The Rustle of Silk Part 10

"There, I knew you were French. I've been betting on it ever since you came in. We could see you two from our table." She waved her hand towards a group of six or seven people who were standing at the top of the stairs. "Come along home with me now," she said. "We're going to have some music. I've got a new Russian violinist-you needn't be afraid, he's been thoroughly disinfected-and a dear thing who sings the roof off. I can't p.r.o.nounce her name. It's a cross between a sneeze and an oath. I believe she comes from Czecho-Slovakia. Also I've got Alton Cartridge, the poet. He's going to read one of his latest effusions.

He's the great futurist, you know. That is, he doesn't bother himself about rhymes and not very much about reason. Why don't you both come?"

Chalfont looked quickly at Lola and signaled, "For G.o.d's sake, no."

So she said, "I should love to." The name and fame of Lady Cheyne was well known to her through the medium of the "Letters of Evelyn."

"That's very sweet of you, my dear. One hundred Kensington Gore.

Memorize it, because I know that Peter will forget. He always does. We can't raise a car between us so we're all going in taxis. See you later then."

She squeezed Lola's hand, nodded roguishly at Peter and bounced away to join her friends, watched hypnotically by people on their way out who, although she was one of London's landmarks, had never seen her before.

Chalfont was abominably disappointed. It would have been so jolly to have had Lola all to himself. "Wasn't that rather unkind of you?" he asked.

"Yes," said Lola, "it was, but I couldn't resist the chance to see Lady Cheyne at home and discover if all the stories about her are true. I'm so sorry, but after all we can do the Coliseum another night."

"Oh, well, then, that's all right." He brightened up considerably.

"Probably you will be more amused at number One Hundred than you would have been at the Coliseum. Poppy manages to surround herself with all the latest freaks." He led her out, captured a cab and gave the man the address.

"Tell me about her," said Lola. "You know her very well, it seems."

"No, I don't. I've only met her twice. She arrives at Christian names within half an hour. She calls herself the mother of thousands, and is, although she's never had a child of her own. n.o.body knows who she was before she married Sir William Cheyne, the contractor, but it's generally believed that she's the daughter of a country parson brought up between the Bible and the kitchen garden. She tells everybody that she was very pretty as a girl. It's her horticultural training that makes her look like a cauliflower. The old man died about ten years ago and left her very well off. She's really a remarkable little soul, greatly to be respected. Every struggling artist who has ever found his way into London has been financed by her. She has a heart of gold and during the War she was the chairman of one of the soldiers'

entertainment committees. I shall never forget seeing her behind the lines, surrounded by muddy Tommies just relieved. She was a prime favorite out there and was known as Poppy throughout the British Army.

How long are you going to be in London?" He switched suddenly to personalities.

"For the rest of the season," said Lola, "and then my plans are uncertain. I may go down to Buckinghamshire or I may spend July at Dinard. It isn't settled yet." She had heard Lady Feo talk over both places with Mrs. Malwood.

"I wonder if I've met your husband about London?"

"I am a widow," said Lola. Her tone was a little sad but, at the same time, it was filled with resignation.

That was something to know. There was no further information forthcoming, however, and as Peter was one of those men who had a great respect for fourth walls, he left it at that.

They were the last to arrive. Their cab had stalled three times in Piccadilly and coughed badly through Knightsbridge. Every window of number One Hundred was alight and as they entered the hall a high soprano voice was sending piercing vibrations all through the house. A long oak settle in the hall was covered with strange coats and stranger hats and there were queer people sitting on the stairs. The drawing-room was obviously overflowing.

Lola picked her way upstairs, Chalfont following closely. Among these people who conveyed the impression of having slept in their clothes-Art is always a little shy of cold water-Lola felt a sense of distress.

Democratic in her ability to make friends with all honest members of the proletariat, like those in the servants' sitting room in Dover Street, she felt hopelessly aristocratic when it came to affection with dandruff on its velvet collar.

The drawing-room, wide and lofty, was one great square of bad taste, filled, overfilled, with what America aptly calls "junk." Spurious Italian furniture jostled with imitation English oak. Huge pieces of fake tapestry hung on the walls side by side with canvases of extremely self-conscious nudes. Early Victorian whatnots covered with silver apostle spoons jostled with Tottenham Court Road antiques. All the lamp shades on the numerous electric lamps were red and heavy, so that the light crept through. To add to the conglomeration of absurdities the whole place reeked with burning josh sticks. A woman who dyes her hair a brilliant yellow invariably burns something on the altar of renewed optimism. The only thing that rang true in the room was the grand piano and that was kept in tune.

Sprawling on divans which were ranged around the walls Lola could make out the forms of men and women of all sizes, ages and nationalities. The men had more hair than the women. There must have been at least sixty people present, among whom Peter Chalfont looked like a greyhound and Lola like an advertis.e.m.e.nt of somebody's soap. A tremendous woman, standing with her feet wide apart like a sea captain in a gale, or a self-conscious golfer on the first tee, was singing Carmen's most flamboyant song. She was accompanied by a little person of the male gender whose lank black locks flapped over his eyes. They seemed to be competing in making the most noise because when the pianist attempted to overwhelm the voice with all the strength that he possessed, the singer filled herself with breath, gripped the floor with her well-trained feet, and sent forth sounds that must have been excessively trying to the Albert Memorial.

At the end of this shattering event Lady Cheyne bubbled forward and took Lola's hand. "What do you do, my dear?" she asked, as though she were a performing dog to be put through her tricks. To which Lola replied, "Nothing. Nothing at all," with rock-like firmness.

So the exhibitor of human vanities turned persuasively to Peter. "But you whistle, don't you?" she asked. And Peter with a stiffening spine replied, "Yes, but only for taxis."

"In that case," said Lady Cheyne, genuinely astonished that neither of the new arrivals showed any eagerness to jump at her suggestion to advertise, "find a corner somewhere. A little protegee of mine is going to dance for us. She is an interpreter of soul moods. So wonderful and inspiring. You'll love it, I'm sure."

Obeying orders, Peter led Lola into a distant corner, eyed by various artists who labeled him "Soldier" and dismissed him loftily. The pa.s.sing of Lola sent a quiver through them and they were ready for the first available opportunity to att.i.tudinize about her chair. At a sign from Lady Cheyne the little pianist commenced to play one of h.e.l.ler's "Sleepless Nights" and a very thin girl, wrapped in a small piece of chiffon, dropped into the middle of the room like a beam of moonlight.

"A spring onion," said Chalfont, in a whisper, "newly plucked from the warm earth." The burst of applause drowned Lola's flutter of laughter.

The interpretation of soul moods resolved itself, of course, into the usual series of prancings and high jumps, scuttlings round and roguish bendings, a final leap into the air and a collapse upon the floor.

And so the evening unwound itself. There were violin solos by men in a frenzy of false ecstasy, piano solos by women who put that long-suffering instrument through every conceivable form of torture, readings of nebulous drivel by the poet Cartridge in a high-pitched minor-canon voice, and recitations by women without restraint or humor,-disciples of the new poetry, which Chalfont, quoting from one of the precocious members of the Bachelors' Club, called "Loose Verse."

And then came supper, a welcome event for which all those sixty people had been waiting. This was served in the dining room, another large and eccentric apartment where an embittered man manipulated the punch bowl and was in great request. As soon as she had seen all her guests fully occupied with chicken salad and fish croquettes, Lady Cheyne returned to the deserted drawing-room where she found Chalfont and Lola in deep conversation. She burst upon them like a hand grenade, crying, "Aren't they darlings? Every one a genius and all of them hungry. They come to me like homing pigeons and I do my best to get them placed. Always I have here one or two of the great impressarios,-agents, you know, and sometimes I achieve the presence of an actor-manager. But Shakespeare is out of fashion now and so all my Romeos and Juliets stand a poor chance.

I often sigh for dear Sir Herbert who came here for what he called 'atmosphere and local color.' You must come again, my dear. Peter will be very glad to bring you, I'm sure, and I shall be delighted to have you for my week-end parties. I have a place at Whitecross, Bucks. The garden runs down to the Fallaray place, you know."

From that point on, that big point, Lola ceased to listen.

The whole evening had been filled with amazing sensations. Panic, the sudden switch to rea.s.surance, the excitement of meeting Chalfont, the sweeping joy of touching Fallaray's hand and the knowledge that having broken through the hoop she could now continue to emerge from Dover Street with her new and eager companion to serve an apprenticeship for her final role. She had lived a year in an evening. But there was still another sensation lying in wait for her. The moment had come when she must return unseen to Castleton Terrace and get back to Dover Street in good time to rea.s.sume the part of lady's maid so that she might not be caught by the housekeeper and reported,-a chance for which Miss Breezy was eagerly waiting. And as she sat unconscious of Lady Cheyne's babble and the buzz of conversation which drifted in from the dining room, she switched on her brain.

How, in the name of all that was wonderful, was she to give Chalfont the slip. That was the new problem to solve; because, of course, he would naturally insist on seeing her home in the ordinary course of events. If he had thought about it at all, she knew that he must have imagined that she was staying either at the Ritz, the Carlton or the Berkeley, or that she was living in one of the smaller houses in Curzon Street, Half Moon Street or Norfolk Street, Park Lane. The jagged end of panic settled upon her once more and her hands grew icy. It was utterly essential to her future plans that Chalfont should remain in complete ignorance of her ident.i.ty. He must be used by her during the remainder of the season.

He must bring her again to this house. Lady Cheyne had become an important factor in her scheme because the garden of her country house ran down to Chilton Park. It was to Chilton Park that Fallaray loved to go alone for the week-end and wander about, gaining refreshment for his tired brain; and always it had seemed to Lola, when she had dared to look into the future, that this place, standing high up on the ridge of hills above the vale of Aylesbury, backed by a great beech forest and landmarked by the white cross that had been cut by the Romans, was the first milestone on her road to love and to the fulfillment of the dream which had held her all those years.

The problem of her escape and her Cinderella flight became more and more pressing. What fib could she invent to tell Chalfont? Without any doubt he would ask her for permission to call. He would want to know her telephone number and her address. In his eye already there was the Simpkins look, the Ernest Treadwell expression and, but for his innate chivalry and breeding, she knew that he would have given tongue to some of the things which she could see at the back of his eyes. It was past eleven. She had heard the clock in the hall strike just now.

She began to rehea.r.s.e a series of scenes. She saw herself rise and say, "I must go now. A thousand thanks for all that you have done for me this evening. Will you please ask Lady Cheyne if I may have a taxi?" She saw herself standing on the doorstep, the taxi waiting, with Chalfont a.s.suming that he was to play the cavalier and eventually stand bareheaded, holding her hand, opposite the shabby little villa in Castleton Terrace. Which would never do. Madame de Breze did not live anywhere near Queen's Road, Bayswater.

She saw herself driven by Chalfont to the Ritz or the Carlton, escorted by him to the lift where he would wait to see the last of her as she was taken up to the rooms that she did not possess. That also was impossible. Great heavens, what was she to do? Trying again, her hands icier than ever, she saw Chalfont with growing incredulity listening to c.o.c.k-and-bull stories which ran like this:

"I don't want you to see me home. As a matter of fact I'm very old-fashioned." Or, "We must say good night here. I'm staying with a puritanical aunt who will be sure to ask me who brought me home and when I say, 'Sir Peter Chalfont' her answer will be 'I didn't know you knew Sir Peter Chalfont. Where did you meet him?' And then I shall have to tell the story of how you picked me up. Can you imagine the result?"-And this was hopeless because, of course, Peter would say, "How in the name of all that's marvelous will your good old aunt know who brings you home? Good old aunts haven't got to know the truth. Besides, if it comes to that, you can drop me about ten doors from the house and then go on alone. It's perfectly easy, and it's done every day." And who, after all, was this aunt? Miss Breezy, the housekeeper.

Phew!

And then came an inspiration. "I'm very hungry," she said aloud. "I begin to remember that dinner was a little unsatisfactory." She laughed and Peter laughed. "But I must go and powder my nose. Please don't bother, Lady Cheyne. I'll find my way and rejoin you in a moment."

She picked up the cloak which she had brought into the drawing-room, threw at Chalfont a smile of the most charming camaraderie, touched Lady Cheyne's arm in a way that asked for friendship and left the drawing-room. With one quick look at the deserted hall with all its strange coats and stranger hats, she made for the front door, opened it, closed it behind her stealthily and ran down the stone path which led to the street. The theater traffic was all headed towards High Street, Kensington. There was not a vacant taxi to be seen. It would not do to stand about in front of the house, so the little Cinderella who had not waited for the magic hour of twelve and had taken good care not to leave her crystal slipper behind her ran up the street to the first turning and stood quivering with excitement and glee beneath a friendly lamp post. A little laugh floated into the muggy air.

"Yes, it's a funny world, ain't it?"

It was a Bobby who had sidled up from the shadow of a wall and towered above her, with a sceptical grin about his mouth.

Instantly a new thought came into Lola's head. "What would Lady Feo do?"

She gave it five seconds and turned coolly, calmly and graciously to the arm of the law,-a strong and obviously would-be familiar arm. This girl-running about alone in evening dress-at that time of night.

"I told my car to wait here," she said. "Evidently there has been some mistake. Will you be good enough to call me a cab?"

A hand swept up to the peak of the helmet. "Nothing simpler, Madam."

By the grace of G.o.d and the luck that follows drunkards, a taxi was discharging a fare halfway down the road. The ex-sergeant of the Suss.e.x regiment put two fingers into his mouth. With a new interest in life the cab made a wide turn and came up not without style, but with a certain amount of discretion, because of the uniform which could be seen beneath the lamp post.

The Bobby opened the door. There was admiration in his eyes. "A good fairy, ma'am," he said.

And Lola paused and looked up into his face,-a man face, with a big moustache and rather bristling eyebrows, a dent in a firm chin and the mark of shrapnel on the left cheek bone. "A very good fairy," she said.

"You'll never know how good. Thanks, most awfully."

And once more the hand flicked to the brim of the helmet as Lola in an undertone gave her address to the driver. Not even the Bobby must see the anti-climax which would be brought about by such an address as Castleton Terrace.