The Rustle of Silk Part 19

[Ill.u.s.tration: A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.]

How?-How?

She might, of course, ask Lady Feo for a week's leave-a large order-go to Whitecross and engage a room at the little inn that she had noticed at the corner of the road at the top of the hill. But what would be the use of that? How could she play Madame de Breze in such a place, with one evening frock and her own plain everyday dress with two undistinguished hats and a piece of luggage that yelled of Queen's Road, Bayswater? It was absurd, impossible. Brick wall number one. And so she tackled the task grimly, thinking hard, swinging from one possibility to another, but with no better luck. Everything came back to the fact that all her savings amounted to no more than ten pounds. How could she go forward, unaided, on that? And then in a flash she saw herself at the house in Kensington Gore with Chalfont and remembered the words of Lady Cheyne, who, in asking her to come down to her little place in the country, had said that the garden ran down to Chilton Park. It had been pigeonholed in her brain and she had found it! And with a little cry of delight she pounced upon it like a desert wanderer on water.

Lady Cheyne,-that kindly soul who was never so happy as when giving a hand to a stray dog. It might easily happen, the weather being so good, that she had already left town. That would be wonderful. But if not, if she were still busy with her musicians and their concerts, then she must be seen and influenced to leave town, or, better still, called up on the telephone at once. A tired little woman of the world needed a breath of fresh air and the peace of a country garden. Would Lady Cheyne take mercy on her, as she took mercy on so many people, and give her this peace and this quietude?-Yes, that was the way. It was a brain wave.

Filled with determination no longer to wait for an opportunity, but to make one, not to rely on fate, as she had been doing, but to treat fate as though it were something alive, a man-Simpkins, Treadwell or Chalfont-and cajole him, Lola proceeded to dress, with the blood tingling in her veins, and imbued with the feeling of one who faces a forlorn hope. But it was still too early to use the telephone to the elderly lady who, if she were in town, had probably listened to music into the small hours. She must wait and go on thinking. There were other things to overcome, even if this one came right. How to wheedle a holiday; to hint, if she dared, at her lack of clothes, a suit-case, shoes.

The servants' sitting room was empty. On Sunday, the menage, except for the cook, slept late. And so Lola marked time impatiently, achieving breakfast from the sulky woman by flattery. Lady Feo had given out that she was not to be disturbed until her bell rang. She would wake to find Sunday in London,-a detestable idea. There was nothing for which to get up.

Watching a clock that teased her with its sloth, Lola went over and over the sort of thing to say to Lady Cheyne, disturbed in her current of thought by the suddenly garrulous cook who insisted on telling the whole story of her life, during the course of which she had buried a drunkard and married a bigamist and lost her savings and acquired asthma,-a dramatic career, even for a cook. But at nine-thirty, unable to control herself any longer, she ran upstairs to Feo's alarming den, hunted out Lady Cheyne's number in the book and eventually got into communication with an operator who might, from her autocratic manner, very easily have been Mrs. Trotsky, or the wife of a labor leader, or a coal-miner's daughter, or indeed a telephone operator of the most approved type.

A sleepy and rather irritable voice said, "Well?-but isn't it a little early to ring any one up and on a Sunday morning too?"

Lola made a wry face. That was not a good beginning. And then, in her sweetest voice, "Am I speaking to dear Lady Cheyne?"

"Yes, it's f.a.n.n.y Cheyne, lying in bed with this diabolical instrument on her chest, but not feeling very dear, my dear, whoever you are, and I don't know your voice."

"It's Madame de Breze and I'm so very sorry to disturb you."

"Why did you then, if I may say so,-de Breze. I'm sorry too, but really I hear so many names, just as odd.-If it's about being photographed, please no. I'm far too fat. Or if it's about a subscription for the starving children of Cochin China, I have too many starving children of my own."

Quick, de Breze, quick, before the good old lady cuts off.

"The Savoy, the little widow, Sir Peter Chalfont, your wonderful house so full of genius, and what do you do, my dear.-Don't you remember, dear Lady Cheyne?"

"Oh,-let me think now." (The tone was brighter, interest was awakening!

Good for you, de Breze.) "My dear Peter with the comic-tragic leg-no, arm-the Savoy--"

"You were with Alton Cartridge and the disinfected Russian violinist, and you betted on my being French and invited me to Whitecross and when I went up to powder my nose--"

"You never came back! Golden hair like b.u.t.ter-cups, wide-apart eyes and fluttering nostrils, a mouth designed for kissing and all about you the rattle of s.e.x. You dear thing! How sweet of you to ring me up and on a Sunday too. Where on earth did you go?"

Go on, de Breze, go on! A little mystery, a touch of sadness, a hint of special confidence, flattery, flattery.

"Ah, if only I could see you. I dare not explain that sudden disappearance over the telephone,-which must have seemed so rude. You are the only woman in all the world who could keep an amazing secret and advise a troubled woman in a tangle of romance--"

"Secret, romance-who but Poppy for that!"

It worked, it worked! Lola could _see_ the kind little lady struggle into a sitting posture, alert and keen, her vanity touched. Go on, de Breze, go on.

"Ever since then I've been thinking of you, dear Lady Cheyne, and, at last, this morning, on the spur of the moment, longing for help, driven into a corner, remembering your kind invitation to Whitecross--"

"My dear, you excite me and I adore excitement. Of course you must see me, at once. But to-day's impossible. I've a thousand things to do. And to-morrow-let me see now. How can I fit you in? Probably you don't want to be seen at my house or the Savoy, you mysterious thing. So what can we arrange? I know. I have it. Quite French and appropriate. Meet me on the sly at a place where no one ever would dream of our being. Mrs.

Rumbold's, a jobbing dressmaker. I'm going to see her to-morrow to alter some clothes. Castleton Terrace, Bayswater, 22. She used to work for me.

A poor half-starved soul, but so useful. Half-past eleven. And we'll arrange for a week-end at my place, perhaps, or elsewhere, wherever you like."

"Oh, Whitecross, Whitecross,-it sounds so right."

"And, it is so right,-romance in every rose bowl. To-morrow then, and I shall love to see you, my dear, and thank you for thinking of Poppy. I'm so excited. Good-by."

"Good-by, dearest Lady Cheyne,-a thousand thanks."

Well played, de Breze. That's the way to do it. Keep on like that and prove your grit, my dear.

And presently for Lady Feo, who would certainly have something to say about the Carlton episode, and if all went well the frocks, the hats, the shoes,-but nothing yet about the holiday. That must wait until after the interview at Mrs. Rumbold's to-morrow.

III

After all, then, Feo was to spend a dull and dreary Sunday in London; but she had slept endlessly, hour after hour, and when at last she woke at twelve o'clock, the sun was pouring into her room. Wonder of wonders, there was nothing dull about this Sunday! London lay under an utterly blue sky and those of its people who had not fled from its streets to the country, afraid of its dreariness, were out, finding unexpected touches of beauty in their old city and a lull of traffic that was restful.

The sight of Lola as she came into the room in the discreet garments of her servitude brought instant laughter back to Feo's lips. Only a few hours ago she had been claimed as an intimate friend by the girl, with all the confidence and aplomb of a member of the enclosure. How perfectly delightful. She took her cup of tea and sat up in bed, forgetting everything except the backwash of her great amus.e.m.e.nt. Madame de Breze.-By Jove, those quiet ones,-they knew their way about. When she had been undressed the night before, Feo had been in no mood to chaff her maid, then a mere human machine, about her general and her escapade.

Depression, disappointment and humiliation had driven the Carlton incident out of the way. But now the sun was shining again and she had slept in a great chunk. What did Gilbert Macquarie count in the scheme of things now, or, for the matter of that, Ellingham? She thanked all her G.o.ds that she possessed the gift of quick recovery.

And now to pull the little devil's leg. "Oh, h.e.l.lo, old girl," she said, carrying on her att.i.tude of the previous night, "how awfully nice of you to bring me my tea." She expected utter embarra.s.sment and confusion, and certainly an apology. Good Lord, the girl had pinched those stockings!

But the answer was quiet and perfectly natural. "That's all right, Feo.

Only too glad."

After the first gasp of surprise there was a loud guffaw. Nothing in this world was more pleasing to Feo than the unexpected. "Sunday in London! But this is as good and a jolly sight better than Sat.u.r.day night at the Adelphi. Bravo, Lola. The bitter bit. Keep it up. I love it."

And with her black hair all tousled, her greenish eyes dancing with amus.e.m.e.nt, her large mouth wide open and the collar of her black silk pajamas gaping, she stirred her tea and waited for the fun.

And seeing that her mistress was all for laughing and that she had hit the right note, Lola kept it up. Witless and without daring, eh? Well, wait and see.

"I rather wish we'd gone on with you to the theater," she said, lighting a cigarette and sitting on the arm of a chair in a Georgie Malwood pose.

"It might have amused you to see something of Peter Chalfont, who has refused to join the gang."

Feo was amazed at the perfection of what was, of course, an imitation of herself. Breezy's niece was a very dark horse, it seemed.

"But where the deuce did you pick him up?" she asked, continuing the game.

"Oh, my dear, I've known him for years. He was an old pal of the man I married in my teens and was always hanging about the place. I call him the White Knight because he has such a charming way of rescuing women in distress. If you're keen about getting to know him, I'll work it for you, with all the pleasure in life."

Back went that black head with hair like a young Hawaiian. Oh, but this was immense. A lady's maid and a bedside jester, rolled into one. And how inimitably the girl had caught her intonation and manner of expression. A born actress, that was what she was.

"Don't bother about me. What are you going to do with him? That's what I want to know."

Lola shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, I dunno," she said, with a lifelike Feo drawl. "What can I do with him? Only trail him round."

"Marry him, of course. That man's a catch, you fool. Stacks of money, three show places in the country, a t.i.tle as old as Rufus, and only one hand to hit you with."

"But I'm not marrying," said Lola.