VIII
And in the meantime Lola continued to be an apt little pupil. Her quick ear had already enabled her to pick up the round crisp intonation of Lady Feo and her friends and at any moment of the day she could now give an exact imitation of their walk, manner of shaking hands and those characteristic tricks which made them different from all the women who had had the ill fortune to come into the world in the small streets.
Up in the servant’s bedroom in Dover Street, before a square of mirror, Lola practised and rehearsed for her eventual debut,—the form of which was on the knees of the gods. She had entered her term of apprenticeship quite prepared to serve conscientiously for at least a year,—a long probation for one so young and eager. Probably she would have continued to study and listen and watch, with gathering impatience, but for a sudden hurrying forward of the clock brought about by the gift of a frock,—rustling with silk. A failure, because the dressmaker, with the ineffable cheek of these people, had entirely departed from Feo’s rigid requirements, it provided Lola with the key to life. Giving one yell at the sight of it, Feo was just about to rip it in pieces when she caught the longing eyes of her maid. Whereupon, with the generosity which is so easy when it is done with other people’s money, she said, “Coming over,” rolled it into a ball and threw it at Lola. It was, as may be imagined, a very charming and reasonable garment such as might have been worn by a perfectly respectable person.
On her way home that night, Lola dropped in to her own little dressmaker who lived in one of the numerous dismal villas off Queen’s Road, for the purpose of having it altered to fit her. It was miles too large. She had eventually brought it back to Dover Street and hidden it away behind one of her day frocks in her only cupboard, and every time that she took a peep at it, her eyes sparkled and her breath came short and she wondered when and how she could possibly wear it.
Filled with a great longing to try her wings and fly out of the cage like the canary of which she had spoken to Ernest Treadwell, there were moments in her life now when she was consumed with impatience. The poet of the public library, the illiterate and ecstatic valet, the pompous butler and the two cockney footmen,—she had grown beyond all these. She was absolutely sure of herself as an honorary member of the Feo “gang.” She felt that she could hold her own now with the men of their class. If she were right, her apprenticeship would be over. Fully fledged, she could proceed with her great scheme. The chance came as chances always do come, and as usual she took it.
Several days after Lytham’s talk with Fallaray—which had left them both in that state of irresolution which seemed to have infected every one—Lady Feo went off for the week-end, leaving Lola behind. The party had been arranged on the spur of the moment and was to take place in a cottage with a limited number of bedrooms. If Lady Feo had given the thing a moment’s thought, she would have told Lola to take three days holiday. But this she had forgotten to do. And so there was Lola in Dover Street with idle hands. The devil finds some mischief still——
At four o’clock that evening Simpkins entered the servants’ sitting room. Lola happened to be alone, surrounded by Tatlers, Punches and Bystanders, fretting a little and longing to try her paces. “Good old,” he said, “Mr. Fallaray has got to dine at the Savoy to-night with his Ma and Auntie from the country. One of them family affairs which, not coming too frequently, does him good. And you’re free. How about another show, Princess?” He had recently taken to calling her princess. “There’s another American play on which ain’t bad, I hear. Let’s sample it. What do you say?”
Mr. Fallaray.—The Savoy——
Without giving the matter an instant’s thought, Lola shook her head. “Too bad, Simpky,” she said, “I promised Mother to go home to-night. She has some friends coming and I am going to help her.”
“Oh,” said Simpkins, extremely disappointed. “Well, then, I’ll take you ’ome and if I’m very good and put on a new tie I may be asked,—I say I may——” He paused, having dropped what he considered to be a delicate hint.
This was a most awkward moment. Mr. Fallaray—The Savoy—That new frock. And here was Simpkins butting in and standing with his head craned forward as if to meet the invitation halfway. So she said, as cool as a cucumber, “Mother will be very disappointed not to be able to ask you, Simpky, because she likes you so much. She enjoyed both times you came home with me. So did Father. But, you see, our drawing-room is very small and Mother has asked too many people as it is. Get tickets for tomorrow night and I shall be very glad to go with you.”
There was no guile in Lola’s eye and not the smallest hesitation in her speech. Simpkins bore up bravely. He knew these parties and the way in which some hostesses allowed their rooms to brim over. And, anyway, it was much better to have Lola all to himself. He could live for Saturday. “Righto,” he said. “Let me know when you’re ready to go and if you feel like a taxicab——”
“I couldn’t think of it,” said Lola. “You spend much too much money, Simpky. You’re an absolute profiteer. I shall go by Tube and this time a friend of mine is fetching me.”
“Treadwell?” She nodded and calmly examined a picture of Lopodoski in one of her latest contortions.
There was a black cloud on Simpkins’s face. He had met Ernest at the Breezys’ house. He had seen the way in which this boy gazed at Lola,—lanky, uncouth, socialistic young cub. He was not jealous, good Lord, no. That would be absurd. A junior librarian with a salary that was far less than any plumber got, and him a man of means with the “Black Bull” at Wargrave on the horizon. All the same, if he heard that Ernest Treadwell had suddenly been run over by a pantechnicon and flattened out like a frog——
And that was why he sat down on the sofa a little too close to Lola and dared to possess himself of her hand. “Princess,—you know ’ow I feel. You know what you’ve done to me.”
Lola patted his hand and gave it back and rewarded him with a smile which she considered to be matronly. “Nice Simpky,” she said. “Very nice Simpky,” as though he were a rather faulty terrier a little too keen on the thrown stick. “I must go now,” she added and rose. “I have some sewing to do for Lady Feo.”
And as Simpkins watched her go, his whole heart swelled, and something went to his head that blurred everything for a moment. He would sell his soul for that girl. For her sake he would even set light to the “Black Bull” and watch it burn, if that would give her a moment’s amusement.
Mr. Fallaray.—The Savoy——
What Lola did in Lady Feo’s room was not to sew but to seat herself at the dressing table, do her hair with the greatest care and practise with the make-up sticks,—rouge, and the brush of water colors with which she emphasized her eyebrows. Finally, time having flown, she borrowed a pair of lace stockings, some shoes and gloves, made her way stealthily along the servants’ corridor to her own room, and packed them, with the new frock, into a cardboard box. Dressed and hatted for the street, she carried the magic costume in which she was going to transplant herself from Cinderella’s kitchen to the palace of the Prince and went down to the servants’ sitting room through which it was necessary for her to go in order to escape.
Miss Breezy was there, issuing, as she would have said, orders to one of the housemaids. That was lucky. It saved Lola from answering an outburst of questions. As it was, she gave a little bow to her aunt, said “Good evening, Miss Breezy,” opened the door and nipped up the area steps into the street. A little involuntary laugh floated behind her like the petals of a rose. A prowling taxi caught her eye. She nodded and was in before any one could say Jack Robinson,—if any one now remembers the name of that mystic early Victorian.
The address she gave was 22 Castleton Terrace, Bayswater.
Mr. Fallaray.—The Savoy!