"Never you treat me like the rest," she said, bursting into sobs; "never you try anythin' on. If you do I'll kill myself."
This outburst showed to Julian that she was capable of a curious depth of real sentiment that gave to her a glimpse of purity and the divinity of restraint. He tried to soothe her and quickly succeeded. When she had recovered they went out together to see about the making of the new black dress, and before they parted he had persuaded Cuckoo to face the "Empire" multitude on the fateful evening without her panoply of paint and powder. She pleaded hard for a touch of black on the eyes, a line of red on the lips. But he was inexorable. When he had gained his point he comforted her anxiety with chocolates, a feat more easy than the soothing of her with reasoning could have been.
When he told Valentine of the success of his embassy, Valentine simply said:
"I am glad."
Julian did not mention the episode of the washing, the preparation of the black gown, or the promise wrung from the lady of the feathers. The result springing from these three events was to come as a surprise to Valentine on boat-race night.
CHAPTER X
THE DANCE OF THE HOURS
Even so huge a city as London, full of so many varying personalities and clashing interests, assumes upon certain days of the year a particular and characteristic aspect, arising from a community of curiosity, of excitement, or of delight felt by its inhabitants. Such days are Derby day and boat-race day. On the latter more especially London is leavened by a huge mob of juveniles from the universities, and their female admirers from the country, who cast a pleasant spell over the frigid indifference of town-bred dullards, and wake even the most vacuous of the Piccadilly loungers into a certain vivacity and boyishness. The cabmen blossom cheerily in dark and light blue favours. The butcher-boys are partisans. Every gamin in the gutter is all for one boat or for the other, and dances excitedly to know the result. London, in fact, loses several wrinkles on boat-race day, and smiles itself into a very pleasant appearance of briskness and of youth. As a rule, Julian went to see the race and to lunch with his friends at Putney or elsewhere, without either abnormal experience of excitement or any unusual vivacity. He was naturally full of life, and had hot blood in his veins, loved a spectacle, and especially a struggle of youth against youth. But no boat-race day had ever stirred him as this one did—found him so attentive to outside influence, so receptive of common things. For Julian had recently been half-conscious that he was progressing, and with increasing rapidity, though he knew not in what exact direction. Simply, he had the feeling of motion, of journeying, and it seemed to him that he had been standing comparatively still for years. And this boat-race day came to him like a flashing milestone upon the road of life. He felt as if it held in its hours a climax of episodes or of emotions, as if upon it either his body or his mind must prepare to undergo some large experience, to meet the searching eyes of a face new and unfamiliar.
Possibly the reason of his own excitement lay in the excitement of another, in the curious preparations, which he had oddly shared, for the transformation of the unmistakable into the vague. For the transformation of Cuckoo Bright had been preparing apace, and Julian was looking forward like a schoolboy to the effect which her novel respectability of appearance would have upon Valentine. The rouge-box lay lonely and untouched in a drawer. Even the powder-puff suffered an unaccustomed neglect. The black gown had been tried on and taught to fit the thin young figure, and a hat—with only one feather—kept company with the discarded sarcophagus which had given to Cuckoo her original nickname. And Cuckoo herself was almost as excited as Francine when she received her muff. She had not seen Valentine since the day of the tea-party, yet her attitude of mind had undergone a change towards him, bent to it probably by her vanity. Ever since Julian had given her the invitation to the Empire she had displayed a furtive desire to meet him again, and was perpetually talking of him and asking questions about him. Nevertheless her fear of him had not died away. Even now she sometimes exclaimed against him almost with vehemence, and made Julian renew his promise not to leave her during the evening. But Julian could see that she longed, as well as dreaded, to meet him again. After all, had he not picked her out from all the girlhood of London as one to whom he wished, to do honour? Had he been the Minotaur, such a fact must have made her look upon him with desirous interest.
When the great day arrived poor Cuckoo had to struggle with a keen and a sore temptation. She longed to deck herself out in her usual borrowed plumage, to take the habitual brilliant complexion out of the accustomed drawer, to crown her frizzed head with feathers, and to look noisily dashing—her only idea of elegance and grace. Never before had she so desired to create an impression. Yet she had given Julian her most solemn promise, and she intended to keep it. As she slowly attired herself, however, she wondered very much why he was so set upon denuding her of her accustomed magnificence. Her mind was entirely unable to grasp his conception of beauty and of attractiveness. She thought all men preferred the peony to the violet. To-night it was very certain that she would be no peony, scarcely even a violet. Her new gown had been expensive, but it was terribly simple, and the skirt hung beautifully, but was surely most direfully sombre. Nevertheless, it rustled with a handsome sound, a melody of wealth, when she had put it on and promenaded about her dingy bedroom, with Jessie at her heels, pretending to worry it playfully. The black bodice had some trimming. But it was all black. Cuckoo wished it had been scarlet, or, at the least, orange—something to catch the eye and hold it. When she was fully attired, and was staring into her glass, between two boldly flaring gas-jets, she nearly resolved to break her promise to Julian. She even went so far as to paint her lips and eyes, and was charmed with the effect against the black. But then with a sudden fury she sponged her pale face clean, threw the new feather boa round her throat, and, without daring to glance again at her funereal image, turned out the gas, and went into the sitting-room. As usual, her last act was to ensconse the pensive Jessie in the flannel-lined basket, and to give her a kiss. To-night, as she did so, she let a tear fall on the little dog's head. She scarcely knew why she cried. Perhaps the quiet gown, the lack of paint and powder, the prospect of kind and even respectful treatment from at least Julian, if not from Valentine, gave to her heart a vision of some existence in which Piccadilly Circus had no part.