Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “But, mummy, darling, I do want Queenie to come here and see Barbara and Cedric.”

  It was not true, but Alex was using the arguments which she felt would be most likely to appeal to her mother.

  “She wants to know them so much, and — and I saw her father at the station when we arrived, and he was very polite.”

  “Who was with you? I don’t like your speakin’ like that to people whom father and I don’t know.”

  “Oh, it was only a second,” said Alex hastily. “Madame Hippolyte was there, and Colonel Torrance just came up to take Queenie away.”

  “Torrance — Torrance?” said Lady Isabel reflectively. “Who’s Torrance?”

  The question made Alex’ heart sink afresh. It was one which, coming from her parents, she heard applied to new acquaintances, or occasionally to protégés for whom some intimate friends might crave the favour of an invitation to one of the big Clare “crushes” during the season, and the inquiry was seldom one which boded well for the regard in which the newcomer would be held.

  “Mother, you’d like her, I think, really and truly you would. She’s awfully pretty.”

  “Alex!”

  Lady Isabel for once sounded really angry.

  “I’m so sorry; it slipped out — I didn’t mean it — I never really say it. I never do, mother.”

  Alex became agitated, trying to fend off the accusation which she foresaw was coming.

  “I suppose you learn those horrid slang words from this girl you’ve taken such a violent fancy to.”

  “No, no.”

  “Well, darling, both father and I are very much disgusted with some of the tricks you’ve picked up at the convent, and you’ll have to find some way of curin’ yourself before you put up your hair and come out. As for the way you’re holdin’ yourself, I’m simply shocked at it, and so is your father; I shall see about sendin’ you to MacPherson’s gymnasium for proper exercises as soon as you get back from the country.”

  Lady Isabel gazed with dissatisfaction at her daughter.

  “You mustn’t be a disappointment to us, darling,” she said. “You know you’ll be coming out in another two years’ time, and it’s so important—”

  She broke off, eyeing Alex anxiously. Already she had forgotten the question of the invitation to Queenie Torrance. Alex, in an agony, rushed recklessly at her point.

  “But, mother, you haven’t said yet — may I ask Queenie on Saturday? You know we shan’t be here after Saturday. May I?”

  Lady Isabel moved to the door with more annoyance than she often displayed.

  “My dear child, you’re old enough to know that these things aren’t done, and besides, I’ve already said no. Father and I dislike these sudden, violent friendships, in any case. Run along upstairs, my darling, and if you and Barbara want a little tea-party on Saturday, you may ask those nice Fitzgerald children. Tell Nurse that I said you might.”

  Lady Isabel kissed Alex, and went downstairs, the trailing folds of her evening dress carefully held up in one hand as she descended the broad, curving stairs.

  From the upper landing Alex watched her for a few moments, her face burning with mortification and the effort to restrain her tears. Then she broke into sobs and ran away upstairs.

  Mother had not understood in the very least. She never understood, never would understand.

  No one understood.

  Alex felt, as so often, that she would barter everything she possessed for the finding of some one who would understand.

  In her craving for self-expression, she talked to Barbara about Queenie Torrance, but represented their intercourse as that of an equal friendship, with unbounded affection and confidence on both sides.

  Barbara listened believingly enough, and even exhibited signs of a faint jealousy, and gradually Alex’ inventions brought her a slight feeling of comfort, as though the ideal friendship which she so readily described to her little sister must have some real existence.

  The old sense of supremacy began to assert itself again, and Barbara fell into the old ways of following Alex’ lead in everything. She lost her shrinking convent manner, born of the sense of helpless insecurity, and when Cedric’s return brought Barbara back to her earliest allegiance — the league which she and Cedric had always formed against Alex’ overbearing ways in the nursery — her defection was resented by her sister with no lack of spirit.

  “Idiotic little copy-cat! Just because Cedric’s come, you pretend you only care for cricket and nonsense like that, as though he wanted to play cricket with a little girl like you.”

  “He doesn’t mind playing cricket with me; he says I can bowl very well for a girl, and it gives him practice. Anyway,” said Barbara shrewdly, “he likes talking about it, and how am I to be his pal unless I understand what he means?”

  “You’re not to say that horrid, vulgar word. You know mother would be very angry.”

  “I shall say what I like. It’s not your business. You’re a prig, ever since you went to that hateful convent!”

  “You’re not to speak to me like that, you’re not!” shouted Alex, stamping her foot.

  The dispute degenerated into one of the furious quarrels of their nursery days, and Alex, completely mastered by her temper, flew at Barbara, as she had not done since they were seven and ten years old respectively, and hit her and pulled her long curl viciously.

  Barbara stood stock-still on the instant. She had infinitely more self-control than Alex, and a strong instinct for being invariably in the right.

  But she uttered shriek upon piercing shriek that brought old Nurse, heavy-footed but astonishingly swift, upon the scene, and reduced Alex to dire disgrace for the rest of the day.

  She cried again, suffering remorse and shame that seemed almost unbearable, and told herself hopelessly that she could never be good anywhere.

  “Such an example to your little sister, who’s never given me a moment’s trouble all the while you’ve been away,” Nurse declared, at the end of a long monologue during which Alex learnt and implicitly believed that a temper like hers, unbridled at the age of fifteen, must have irrevocably passed beyond one’s own control into that of the Devil himself.

  “When you remember,” Nurse wound up, “how you nearly killed her with your naughty ways and had her on her back for a year, and she with never a word of complaint against you, poor lamb, one would think you’d want to make it up to her, instead of hitting one as never even hits you back. But you’ve no heart, Alex, as I’ve always said and always shall say about you.”

  Heart or no heart, old Nurse thoroughly succeeded in working upon Alex’ feelings, and in sobbing abjection she begged Barbara’s forgiveness.

  Barbara, agreeably conscious of martyrdom, found it easy to grant, with a gentleness that redoubled Alex’ shame, and the incident, except for Alex’ swollen eyes and subdued tones next day, was closed. Cedric, characteristically, remained oblivious of it throughout.

  He had grown into a good-looking boy, not tall for his eleven years, but sturdy and well set up, with steady, straight-gazing eyes behind the spectacles that his short sight still necessitated, to the grief of Lady Isabel. His mind was obsessed by cricket, and from his conversation one might have deduced that no other occupation had filled the summer term. Nevertheless, he brought home a large pile of prizes, and a report that caused Sir Francis to smile his excessively rare smile and utter two words that Cedric never forgot, and never mentioned to any one else: “Well done.”

  Two days after Cedric’s return, Sir Francis and Lady Isabel went away for their annual round of country visits, and old Nurse, with the new, young nurse who devoted her services exclusively to Pamela, and a nursery-maid to wait upon them, went with the children to stay at Fiveapples Farm in Devonshire.

  The farm was glorious.

  The girls might run about the hay-fields and in the lanes, though Nurse, mindful of Lady Isabel’s injunction as to complexion and the danger of freckles, always insisted on hats and gloves; a
nd Cedric, followed everywhere like a little shadow by Archie, rode the farm horses and even went into Exeter to market with Farmer Young on Fridays.

  Alex insensibly began to cease her preoccupied outlook for letters from Queenie, and the convent life began to relax its hold on her memory and imagination, as older influences resumed their sway.

  Correspondence with Queenie had never been satisfactory.

  Although not forbidden, Alex knew that it was considered a foolish and undesirable practice, and that her letters, although, as a matter of fact, generally given to her unopened, were always liable to supervision by the authorities as a matter of course.

  Old Nurse might be unable to read, although no one had ever heard her admit as much, but she always slit open any letter that came for Alex or Barbara and made a feint of perusing it; unless the envelope, as rarely happened, bore Lady Isabel’s superscription.

  “In the absence of your mamma,” said old Nurse severely, and she never failed to refuse unhesitatingly any request from Alex to be allowed to go to the post office for the purpose of buying stamps.

  Queenie had only written twice. The second letter reached Alex at Fiveapples Farm, when she had nearly given up hope for it.

  “DEAR ALEX,

  “Thank you very much for your letters. It is nice of you to write to me so often. Please forgive me for not writing oftener to you, but I haven’t got much time. It’s so hot in London now. You are very lucky to be in the country. I think we shall go soon, but I don’t know yet where we shall go.

  “Do you know that you are quite near where the Munroes are staying? Diana wrote to me the other day. Perhaps you will see them. Please give them my love. Do you remember how funny Diana was at her singing lessons? I often think of the convent, don’t you? Now I must end, Alex, with fond love from your affectionate school friend,

  “QUEENIE.

  “P.S. I am not going back next term. I am very glad, except for not seeing you. I hope we shall see each other in London.”

  Alex read and re-read the postscript, and tried not to think that the rest of the letter was disappointing.

  “Your great friend doesn’t write you nearly such long letters as you write her,” observed Barbara, eyeing the four small sheets which Queenie’s unformed, curiously immature-looking writing had barely succeeded in covering.

  “She hasn’t got time,” said Alex quickly and defensively.

  “More like she’s got a sensible governess who doesn’t let her waste good pen and paper on such rubbish,” old Nurse severely pointed the moral.

  “What do girls want to write to one another for?” said Cedric. “They can’t Have anything to say.”

  Barbara, who was secretly curious, seized the opportunity.

  “What does she write about, Alex?”

  Alex would have liked to tell them to mind their own business, but she knew that any accusation of making mysteries would bring down Nurse’s wrath upon her, and as likely as not the confiscation of the letter.

  She read it aloud hastily, with a pretence of skipping here and there, leaving out the “dear Alex” at the beginning, and the whole of the last sentence and the postscript.

  “I suppose you’ve left out all the darlings and the loves and kisses,” Cedric remarked scornfully, more from conventionality than anything else.

  Alex was not averse to having it supposed that Queenie had been more lavish with endearments than she had in reality shown herself.

  “Who are the Munroes?” asked Barbara. “Are they nice?”

  “The American girls who crossed from Liège with me. I remember now, they were going to spend their holidays with an aunt somewhere in Devonshire.”

  “Perhaps we shall see them. How old are they?”

  “Sadie and Diana are much older than you,” Alex told her crushingly. “In fact, they’re older than I am. But the little one, Marie, is only twelve.”

  “Where does the aunt live?”

  “How should I know?” said Alex. She reflected bitterly that even if her schoolmates should ever meet her in Devonshire, it would be impossible for her to make any advance to them, with old Nurse, even more strictly mindful of the conventions than Lady Isabel.

  But for once it seemed as though fate were on Alex’ side.

  “I hear,” wrote Lady Isabel, in one of her hasty, collective letters, addressed impartially to “My darling Children,” “that Mrs. Alfred Cardew, who lives at a very pretty house called Trevose, not more than a few miles from where you are, has her three little nieces with her for the holidays, and that they are at the same convent as Alex. So if you like, darlings, as I know Mrs. Alfred Cardew quite well, you may ask Nurse to let you arrange some little picnic or other and invite the three children.”

  Alex, taken by surprise, felt doubtful. She did not know whether she wanted to expose herself to the criticisms which she thought, disparagingly gazing round at her brothers and sisters and their autocratic guardian, they would inevitably call forth from strangers. Suppose they came, and Barbara was shy and foolish, and Cedric doggedly bored, and then the Munroes went back to Liège next term and laughed at Alex, and told the other girls what queer relations she had. And again, thought Alex, Nurse would probably think the Americanisms, which had amused Queenie and Alex at the convent, merely vulgar, and Barbara and Cedric would wonder.

  “You are extraordinary, Alex!” said Barbara petulantly. “You’re always talking about your friends at the convent and saying how nice they are, and then when there’s a chance of our seeing them too, you don’t seem to want to have them.”

  “Yes, I do,” said Alex hastily, and consoled herself with the reflection that very likely the plan would never materialize.

  But as luck would have it, Alex, the very next day, saw Sadie Munroe waving to her excitedly from the carriage where she was driving with a very gaily-dressed lady, obviously the aunt.

  The following week, a charming note invited Alex, Barbara, Cedric and Archie to lunch and spend the afternoon at Trevose. They should be fetched in the pony-cart, and driven back after tea.

  At least, Alex reflected thankfully, old Nurse would not be there to put her to shame.

  About Archie, with his clean sailor suit and shining curls, she felt no anxiety. He was always a success.

  But she inspected Cedric, and especially Barbara, with anxiety.

  The day was a very hot one, and Cedric in cricketing flannels looked sufficiently like every other boy of his age and standing to reassure his critical sister.

  But Barbara!

  Surely the three pretty, sharp-eyed Americans would despise little, pale, plain Barbara, with her one ridiculous curl of pale hair, and the big, babyish bow of blue ribbon against which Alex had protested so vigorously in her own case that Nurse had finally substituted black.

  No amount of protest, however, even had Alex dared to offer it, would have induced Nurse to depart from the rule which decreed that the sisters should be dressed alike, and Barbara’s clean cotton frock was the counterpart of Alex’.

  Alex thought the similarity ridiculous, and hated the twin Leghorn hats, each with a precisely similar wreath round the crown, of thick, pale blue forget-me-nots, of which the clusters were unrelieved by any blade or hint of green.

  Even their brown shoes and stockings and brown gauntlet gloves were alike.

  Alex felt disgusted at the aspect which she thought they must present, and was unable to enjoy the four-mile drive in the pony-cart Mrs. Cardew had sent over for them. She could not have told whether she was more apprehensive of the effect Barbara and Cedric might have on the Munroes, or the Munroes on Barbara and Cedric.

  “What do you suppose we shall do all the afternoon?” asked Barbara. She was in one of her rare moods of excitement, and her futile chattering and unceasing questions filled Alex with impatience.

  The two were on the verge of a quarrel by the time the last hill was reached.

  Then came a long, shady avenue, with two pretty little lodges and a wide s
tone gate, and the groom drove the pony smartly round a triangular gravel sweep which lay before the arched entrance to the big Georgian house.

  Sadie, Marie and Diana were sitting on the low stone wall that divided the drive from what looked like a wilderness of pink and red roses, and Alex noticed with relief that they were all three dressed exactly alike in white muslin frocks, although she also saw that in spite of the blazing sun they were without hats or gloves. They jumped off the wall as the pony-cart drew up before the door and greeted the Clare children eagerly, and with no trace of shyness.

  V

  Other People

  It seemed to Alex that the day was going to be a success, and her spirits rose.

  She was rather surprised to see that Diana Munroe, who was seventeen, wore her hair in a thick plait twisted round the crown of her head, and asked her almost at once:

  “Have you put your hair up, Diana? Are you going to ‘come out’?”

  “Oh, no. It’ll come down again at the end of the holidays, for my last term. Only Aunt Esther likes to see it that way. There’s Aunt Esther, at the bottom of the rose garden.”

  Looking over the terrace wall they saw half-a-dozen grown-up people, men in white flannels, and youthful-looking ladies in thin summer dresses. Alex was rather pleased. She had always been more of a success with her mother’s grown-up friends than with her own contemporaries, from the time of her nursery days, when she had been sent for to the drawing-room on the “At Home” afternoons.

  But though Mrs. Cardew looked up and waved her hand to the group of children on the terrace, she did not appear to expect them to join the party, and the interval before lunch was spent in the display of white rabbits and guinea-pigs.

  At first Alex watched Barbara rather nervously, wondering if she would be shy and foolish, and disgrace her, but Barbara, no longer over-shadowed by an elder sister who outshone her in every way, had acquired a surprising amount of self-assurance. Alex was not even certain that she approved of the ease with which her little sister talked and exclaimed over the pet animals, asking Diana whether she might pick up the guinea-pigs and hold them, without so much as waiting for a lead from Alex.