Chalfont and say to him, "Do you know that your
friend Madame de Breze is a lady's maid in the employment of the wife of
Mr. Fallaray?"
With the peculiar satisfaction of one who has succeeded in making some
one else extraordinarily uncomfortable, Miss Breezy gathered herself
together, scrambled out of the chair which might have belonged to a
dentist and left the room like an elderly peahen who had done her duty
by the world.
And then, having locked the door, Lola returned to the dressing table.
"Detective or no detective, I shall dine at the Carlton to-night," she
said to herself. "You see if I don't."
VI
"I want you to meet my sister, one day soon," said Chalfont. "She's a
good sort. You'll like her."
"I'm sure I shall," said Lola. "Will she like _me_?"
Chalfont laughed and answered the question with a look of complete
admiration. Who could help liking a girl so charming, so frank, so cool,
whose love of life was so young and so peculiarly unspoilt? "You would
do her good," he said. "Her husband was killed a week before the
armistice. She adored him and is a lonely soul. No children, and will
never marry again. She's looking after my place in Devonshire, buried
alive. But I've persuaded her to come to London and hook on to things a
bit and I'll bring you together one day next week,--if you're not going
to disappear again. Are you?"
Lola shrugged her shoulders. "So far as I know at present, my plans will
keep me in town until the end of June." How could she be more definite
than that?
So Chalfont had to be satisfied and hope for the best. It was not his
habit to drive people into a corner and force confidences. He had told
Lola where he was to be found and she had promised to keep in touch with
him. That, at any rate, was good. "We haven't decided where to go
to-night," he said. "Don't you think we'd better make up our minds?"
Lola rose from the table. The pleasant dining room at the Carlton was
still well-filled, and the band was playing one of those French things
with an irresistible march time which carry the mind immediately to the
Alcazar and conjure up a picture of an outdoor stage crowded with
dancing figures seen through a trickle of cigarette smoke and gently
moving branches of young leaves. "Don't let's make up our minds what
we'll do till we get to the very doors. Then probably one or other of us
will have a brain wave. In any case I'm very happy. I've loved every
minute of this evening and it's so nice to be with you again."
Chalfont touched her arm. He could not resist the temptation. "I'd sell
my soul in return for a dozen such nights," he said, and there was a
Simpkins quiver in his voice and a Treadwell look of adoration in his
eyes. He was in uniform, having later to return to the Guards encampment
in Kensington Gardens. They passed through the almost empty lounge into
the hall with its cases of discreet, ruinous jewelry on the walls under
gleaming lights, and there a man in plain clothes drew himself up as
Chalfont approached and clicked his heels.
"Oh, hello, Ellingham," said Chalfont. "How are you, my dear chap?
Thought you were in India."