The Rustle of Silk
The woman was amazed to the extent of indiscretion. How did a lady's
maid, daughter of the Breezys of Queen's Road, Bayswater, perform such a
miracle? They were certainly topsy-turvy times, these.
And then Lola turned quickly and caught Mrs. Rumbold's arm. "You are on
your honor to say nothing about me to Lady Cheyne, remember, and if, by
any chance, you mention my name, bear in mind that it is Madame de
Breze. You understand?"
There was a moment's hesitation followed by a little gasp and a bow. "I
quite understand, Modum, and I thank you for your custom."
But before Mrs. Rumbold returned to her workroom, in which the trunks
looked more perky now, she remained where she stood for a moment and
rolled her eyes.
"Well," she asked herself, "did you _ever_? Modum de Breze!--And she
looks it too, and speaks it. My word, them orders! Blowed if the modern
girl don't cop the current bun. It isn't for me to say anything, but for
the sake of that nice little woman in the watchmaker's shop, I hope it's
all right. That's all.--And now, your ladyship, what can I have the
pleasure of doing for you, if you please? And thank you for comin', I'm
sure. Times is that dull----"
VII
When Lola went into Feo's room that evening it was with the intention of
asking for her first holiday. It was a large order; she knew that,
because her mistress had made innumerable engagements for the week. But
this was to be another and most important rung in that ladder, which, if
not achieved, rendered useless the others that she had climbed.
She was overjoyed to find Feo in an excellent mood. Things had been
going well. The world had been full of amusement and a new man had
turned up, a pucca man this time, discovered at the Winchfields',
constant in his attentions ever since. He owned a string of race horses
and trained them at Dan Thirlwall's old place behind Worthing, which
made him all the more interesting. Feo adored the excitement of racing.
And so it was easy for Lola to approach her subject and she did so at
the moment when she had her ladyship in her power, the curling irons
steaming. "If you please, my lady," she said, in a perfectly even voice
and with her eyes on the black bobbed hair, "would it be quite
convenient for you if I had a week off from Thursday?"
"But what the devil does that matter?" said Feo. "If I don't give you a
week off, I suppose you'll take it."
Lola's lips curled into a smile. It was impossible to resist this woman
and her peculiar way of putting things. "But I think you know me better
than that," she said, twining that thick wiry hair round the tongs as an
Italian twines spaghetti round a fork.
"What makes you think so? I don't know you. I haven't the remotest idea
what you're like. You never tell me anything. Ever since you've been
with me you've never let me see under your skin once. I don't even
believe that you're Breezy's niece. I've only her word for it. After
Sunday morning's exhibition, I'm quite inclined to believe that you
_are_ Madame de Breze masquerading as a lady's maid. If the War was
still going on, I might think that you were a spy. A great idea for you
to get into this house and pinch the papers of a Cabinet Minister. Yes,
of course you can have a week off. What are you going to do? Get
married, after all?"
Lola shook her head and the curl went away from her lips. "I want to go
down to the country for a little rest," she said.
Something in the tone of Lola's voice caught Feo's ears. She looked
sharply at her reflection in the glass and saw that the little face
which had captured her fancy and become so familiar had suddenly taken
on an expression of so deep a yearning as to make it almost
unrecognizable. The wide-apart eyes burned with emotion, the red lips
and those sensitive nostrils denoted a pent-up excitement that was
startling. What was it that this strange, secretive child had made up
her mind to do--to commit--to lose? "There is love at the bottom of
this," she said.
And Lola replied, "Yes, my lady," simply and with a sort of pride. And
then took hold of herself, tight. If there had been any one person in
all the world to whom she could have poured out her little queer story
of all-absorbing love and desire to serve and comfort and inspire and
entertain and rejuvenate---- But there wasn't one--and it was Mr.
Fallaray's wife who fished to know her secret. Was it one of the
ordinary coincidences which had brought, them together--meaningless and
accidental--or one of those studied ironies which fate, in its
mischievous mood, indulges in so frequently?
"It wouldn't have been any good to deny it. It's all over you like a
label. It's an infernal nuisance, Lola, but I'll try and get on without
you. If you're not going to get married, watch your step, as the
Americans say. I don't give you this tip on moral grounds but from the
worldly point of view. You have your living to make and there's Breezy
to think about and your people."
She put her hand up and grasped the one in which Lola held the tongs,
and drew her round. Strangely enough, this contradictory creature was
moved. Whether it was because she saw in Lola's eyes something which no
one had been able to bring into her own, who can say? "It's a married
man," she told herself, "or it's Chalfont who isn't thinking of
marriage." "Go easy, my dear," she added aloud. "Believe only half you
hear and get that verified. Men are the most frightful liars. Almost as
bad as women. And they have a most convenient knack of forgetting."
And then she released the girl so that she might resume her job, as time
was short, and she was dining rather early with the new man at Ranelegh
where "Twelfth Night" was to be acted as a pastoral by Bernard Fagan's
players. All the same, her mind dwelt not so much with curiosity as with
concern upon Lola's leave of absence, because she liked the girl and had
found her very loyal, consistently cheery and always ready to hand.
"Let me see," she said, with an uncharacteristic touch of womanliness
that must have been brought out by the flaming feminism of Lola. "Among
the frocks that I hurled at you on Sunday there's pretty certain to be
something that you can wear. Help yourself to anything else that you
need. You must look nice. I insist on that. And you'll also want
something to put these things in. Tucked away somewhere there are one or
two dress cases without my initials. They've come in useful on other
occasions. Rout them out. I can't think of anything else, but probably
you will." And she waved her hand with those long thin capable fingers,
as much as to say, "Don't thank me. You'd do the same for me if I were
in your shoes."
But Lola did thank her and wound up an incoherent burst by saying,
"You're the most generous woman I've ever imagined."
"Oh, well, I have my moments," replied Feo, who liked it all the same.
"Y'see, 'The Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady are sisters under the
skin.'" She was very generous and very much interested and if the truth
were to be told a little worried too. For all her coolness at the
Carlton, Lola seemed to her to be so young and so obviously
virginal,--just the sort of girl who would make a great sacrifice,
taking to it a pent-up ecstasy for which she might be asked to pay a
pretty heavy price. And it was such a mistake to pay, according to Feo's
creed.
Finally, dressed and scented and wearing a pair of oddly shaped lapis
earrings, she stood in front of a pier glass for a moment or two,
looking herself over, finding under her eyes for the first time one or
two disconcerting lines. What was she? Ten years older than this girl
whose face was like an unplucked flower? Ten years certainly,--all
packed with incidents, not one of which had been touched by ecstasy.
When she turned away it was with a short quick sigh. "Damn," she said,
off on one of her sudden tangents. "I can see myself developing into one
of those women who join the Salvation Army because they've lost their
looks, or get out of the limelight to read bitter verses about dead sea
fruit, if I'm not precious careful." And her mind turned back to the
hour with Ellingham in that foolish futuristic room of hers and the way
in which he had paced up and down, inarticulate, hands in pockets, and
eventually been glad to go. Glad to go,--think of it.--Never mind, here
was the man with the race horses. He might be a little medieval,
perhaps. And on her way out she put her hand under Lola's chin and
tilted up her face. "Mf," she said, "you _have_ got it, badly, haven't
you?"
And Lola replied, "Yes, my lady," and felt as though she had never left
Queen's Road, Bayswater.
"Well, good luck." And Feo was gone.
VIII
So once again Lola stepped out on to the platform of Princes Risborough
station to wait while a sulky porter, thoroughly trades-union in all his
movements, made up his mind to carry Feo's two cases out to a cab. He
first of all read the name on the labels, pronouncing Breze to himself
as it was known to Queen's Road, Bayswater. Then, with great
deliberation and condescension, having placed a new quid in his mouth,
he tilted them on to the barrow and wheeled them along the platform to
the station yard, followed by Lola. "Want a cab?" he asked. To which
Lola replied, "I don't think I'm quite strong enough to carry them
myself."
And he gave her a quick look. "Cheeky," he thought. "Knows enough
English fer that, all right." Whereupon he chi-iked the cab driver who
was asleep on his box and yelled out, "Don't yer want ter occupy yerself
once in a way? Sittin' up there orl day, doin' nothin'! Do yer good to
'ave my job fer a bit. Come on darn. Give a hand with these 'ere. What
d'yer think I'm paid fer?"
Lola opened the door of the rickety and rather smelly cab for herself.
Neither of the men had thought of that. And then she handed the porter a
shilling and looked him straight in the face with her most winning
smile. "It doesn't reward you for your great politeness," she said. "But
these are hard times."
And as the cab drove slowly off, the porter spat upon the coin. What did
he care for snubs? He was as good as anybody else and a damned sight
better, he was, with his labor union and all. Politeness!
Heh!--Missionaries have introduced the gin bottle to the native and
completely undermined his sense of primitive honor while trades unions
have injected the virus of discontent into the blood of the English
workman and made him a savage.
And so once more the white cross seen above the village; once more the
Tillage with its chapels and other public houses,--warm old buildings as
yet untouched by the hand of progress, which generally means a cheap
shop-front and goods made in Germany; once more the road leading up to
the Chiltons, with the shadows of old trees cast across. Chilton Park
was passed on the right, with its high wall, time-worn, behind which
Fallaray might even then be walking among his gardens. And presently the
cab turned in to the driveway of what had once been a farmhouse, to
which, by an architect who was an artist and not a builder, wings had
been added. The long uneven roof was thatched, the walls all creeper
covered, the windows diamond paned, the door low, wide and welcoming. A
smooth lawn was dignified with old oaks and beeches and ablaze with
numerous beds of sweet Williams and pansies and all the rustic flowers.
A charming little place, rather perhaps self-consciously pretty, like a
set on the stage. But oh, how delightful after Queen's Road, Bayswater,
and the labyrinths of similitude.
Lady Cheyne was followed to the door by all her guests and for a moment
Lola thought that she had stumbled on a place crowded with European
refugees. A more eccentric collection of human various she had never