Part 21 (1/2)

It was her evening. She was no longer the little girl to be told to do this or that and taken here and there with or against her will. She had broken out of all that, rather strangely and quietly and suddenly; and in a sort of way her parents had become her children. It always happens.

It is one of the privileges of parenthood eventually to obey. It is the subtle tribute paid by them to a son or daughter of whom they are proud, who is part of them and who has come through all the vicissitudes of childhood and adolescence under their care and guidance. It is one of the nicer forms of egotism.

And so these three little people, the Breezys, went into the labyrinths of villadom, up one street and down another. Some of the houses were smarter than the rest, with little trees in tubs, and Virginia creepers twined about their pillars, and perhaps a fat Cupid, weather-stained, standing in a little square of cat-fought garden, or with two small lions eying each other from opposite sides of the doorway with bitter antagonism. But the waning light of a glorious day still clung to the sky, in which an evening star had opened its eye, and even Bayswater, that valley of similitude, wore beauty of a sort. And all the way along, up and down and across, the high-sounding names of the various terraces ringing with sarcasm, they went together, these three little people, one far from little outwardly, in great affection. To Lola there was something unreal, almost uncanny about the whole thing. She had grown out of all these streets, all this commonplace, that entire world. She felt like some one who hears a very old tune played in a theater and looks down with surprise and a little thread of pain from a seat in a box,-a tune which seemed to take her back, away and away to far distant days, and stir dim memories.-Only last night she had been sitting in the Carlton with Chalfont as Madame de Breze, and next Friday, if all went well--

With a sudden thrill of intense excitement and longing, she then and there made up her mind that some day it would be her privilege and joy to lift those two estimable people out of Queen's Road and place them, not too old for enjoyment, among spreading trees and sloping lawns and all the color of an English garden,-away from watches and silver wedding presents, kodaks and ugly vases, from need of work, from clash of traffic and the inevitable voices of throaty baritones. Ah, that was what she wanted to do, so much, and if possible before it was too late.

Time has an ugly way of slipping off the calendar.

And when, presently, they returned to the shop and let themselves in, it was Lola, with a curious emotion, because she might never see them again as she was that night, who got the supper, who placed them, arguing, in the stuffy drawing-room, and made many journeys up and down the narrow staircase to the kitchen. ”Please,” she said. ”Please. This is my evening. Even a lady's maid can lay a supper if she tries hard enough.”

And they did as they were told, reluctantly, but delighted,-and a little surprised. It was something of a change. And before the evening was over Treadwell came, wearing a flapping tie, the mark of the poet, and a suit of reach-me-downs egregiously cut but with something in his face that lived it down,-love. Poor boy, he had a long way to go alone.

When at last, having said good night, Lola went upstairs to the room in which she had played that little game of hers so often and sat in the dark as quiet as a mouse, holding her breath, not one, no, not a single one of all her old friends came in to see her,-not the ancient marquis with his long finger nails and curious rings and highly polished boots; not the gossipy old women in furbelows and dangling beads; not the gallant courtier with his innuendoes and high flow of compliments; and not the little lady's maid who was wont to do her hair. They were dead.

But in their place came Fallaray, stooping, pale and bewildered, hungry for love, hungry for comfort, dying for inspiration and the rustle of silk. And when he had sat down with his chin in his hand, she crept up to his chair and went on her knees and put her golden head against his heart, and said, ”I love you. I love you. I've always loved you. I shall love you always. And if you never know it and never see me and miss me altogether in the crowd, I shall wait for you across the Bridge,-and you will see me then.”

But as she got up from her knees, blinded with tears, the voice came to her again, strong and full.

”Go on, go on, de Breze,-courage, my girl, courage. You have not yet won the right to cry.”

VI

There were two reasons, then, for the visit to Castleton Terrace.

Feo's handsome present to Lola reacted most favorably upon Mrs. Rumbold and came at a moment in that poor woman's existence when cash was scarce and credit nil. Optimism also had been running a little low. But for this divine gift how many more suicides there would be every year.

Mrs. Rumbold was sitting in her workroom in the front of the house, waiting, like Sister Ann, for some one to turn up, when Lola's taxi stopped at the door, and with a thrill of hope she saw the driver haul out a large dress case on which the initials F. F. were painted. This was followed by Lola, an hour early for her appointment with Lady Cheyne, and they were both met at the top step by the woman who saw manna.

”Well,” she cried, shabby and thin, with wisps of unruly hair. ”You're a sight for sore eyes, I will say. I knew I was in for a bitter luck to-day. I read it in the bottom of me cup. Come in, miss, and let's have a look at what you've brought me.”

The case was deposited in the middle of the room in which half a dozen headless and legless trunks mounted on a sort of cage were ranged along one wall, out of work and gloomy. Because the driver had been batman to a blood in the 21st Lancers, the case was duly unfastened by him,-a courtesy totally unexpected and acknowledged by Mrs. Rumbold in astonished English.

”Thank you very much,” said Lola, with a rewarding smile. ”It's very kind of you.”

”Honored and delighted,” was the reply, added to by a full-dress parade salute with the most wonderful waggle before it finally reached the ear and was cut away.-And that meant sixpence extra. So every one was pleased.

And when Mrs. Rumbold, with expert fingers, drew out one frock after another, all of them nearly new and bearing the name of a dressmaker who hung to the edge of society by a hyphen, exclamation followed upon exclamation.

”Gorblime,” she cried out. ”Where in the world did you get 'em? I never see anything like it. It's a trousseau.”

And Lola laughed and said, ”Not this time.”

And Mrs. Rumbold started again, putting Feo's astonis.h.i.+ng garments through a more detailed inspection. ”Eccentric, of course,” she said.

”But, my word, what material, and look at these 'ere linings. Pre-war stuff, my dear. Who's your friend?”

And Lola told her. Why shouldn't she? And extolled Lady Feo's generosity, in which Mrs. Rumbold heartily concurred. ”I know what you want,” she said. ”What I did to the last one. Let 'em down at the bottom and put a bit of somethin' on the top. That's it, isn't it?”

”Yes,” said Lola. ”That's it. As quickly as you can, Mrs. Rumbold, especially with the day frocks.”

”Going away on a visit, dearie?”

”No-yes,” said Lola. ”I don't know-but, like you, I live a good deal on hope.”