X
TO watch Diana rise blurred above a damp chemise from a fifth-floor laundry garden in Foreign-Colony Street, Soho, had brought all Chelsea (and part of Paris) to study illusive atmospherical effects from the dizzy drying-ground of those versatile young men, Harold Weathercock and Noel Nice.
Like a necropolis at the Resurrection, or some moody vision of Blake, would it appear under the evanescent rays of the moon.
Nighties, as evening fell, would go off into proud Praxiteles—torsos of Nymphs or Muses: pants and ready-mades, at a hint of air would pirouette and execute a phantom ballet from Don John.
Beyond the clothes lines was a Pagoda, set up in an extravagant mood, containing a gilded Buddha—a thorn and a symbol of unrighteousness to a convent of Ursulines whose recreation yard was underneath.
Here, at a certain hour when the Mother Superior was wont to walk round and round her preserves, a young, bewhiskered man frequently would come bearing ceremonial offerings of rice or linen newly washed, and falling flat before the shrine would roll himself about and beat the ground as if in mortal anguish of his sins before her fascinated eye. Here, too, from time to time, festivities would take place—sauteries (to a piano-organ), or convivialpetits soupersafter the play.
An iron ladder connected the roof with the work and living-rooms below.
Ascending this by the light of the stars, Mrs. Sixsmith and theNew Juliet, gay from a certain grill, audaciously advanced, their playful screams rendered inaudible by the sounds of a tricksome waltz wafted down to them from the piano-organ above.
Items of linen nestling close to a line overhead showed palely against the night like roosting doves.
“Help.... Oh! she’s falling,” Mrs. Sixsmith screamed. “Are you there, Mr. Nice?”
“Give me your hand,” Miss Sinquier begged.
“Should she rick her spine....”
“Whew-ps!” Miss Sinquier exclaimed, scrambling to the top.
London, beyond the frail filigree cross on the Ursulines’ bleached wall, blazed with light. From the Old Boar and Castle over the way came a perfect flood of it. And all along the curved river-line from Westminster to St. Paul’s glittered lamps, lamps, lamps.
Folding an arm about her friend’s “wasp” waist, Mrs. Sixsmith whirled her deftly round to a wild street air:
“I like your ways,I like your style,You are my darling——”
“I like your ways,I like your style,You are my darling——”
“I like your ways,I like your style,You are my darling——”
“I like your ways,
I like your style,
You are my darling——”
she hummed as the organ stopped.
“Come to finish the evening?”
A small, thick-set, grizzled man with dark æsthetic eyes and a pinkish nose, the result maybe of continuously tinting it for music-hall purposes, addressed the breathless ladies in a broad, inquiring voice.
“Is thatyou, Mr. Smee?” Mrs. Sixsmith asked, surprised.
“Call me ‘Shawn.’”
“We’ve only come on business.”
“Don’t! You make me laf.”
“Then—do it,” Mrs. Sixsmith serenely said, resting her left knee against an empty keg of beer.
“They’re not back from the theatre yet.”
“Turn for us till they come.”
Mr. Smee dashed from a crimpled brow a wisp of drooping hair.
“By your leave, ladies,” he said, “I’ll just slip across to the Old Boar and Castle and sample a snack at the bar.”
“Don’t run off, Mr. Smee. You really mustn’t. On tiles, they say, one usually meets withcats.”
“Oh, my word.”
Mrs. Sixsmith placed a hand to her hip in the style of an early John.
“How long is it—say—since we met?” she inquired. “Not since my wedding, I do believe.”
“What’s become of those kiddy bridesmaids you had?” Mr. Smee warily asked.
“Gerty Gale and Joy Patterson?—I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Oh, my word.”
“Well, how goes the world withyou, Mr. Smee?”
“So-so. I’ve been away on tour. MildredMilson and Co. Oh! my Lord—it was. No sooner did we get to Buxton—down in Derbyshire—than Miss Milson fell sick and had to be left behind.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“Exposure.... On Bank Holiday some of the company hired a three-horse char-à-banc and drove from Buxton over to Castleton Caves—my hat. What hills!—and from there we went to take a squint at Chatsworth, where Miss Milson came over queer.”
“And how does Mrs. Smee?”
“So-so.”
“One never sees her now.”
“There she sits all day, reading Russian novels. Talk of gloom!”
“Really?”
“Oh, it is!”
“Well.... I’m fond of thoughtful, theosophical reading, too, Mr. Smee,” Mrs. Sixsmith said. “Madame Blavatsky and Mrs. Annie Besant are both favourites with me.”
Mr. Smee jerked an eloquent thumb.
“Who have you brought along?”
“She’s a special pal of mine.”
“Married?”
“Mon Dieu,” Mrs. Sixsmith doubtfully said. “Jecroisque c’est une Pucelle.”
“Never!” Mr. Smee, completely mystified, hazarded.
“Fie donc. Comme c’estméchant.”
“Wee, wee.”
Mrs. Sixsmith tittered.
“She’s going into management very soon.”
“Swank?”
“We seek a Romeo, Mr. Smee.”
“Now, now...!”
“Don’t look like that, Mr. Smee—nobody’s asking you,” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured.
Mr. Smee scratched reflectively his head.
“Who is it you’re after?” he asked.
“We fancied Mr. Weathercock might suit.”
“God has given him looks, but no brains,” Mr. Smee emphatically declared. “No more brains than a cow in a field.”
“His is indeed a charming face,” Mrs. Sixsmith sighed. “And as to his brains, Mr. Smee—why, come!”
“Who’s to create the countess?” he asked.
“Lady Capulet? It’s not determined yet.”
“Why not canvass the wife?”
“Has she been in Shakespeare before?”
“From the time she could toddle; in aMidsummer Night’s Dream, when not quite two, she was the Bug with gilded wings.”
“Pet!”
“Sure....”
Mrs. Sixsmith clasped prayerfully her hands.
“And in Mr. Smee,” she said, “I see the makings of a fine Friar Lawrence!”
“How’s that?”
“With a few choiceconcetti.”
“Faith!”
“I see the lonely cell, the chianti-flask, the crucifix....”
“Gosh!”
“I see Verona ... the torrid sky ... the town ascending, up, up, up. I hear the panting nurse. She knocks. Your priest’s eyes glisten. She enters, blouse-a-gape—a thorough coster. You raise your cowl.... Chianti? She shakes her head. Benedictine? No! no! A little Chartreuse, then? Certainly not! Nothing.... You squeeze her waist. Her cries ‘go through’ Lady Capulet and her daughter in the distant city on their way to mass. Romeo enters. So!” Mrs. Sixsmith broke off as Mr. Weathercock anda curly-headed lad, followed by a swathed woman and a whey-faced child, showed themselves upon the stairs.
Mrs. Sixsmith sought Miss Sinquier’s arm.
“Listen to me, my darling!” she said.
“Well?”
“Write.”
“What?”
“Write.”
“Why?”
“Because I fear we intrude.”
“Intrude?” Harold Weathercock exclaimed, coming up. “I assure you it’s a treat....”
Mrs. Sixsmith threw a sidelong, intriguing glance across her shoulder.
“Who’s the cure in plaits?” she demanded.
“It’s Little May Mant—she’s seeing her sister home.”
“Oh!... Is that Ita?” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured, stepping forward to embrace Miss “Ita Iris” of the Dream.
Miss Sinquier swooped.
“I’m having a season,” she, without further preamble, began. “And I want to persuade you to join....”
“Principal?”
“Yes.”
“I should like to play for you,” Mr. Weathercock said.
“Harold!”
Miss Mant addressed him softly.
“Well?”
“Honey husband....”
“Hook it!”
“Give me a cigarette.”
“Mary!” her sister called.
“Quick! ’cos of Ita.”
“Mary Mant.”
Miss Mant tossed disdainfully an ultra large and “pasty”-faced head.
“Why must you insult me, Ita?” she bitterly asked. “YouknowI’m Miss Iris.”
“I know you’re Miss Mant.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’mnot.”
“I tell you, you are!”
“Liar!”
“M-A-N-T!”
“Oh, stow it,” Mr. Smee said. “Put it by.”
“I’m Réné Iris.”
“Réné Rats.”
Mrs. Sixsmith looked detached.
“Is that a wash-tub?” she asked.
“Certainly.”
“What’s that odd thing floating, like the ghost of a child unborn?”
“It belongs to Mrs. Mary.”
“There’s a rumour—she refuses a fortune to show herself in Revue.”
“With her hearse-horse tread....”
“Sh——. Harold worships her.”
“Oh, no.”
“He sees things in her that we don’t, perhaps.”
“To some ideas,” Mrs. Sixsmith said, “I suppose she’s very blooming still....”
“If it wasn’t for her figure, which is really a disgrace.”
Miss Iris smiled.
She had a tired mouth, contrasting vividly with the artificial freshness of her teeth.
“When I reach my zenith,” she declared, “it’s Farewell.”
“Shall you assist at poor Esmé Fisher’s?”
“A couple of songs—that’s all.”
Mrs. Sixsmith looked away.
“Naturally,” Miss Sinquier was saying, “one can’t expect instantly to be a draw. More than—perhaps—just a little!”
“With a man who understands in the Box Office....”
“Someone with a big nose and a strong will, eh?”
Mr. Nice lifted a rusty iron and wiped it across his leg.
“In my opinion,” he said, “to associate oneself with a sanctified classic is a huge mistake. And why start a season on the tragic tack?”
“Because——”
“Suppose it’s a frost?”
“Oh!”
“Suppose your venture fails. Suppose the thing’s a drizzle.”
“What then?”
“There’s a light comedy of mine that should suit you.”
“Of yours!”
“AppelledSweet Maggie Maguire.”
“Tell me why she was sweet, Mr. Nice,” Mrs. Sixsmith begged.
“Why she was sweet? I really don’t know.”
“Was she sentimental...?”
“She was an invalid. A bed-ridden beauty ... and, of course, the hero’s a Doctor.”
“Oh! my word!”
“Is there anyone at home?” A tired voice came thrilling up from below.
“Who comes?”
Mrs. Sixsmith started.
“It sounds to me like my husband,” she said, with an involuntary nervous movement of the hands.
“I forgot,” Mr. Weathercock said. “He mentioned he might blow in.”
“Oh!”
“I’d take to my heels!” Miss Iris advised.
Mrs. Sixsmith stood transfixed.
The moonlight fell full on her, making her features look drawn and haggard.