Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Oh, of course, some people see harm in anything,” burst out Miss Marsh, very red. “The harm is in their own minds, is what I say, otherwise they wouldn’t see any.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Miss Henderson, but below her breath.

  Miss Delmege turned with dignity to her other neighbour.

  “I may be peculiar, but that’s how I feel about it. I imagine that you, as a married woman, will agree with me, Mrs. Potter?”

  Mrs. Potter did not agree with her at all, but something in the appeal, some subtle hint of the dignity of Mrs. Potter’s position amongst so many virgins, caused her to temporize feebly.

  “Really, Miss Delmege, you mustn’t ask me. I — I quite see with you — but at the same time — there wasn’t anything in what Miss Marsh said, now, was there? I mean, really. Simply corsets, you know.”

  Nearly every one had by this time forgotten exactly what Miss Marsh had said, and only retained a general impression of licentiousness in conversation.

  “We’re all girls together,” exclaimed Miss Marsh furiously.

  “Gentlemen in the room would be a very different thing,” Miss Henderson supported her.

  “I’ll take a second cup, Mrs. Bullivant, if you please,” said Miss Delmege with dignity.

  “There!” exclaimed Miss Henderson.

  Miss Marsh had suddenly begun to cry.

  Mrs. Bullivant hastily poured out more tea, and said uncertainly: “Come, come!”

  “There’s no call for any one to cry, that I can see,” observed Miss Delmege, still detached, but in a tone of uneasiness.

  “The fact is, I’m not myself today,” sobbed Miss Marsh.

  “What is it?” said Gracie sympathetically. She slipped a friendly hand into her room-mate’s.

  “I had a letter which upset me this morning. A great friend of mine, who’s been wounded — a boy I know most awfully well.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, dear?” asked Miss Henderson. “I didn’t even know you had a boy out there.”

  “Oh, not a feawncy — only a chum,” said Miss Marsh, still sniffing.

  “Is he bad, dear?”

  “A flesh-wound in the arm, and something about trench feet.”

  “That’s a nice slow thing, and they’ll send him to England to get well,” prophesied Grace.

  Miss Delmege rose from her seat.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been feeling upset,” she said to Miss Marsh. “It seems rather strange you didn’t say anything sooner, but I’m sorry about it.”

  “Thank you,” Miss Marsh replied with a gulp. “If I’ve been rather sharp in my manner today, I hope you won’t think I meant anything. This has rather upset me.”

  Miss Delmege bowed slightly, and Grace, fearing an anticlimax, begged Miss Marsh to come up to bed.

  The final amende was made next morning, when Miss Delmege, in a buff-coloured drapery known as “my fawn peignwaw,” came to the door and asked for admittance.

  Grace opened the door, and Miss Delmege said, in a voice even more distinct than usual: “I know Miss Marsh was tired last night, dear, so I’ve brought her a cup of our early tea.”

  VII

  “Mother, are you coming to the Canteen again tomorrow? You remember what a rush it was last Monday, and it’ll be just as bad again.”

  “No, Char, I am not,” was the unvarnished reply of Lady Vivian.

  Char compressed her lips and sighed. She would have been almost as much disappointed as surprised if her mother had suddenly expressed an intention of appearing regularly at the Canteen, but she knew that Miss Bruce was looking at her with an admiring and compassionate gaze.

  Sir Piers, who substituted chess for billiards on Sunday evenings because he thought it due to the servants to show that the Lord’s Day was respected at Plessing, looked up uneasily.

  “You’re not going out again tomorrow, eh, my dear? I missed our game sadly the other night.”

  “No, it’s all right; I’m not going again.”

  Joanna never raised her voice very much, but Sir Piers always heard what she said. It made Char wonder sometimes, half irritably and half ashamedly, whether he could not have heard other people, had he wanted to. The overstrain from which she herself was quite unconsciously suffering made her nervously impatient of the old man’s increasing slowness of perception.

  “And where has Char been all this afternoon? I never see you about the house now,” Sir Piers said, half maunderingly, half with a sort of bewilderment that was daily increasing in his view of small outward events.

  “I’ve been at my work,” said Char, raising her voice, partly as a vent to her own feelings. “I go into the office on Sunday afternoons always, and a very good thing I do, too. They were making a fearful muddle of some telegrams yesterday.”

  “Telegrams? You can’t send telegrams on a Sunday, child; they aren’t delivered. I don’t like you to go to this place on Sundays, either. Joanna, my dear, we mustn’t allow her to do that.”

  Char cast up her eyes in a sort of desperation, and went into the further half of the drawing-room, where Miss Bruce sat, just hearing her mother say gently: “Look, Piers, I shall take your castle.”

  “Brucey,” said Char, “I think they’ll drive me mad. I know my work is nothing, really — such a tiny, infinitesimal part of a great whole — but if I could only get a little sympathy. It does seem so extraordinary, when one has been working all day, giving one’s whole self to it all, and then to come back to this sort of atmosphere!”

  Miss Bruce was perhaps the only person with whom Char was absolutely unreserved. In younger days Miss Bruce had been her adoring governess, and the old relations still existed between them. Char knew that Miss Bruce had always thought Lady Vivian’s management of her only child terribly injudicious, and that in the prolonged antagonism between herself and her mother Miss Bruce’s silent loyalty had always ranged itself on Char’s side.

  “It’s very hard on you, my dear,” she sighed. “But I have been afraid lately — have you noticed, I wonder?”

  “What?”

  “Sir Piers seems to me to be failing; he is so much deafer, so much more dependent on Lady Vivian.”

  “He’s always that,” said Char. “I think it’s only the beginning of the winter, Brucey. He always feels the cold weather.”

  But a very little while later Miss Bruce’s view received unexpected corroboration.

  Three Sundays later, when the weather had grown colder than ever, and Char was, as usual, spending the afternoon and evening at the Depôt, Mrs. Willoughby paid a call at Plessing.

  She was followed into the room, with almost equal unwillingness, by her husband and a small, immensely stout Pekinese dog, with bulging eyes and a quick, incessant bark that only Mrs. Willoughby’s voice could dominate.

  “Darling Joanna!” she shrieked. “Puffles, wicked, wicked boy, be quiet! Isn’t this an invasion? But my Lewis did so want — I shall smack ‘oo if ‘oo isn’t quiet directly. Do you mind this little brown boy, who goes everywhere with his mammy? I knew you’d love him if you saw him — but such a noise! Lewis, tell this naughty Puff his mother can’t hear herself speak.”

  “Down, sir!” said Lewis, in tones which might have quelled a mastiff with hydrophobia.

  Puff waddled for refuge to his mistress, who immediately gathered him on to her lap as she sank on to the sofa.

  “Did ‘oo daddy speak in a big rough voice, and frighten the poor little manikin?” she inquired solicitously. “Isn’t he rather twee, Joanna?”

  “I’ve not seen it before,” said Joanna, in tones more civil than enthusiastic.

  “It!” screamed Lesbia. “She calls ‘oo it, my Puffles! as though he wasn’t the sweetest little brown boy in the whole world. It! You’ve hurt his little feelings too dreadfully, my dear — look at him sulking!”

  Puff had composed himself into a sort of dribbling torpor.

  “That dog doesn’t get enough exercise,” said Major Willoughby suddenly, fixing h
is eyes upon his hostess.

  “Surely it — he — is too small to require a great deal,” said Lady Vivian languidly. Lap-dogs bored her very much indeed, and she turned away her eyes after taking one rather disgusted look at the recumbent Puff through her eyeglasses.

  “Train up a dog in the way it should go. Now, this little fellah — you’d hardly believe it, Lady Vivian, if I were to tell you the difference in him after he’s had a good run over the Common.”

  “Lewis!” cried Lesbia, opening her eyes to an incredible extent, as was her wont whenever she wished to emphasize her words. “I can’t have you boring people about Puff. Lewis is a perfect slave to Puffles, and tries to hide it by calling him ‘the dog’ and talking about his training.”

  Lewis looked self-conscious, and immediately said: “Not at all; not at all. But the dog is an intelligent little brute. Now, I’ll tell you what happened the other day.”

  Major Willoughby gave various instances of Puff’s discrimination, and Lesbia kissed the top of Puff’s somnolent head and exclaimed shrilly at intervals that “it was too, too bad to pay the little treasure so many compliments; it would turn his little fluffy head, it would.”

  Lady Vivian reflected that she might certainly absolve herself from the charge of contributing to this catastrophe. The language of compliment had seldom been further from her lips; but in any case her visitors left her little of the trouble of sustaining conversation.

  It was evident that Puff was a recent acquisition in the Willoughby ménage.

  “Where’s your dear girl?” Lesbia presently inquired fondly of her hostess.

  “In Questerham, at the Depôt.”

  “Now, Joanna, I’m going to be perfectly candid. You won’t mind, I know — after all, you and I were girls together. What Char needs, my dear, is flogging.”

  Lady Vivian was conscious of distinct relief at the thought that her secretary did not happen to be within earshot of this startling expression of opinion.

  “You are certainly being perfectly candid, Lesbia,” she said dryly. “What has poor Char been doing to require flogging, may I ask?”

  “You ask me that, Joanna! Lewis, hark at her!”

  Lewis, thus appealed to, looked very uncomfortable, and said in a non-committal manner: “H’m, yes, yes. Hi! Puff! — good dog, sir!” thus rousing the Pekinese to a fresh outburst of ear-piercing barks.

  When this had at length been quelled by the blandishments of Lesbia and the words of command repeatedly given in a martial tone by her husband, Lady Vivian repeated her inquiry, and Mrs. Willoughby replied forcibly: “My dear, nothing but flogging would ever bring her to her senses. The way she’s treating you and poor dear Sir Piers! He’s looking iller and older every day, and tells me himself that he never sees her now; it’s too piteous to hear him, dear old thing. It would wring tears from a stone — wouldn’t it, Lewis?”

  “Down, sir, down, I say!” was the reply of Major Willoughby, addressed to the investigating Puff.

  “Oh, naughty boy, leave the screen alone. Now, come here to mother, then. What was I telling you, Joanna? Oh, about that girl of yours. War-work is all very well, my dear, but to my mind home-ties are absolutely sacred, and more than ever before in such a time as this, when we may all be swept away by some ghastly air-raid in a night. It’s simply a time when homes should cling together. I always tell my Lewis it’s a time when we should cling more than ever before — don’t I, Lewis?”

  Lewis looked at Puff with a compelling eye, but Puff was again quiescent, and gave him no opening.

  Lady Vivian said, very briskly indeed: “Char is not at all a clinging person, Lesbia, and neither am I. We can each stand very comfortably on our own feet, and I’m proud of the work she’s doing in Questerham. Now, do let me give you some tea.”

  “Joanna, I know perfectly well you’re snubbing me and telling me to mind my own business, but Lewis can tell you that I’m perfectly impervious. I always say exactly what I want to say, and if you won’t listen to me, I shall talk to your good man. I can hear him coming.”

  The entrance of Sir Piers Vivian was the signal for a frantic uproar from Puff, who hurled a shrill defiance at him from the hearth-rug, which he so exactly matched in colour as to be indistinguishable from it.

  “Bless me, Joanna, what’s all this?” inquired the astonished Sir Piers, looking all round him in search of the monster from which so much noise could proceed.

  He failed to perceive it, and stumbled heavily over the hearth-rug.

  There was a howl from Puff; Lesbia cried, “Oh, my little manikin, is ‘oo deaded?” Major Willoughby exclaimed in agonized tones to his host, “By Jove! the dog got in your way, sir, I’m afraid;” and to Puff, “Get out of the light, sir; what are you doing there?” and Lady Vivian gave a sudden irrepressible peal of laughter.

  So that Lesbia, taking her departure half an hour later, remarked conclusively to her Lewis that the strain of this dreadful war was making poor dear Joanna Vivian positively hysterical.

  She repeated the same alarming statement for Char’s benefit next time she saw her at the Canteen. “I shouldn’t say it, my dear child, but that your darling mother and I were girls together, and it’s simply breaking my heart to see how broken up your father is, and no one to take any of the strain of it off her.”

  Mrs. Willoughby spoke in her usual penetrating accents, and without any regard for the fact that at least three members of Miss Vivian’s staff were well within earshot.

  “No one can be keener than I am about doing one’s bit for this ghastly war, but I do think, dear, that your place just now is at home — at least part of each day. You won’t mind an old friend’s speaking quite, quite plainly, I know.”

  Char minded so much that she was white with annoyance.

  “I can’t discuss it here,” she said, in a voice even lower than usual, in rebukeful contrast to Lesbia’s screeching tones. “I should be only too thankful if I could get my place satisfactorily filled here, but at present it’s perfectly impossible for me to leave even for an hour or two. I very often don’t get time even for lunch nowadays.”

  “Simply because you enjoy making a martyr of yourself!” said Mrs. Willoughby spitefully.

  Char, dropping her eyelids in a manner that gave her a look of incredible insolence, moved away without replying.

  For the next week she worked harder than ever, multiplying letters and incessant interviews, and depriving herself daily of an extra hour’s sleep in the morning by starting for the Depôt earlier than usual, so as to cope with the press of business. It was her justification to herself for Mrs. Willoughby’s crude accusations and the unspoken reproach in Sir Piers’s feeble bewilderment at her activities.

  Miss Plumtree fell ill with influenza, and Char took over her work, and arranged with infinite trouble to herself that Miss Plumtree should go to a small convalescent home in the country, because the doctor said she needed change of air. She was to incur no expense, Char told her, very kindly, and even remembered to order a cab for her at the country station. Miss Plumtree, owning that she could never have afforded a journey to her home in Devonshire, cried tears of mingled weakness and gratitude, and told the Hostel all that Miss Vivian had done.

  Everybody said it was exactly like Miss Vivian, and that she really was too wonderful.

  Then the demon of influenza began its yearly depredations. One member of the staff after another went down with it, was obliged to plead illness and go to bed at the Hostel, and inevitably pass on the complaint to her room-mate.

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Potter won’t be coming today,” Miss Delmege announced deprecatingly to her chief, who struck the table with her hand and exclaimed despairingly:

  “Of course! just because there’s more to be done than ever! Influenza, I suppose?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “That’s five of them down with it now — or is it six? I don’t know what to do.”

  “It does seem strange,” was the helpless
rejoinder of Miss Vivian’s secretary.

  Char thought the adjective inadequate to a degree. She abated not one jot of all that she had undertaken, and accomplished the work of six people.

  Miss Delmege several times ventured to exclaim, with a sort of respectful despair, that Miss Vivian would kill herself, and Char knew that the rest of the staff was saying much the same thing behind her back. At Plessing Miss Bruce remonstrated admiringly, and exclaimed every day how tired Char was looking, throwing at the same time a rather resentful glance upon Lady Vivian.

  But Joanna remained quite unperceiving of the dark lines deepening daily beneath her daughter’s heavy eyes.

  She was entirely absorbed in Sir Piers, becoming daily more dependent upon her.

  The day came, when the influenza epidemic was at its height in Questerham, when Miss Bruce exclaimed in tones of scarcely suppressed indignation as Char came downstairs after the usual hasty breakfast which she had in her own room: “My dear, you’re not fit to go. Really you’re not; you ought to be in bed this moment. Do, do let me telephone and say you can’t come today. Indeed, it isn’t right. You look as though you hadn’t slept all night.”

  “I haven’t, much,” said Char hoarsely. “I have a cold, that’s all.”

  “Miss Vivian was coughing half the night,” thrust in her maid, hovering in the hall laden with wraps.

  “You mustn’t go!” cried Miss Bruce distractedly.

  “You really aren’t fit, Miss.”

  Lady Vivian appeared at the head of the stairs.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Oh, Lady Vivian,” cried the secretary, “do look at her! She ought to be in bed.”

  Char said: “Nonsense!” impatiently, but she gave her mother an opportunity for seeing that her face was white and drawn, with heavily ringed eyes and feverish lips.

  “You’ve got influenza, Char.”

  “I dare say,” said Char in tones of indifference. “It would be very odd if I’d escaped, since half the office is down with it. But I can’t afford to give in.”

  “It would surely be truer economy to take a day off now than to risk a real breakdown later on,” was the time-worn argument urged by Miss Bruce.