The Crooked Lane

by Frances Noyes Hart

  It was a small, brick house painted the exact color of Devonshire cream; the door was a deep blue with a shiny Georgian handle and knocker, and there were deep blue window boxes filled with the pink-and-white gayety of English daisies, that made him think, oddly, of the little houses of Curzon Street as they had stood, innocently sophisticated, in the pale London sunlight, years and years ago, when he used to go visiting his English cousins for the Easter holidays. He lifted his hand to the bell.

  The windows in the front room were wide open, and obviously the piano was quite close to them; a group of people were singing something from Gilbert and Sullivan, as badly as amateurs usually sing it, though there was one contralto voice that wasn’t to be despised by any means, and a light, happy-go-lucky tenor, soared high above the rest with misleading ease.… The singing trailed off into a slightly confused but reluctant silence, and the murmur of voices behind them swelled to an agreeable roar, with one more insistent than the others clamoring violently above the tumult.

  “Hey, aren’t you opera singers ever going to die and give the hoi polloi a chance? Forty or fifty of us think that ‘Casey Jones’ is a good tune, too, and at least we know the words and the music. Pipe down, for the love of Pete. All right, fellers—’Casey Jones’—and snap into it before they remember something twelve verses long out of Ruddigore!”

  A cheerful bellow that might well have waked Casey himself proved that the fellows so feelingly appealed to were only too eager to respond, and Sheridan smiled—the young, friendly smile that he had come close to losing forever in the last twenty-four hours. A good party, obviously. Too good for the purpose for which it must serve.… The smile faded; he shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hand once more to the bell, this time a little impatiently—and the door before him opened with such vehemence that he came close to being precipitated headlong across the threshold.

  A very small colored maid with very large pearl earrings stood framed in the doorway. She wore a cap that looked as though it had been wedged onto her head by main force, a frivolous apron no larger than a postage stamp somewhat enlivened her severely sable costume, and the expression on her countenance was one of such profound consternation and despair that he promptly dismissed all preconceived notions of Southern hospitality and the carefree nature of the dark-skinned children of Ham and the African sun.

  Still there was something to be said for her ill-concealed dismay. The narrow hallway before him was congested to the point of explosion with what were probably chairs and benches, but that at present looked more like a series of landslides of coats, cloaks, hats, and scarfs. The young person in the doorway obviously felt that the situation required a bouncer rather than a butler.

  “Ah declare to the Lawd, Ah doan know wheah you goin’ to put them things,” she remarked with passionate sincerity. “Leaseways lessen you scrooge ’em in that li’l’ bit of a place over on the stairs an’ doan min’ gettin”em tromp’ on. Mebbe if you try an’ stan’ that hat in sideways—”

  A voice from the far end of the hall inquired with mild interest:

  “Hello there! Are you a comer or a goer? Three to one you’re a comer—I’ll swear I never laid eyes on you before. Dump your things right down on that nice shiny high hat.… Got some more glasses out there for us, Dodie?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Stirling, Ah ain’t got no glasses out there,” replied the handmaid addressed as Dodie, in a tone of righteous and high-pitched indignation. “Ah ain’t had no glasses out there since’fore’leven o’clock, an’ you knows it good an’ well. Effen you an’ the res’ of this party want to keep on drinkin’ you’ll haf to do it out of the same ole use’ up glasses or Miss’ Stirling’s bes’ blue Delluf china teacups. An’ I tell you plain an’ straight, effen Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt her own actual seff come walkin’ up those steps out there an’ ring that bell, I tell her to sit right spang down where she stand an’ make herseff at home,’cause there ain’ no room lef’ in this house for a black ant’s younges’ chile.”

  Bill Stirling, a sandy-haired, lanky gentleman in disreputable tweeds, bestowed a grin on his guest and his maid so entirely engaging that Dodie promptly stilled her lamentable clamor and grinned back companionably, and Sheridan hastened to divest himself of his outer garments, casting them recklessly on the floor.

  “I’ll bring in a tray of those ole use’-up glasses as soon as I can wangle ’em away from the hyenas out yonder,” he informed Dodie cheerfully. “You just run ’em under the faucet and dust’em off like a good girl—and just between us you needn’t be too careful of the corners. As for my old unknown pal here, the amenities within might be simplified if you’d tip me off to just what name would ring most agreeably in your ears when I introduce you to the crowd in there who fancifully refer to themselves as my guests.”

  “My name is Sheridan—Karl Sheridan. I was to have come with Mallory, but unfortunately I was delayed by some rather important business, and he seemed sublimely certain that it would be quite all right if I turned up any time before seven in the morning. He was wrong, perhaps?”

  “No, no—right as rain! Delighted to have you with us, my dear fellow. Mallory’s in there; he’s the one doing the coloratura effects to ‘She Was Poor but She Was Honest.’ Let’s find a shoehorn and a crowbar and join them, shan’t we? … Back in a minute with those glasses, Dodie!”

  The room into which Bill Stirling proceeded to insert the two of them, by means of the alternate use of persuasion and brute force, was small, shabby, and pleasant—lined from floor to ceiling on all four walls with books that looked as though they might have started life in a secondhand store, and further equipped with a dozen sofa cushions, strategically strewn about the floor, two enormous chairs of scuffed brown leather, and a large, hard day bed masquerading as a divan, in a slip cover of noncommittal mouse-colored corduroy. Occupying the wall opposite the door stood a flat-topped office desk, adorned by a typewriter with its leather cover at a pleasingly cockeyed angle, two entirely empty whiskey bottles laid significantly flat on their backs with a dead gardenia decorating each label, and a large bowl half filled with a pinkish fluid in which a ladle reclined with languid abandon. Every other inch of room was occupied by thirty or forty earnest maniacs who had apparently dedicated their respective lives to the proposition that each one of them, alone and unsupported, could make more noise than anyone else in the world. Sheridan, controlling an almost irresistible impulse to stuff his fingers in his ears, decided that they were well on their way to their goal.

  For a brief and paralyzed moment he thought that it was a fancy-dress party; but a more critical glance persuaded him that it was nothing more than sheer animal spirits swept into the realms of fashion, where the ladies who wanted to wear beach pajamas wore beach pajamas, and the ladies who wanted to wear tiaras on the backs of their heads wore tiaras on the backs of their heads. The men seemed broad-minded, too. Some of them wore white ties to match the white carnations on their lapels, and some of them wore tennis flannels, and two of them wore really dazzling mess jackets, and on one side of him stood a uniform that had more ribbons on it than a Maypole, and on the other side a pair of riding boots as deeply shining as horse chestnuts.

  Sheridan was almost inclined to revert to the fancy-dress theory, before he realized that actually the majority were clad in nothing more revolutionary than the uniforms of the tired business man—neat blue serge and brown wool. He found some pathos in their attempts to enliven their relentless sobriety with ties timorously adorned with small, bright leaves, and dots and stripes.… They looked tired enough, in all conscience, but not particularly businesslike. Something in their rumpled hair and the bright, friendly malice of their eyes—something in the grudging warmth of the smiles that were edged with tolerant cynicism—struck him as curiously engaging, and he found himself smiling back at these strangers. So these, then, were the gentlemen of the press? Well, it began to look as though the young man from Vienna were going to enjoy the American press.

>   There was a room beyond this, obviously; faint sounds came from it, in which “Sweet Adeline” and “The Moon and I” seemed to be engaged in a protracted death struggle, but three flushed and pugnacious-looking gentlemen seated squarely on their haunches and leaning heavily back against the great folding doors seemed passionately determined that they should penetrate no further. Bill Stirling, bestowing on them the appreciative grin of a whole-souled accomplice, lifted a commanding hand.

  “Hey!” he shouted in a voice that caused his startled guest to leap in his boots. “Where’s Abby? Where’s Mallory? Freddy, look what I found on the doormat. Now do you believe in Santa Claus?”

  The slim creature in dull gold brocade with green-enameled laurel leaves bound close about her sleeked red hair dropped the dice to which she had been chanting amorously, pivoted on her knees, and emitted a small, exultant yelp that effectively belied the well-calculated Botticelli effect.

  “The policeman! Angel darling—my treasure—no, I forgot, you’re a cad and a bounder, aren’t you? You stood me up cold—me, that kings and cardinals and transatlantic fliers have worshiped—didn’t you? Who do you think you are, anyway? Well, never mind that; you’re beautiful, and you’ve completely devastated me! I’ve been talking about you until I’ve got a cross between croup and whooping cough—I’m the laughing-stock of Washington. What in heaven’s name happened to you last night, anyway? I sat there waiting for you until I could actually feel my fingernails growing.… Here, sit down on this cushion, and tell Freddy all about it.”

  The blue-eyed young man crouched opposite her on the sofa cushion that she so generously offered to the involuntary intruder, rose apprehensively to his feet, remarking mildly:

  “I think Abby went below to look into the food situation, old boy, and Mallory’s in there singing. Shall I get him?”

  “You get him or anyone else, my lad, and you’ll get a good sharp knife between those nice broad shoulder blades of yours,” remarked Lady Freddy with ominous sweetness. “I can see a little green light hanging right over your head, Kippy, and if I know my traffic signals, that means ‘Go.’ And don’t forget that you owe me sixty-seven dollars.”

  “Oh, I say!” remonstrated the unfortunate Kippy, stung into unwonted action, “I had a whole pile of your filthy greenbacks there just a minute ago, Freddy, and you—”

  “‘Had’ is the very word, ducky.” The shameless creature snapped the jeweled clasps of her small, plethoric bag and waggled an expressive finger a fraction of an inch from a more than expressive nose. “I’m just a modern Robin Hood, robbing the rich to pay the poor. Tell him how poor I am, Bill, and while you’re about it, tell him some of those cute, old-fashioned mottoes about three making dangerous mobs, and putting your best foot forward and letting the other trail after it, and in general getting the hell’n Maria out of here—”

  “I think she’s trying to tell us that the stranger in our midst has finally found a guardian,” suggested Bill gravely. “And it sounds to me as though the rest of us had better let it go at that, if we know what’s good for us! Suppose you and me both take an armful of these second-hand glasses out of here and see what we can do towards corrupting Dodie to the old-fashioned view that cleanliness is next to Godliness.… Sheridan, whatever happens, don’t say that I didn’t tell you!”

  “Never fear. Twice warned, thrice a fool.” Karl Sheridan, smiling over his shoulder at the back of his erstwhile protector, appropriated the recently vacated maroon cushion. “This is now mine? Freddy, I had forgotten how greatly I have missed you.”

  “If there’s one thing I love more than another, it’s a good liar,” said Freddy Parrish. “Turn your head that way, towards the backgammon table.… Yes, it’s as good as I thought it was. It’s better.”

  “The backgammon table?”

  “No—your profile. Just as man to man, when I remembered it this morning, I thought I must have had too many cocktails last night.”

  “I, too, like liars,” said Karl Sheridan, flashing back at her the smile that had made older and wiser ladies forget that they were old and wise. “Especially when they wear vine leaves in their copper hair. Who is the small person at the table with hair that is curled like a good baby’s?”

  “That’s Joan—Joan Lindsay. Next to Tess, she’s the grandest girl in Washington, no fooling. Didn’t you meet her last night?”

  “I did indeed, and found her entirely enchanting. Now, before we settle down to what I trust will be hours and hours of diversion, is there not something that I can get for you? Plates and glasses seem to be in evidence. Something to eat perhaps? Something to drink?”

  “You’re asking me?” inquired Lady Freddy with considerable bitterness. “Hi, Stirling, suppose you tip us off before you do another of your famous vanishing acts. Are you actually under the impression that you’re being the perfect host when you take away a tray of empty glasses and bring ’em back emptier?”

  Bill Stirling, looking slightly harassed, placed the loaded tray cautiously on the table with the punch bowl, and turned on his somewhat captious guest with a grin that was not entirely conciliatory.

  “Where in hell is that hussy Abigail? She’s buried the other bottle of whiskey somewhere, and I can’t put my hands on her.”

  “She’s probably taken it and some unsuspecting child into the backyard to enjoy the nine Darwin tulips and the lilac tree,” suggested Lady Parrish agreeably. “The other bottle of whiskey, for the love of Pete? Sixty-five people into sixteen ounces—what are you trying to do, drown us?”

  “If you want to mingle with the idle poor, you should tote your own Veuve Clicquot,” commented Stirling even more agreeably.

  Sheridan interposed with more haste than discretion:

  “Why not some of that highly intriguing liquid in the capacious bowl? Of what does it consist, Stirling?”

  “Ah, that’s it!” Lady Parrish, totally unsubdued, hurled herself into the arena with energy and abandon. “I spotted hashish and tomato catchup, but there’s something there that I can’t quite make out. First I thought it was rose water and then—”

  Karl Sheridan, rising so precipitately that he almost overturned his now far from genial host, ladled out the pink liquid into the tall glasses with a lavish hand.

  “Perfect. It sounds a little more than irresistible! You will join us, Stirling?”

  “Thanks, no. One of my duties as a host seems to be to collect the hostess.… See you later, Sheridan.”

  Sheridan thought, automatically, that there was no mention of seeing Lady Parrish later, but he extended the glass to her valiantly, his eyes as diverted as they were vigilant as he watched Stirling’s lanky figure depart around the corner, presumably in quest of the errant Abby.

  “Freddy, you will permit me to comment on the fact that you do not err on the side of mercy! Is this—liquid—actually as appalling as you imply?”

  “It’s hell fire in rose water,” Lady Freddy assured him with conviction. “I’ve been an old softie about the whole blasted outrage!”

  “And about your hostess as well?”

  “Oh, Abby!” The small, ugly, piquant countenance contorted into a grimace of such profound repugnance that Sheridan yielded to a reluctant smile. “She’s a—no, you’re too young to hear what she is! Turn your face away while I drink this witch’s potion. I want you always to think of me like the Victorian valentine that I should have been—ringleted, dimpled, and dovelike. Or do doves have ringlets and dimples?”

  “Not, surely, the ordinary walking-around dove. And still you have not explained your—reservations, shall we say?—towards your hostess.”

  “Why spoil a good party?” inquired Lady Parrish. “Give me a little more of that filthy extract of roses, and I’ll tell you everything.… Oh, well, I’ll tell you now while I’m plumb in the middle of it.… Abby Stirling’s been going in for everything short of mayhem to wreck one of my dearly beloveds.”

  “Tess Stuart?” inquired Sheridan casually over
the rosy glass.

  “Tess? Lord, no! Abby’d have to be a good deal brighter than she is—and God knows she’s bright enough!—to get anything on Tess. No, it’s Joan—Joan Lindsay.”

  “Joan Lindsay? But what—”

  He checked abruptly, his eyes on the figure in the doorway, absurdly straight and slight in the lacquer-red pajamas that looked like a masquerade costume in spite of—or was it because of?—the relentless severity of their cut.

  “Speaking of she devils—” remarked Lady Parrish, in a voice that she took no pains whatever to subdue. “Great suffering cats, she’s got the whiskey!”

  Abby Stirling threaded her way leisurely through the clamorous horde of guests, and standing on tiptoe, placed the bottle high on the mantel of the red brick fireplace.

  “Hello, mob!” she saluted the assembled company with a small, crooked smile that revealed a glimpse of minute teeth, even and perfect as grains of rice. “Anyone that wants a drink has to jump for it. Catch, Bob!”

  She tossed the corkscrew in the direction of the central figure of the group of the ruddy and belligerent guard who were still holding the barrier of the folding doors that separated them from the singers with dogged persistence; the gentleman addressed as Bob made a frantic clutch for it, rose with a yelp of triumph, and precipitated himself in the direction of the coveted treasure, followed by three quarters of the occupants of the room. Abby Stirling slipped through the stampede as easily as though she were strolling down a country lane, and perched lightly on the end of the sofa where Allan Lindsay sat, deep in conversation with a begoggled gentleman, whose suit badly needed pressing. Lindsay glanced up quickly, with a warm, friendly smile, and as though in answer to some unspoken invitation, she slipped compactly into the few remaining inches between him and the goggles.