The Rustle of Silk
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.
Saturday 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 passed 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 Saturday afternoon appearance and its narrow
pavement was filled with people shopping for Sunday,--the tide of
semi-society clashing with that of mere respectability. "Hampton
Court'll look great to-day," said Ernest, who felt that with the
assistance 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 pass."
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 ineptitude
that goes with it. He was very happy as he went along with the warm hand
on his arm. His vanity glowed under her friendship, 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 _declasse_. 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 pronounce 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 God," said Ernest. His grandfather had been a valet, his father a
piano tuner, he himself had risen to the heights of assistant 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
constitution of the country?"
Fundamentally snobbish 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
tortoiseshell 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 God 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 God!
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 passing 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 rectitude 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