It was quite short, and began:
“DEAREST ALEX (is that right?)”
It told her of the journey to Devonshire, of an improvement in the invalid’s state of health, and of Noel’s own projected tour of inspection round the estate, which he thought had been neglected by his agent of late.
“But I shall be able to put all that right, I hope, as I’m rather keen about the housing of the poor, and questions of that sort. You might look out for any decent book on social economy, will you, Alex?”
The letter did not extend beyond the bottom of the second page, but Noel was going to write again in a day or two, when there was more to tell her, and with love to every one, he was hers for ever and a day, Noel.
Alex’ reply went to Trevose the same day, but the letter she had written in the firelight, she burnt.
XII
Christmas Pantomime
The engagement was not announced, but a good many people knew about it.
Their congratulations pleased Alex, as did her mother’s obvious pride and satisfaction.
She liked wearing her diamond ring, although she only did so at home, and she even found pleasure in writing of her new dignities to Barbara at Neuilly.
In such trivial anodynes did Alex seek oblivion for the ever-increasing terror that was gaining upon her.
Noel came back from Devonshire after Christmas — and Lady Isabel sometimes spoke tentatively to Alex of a wedding early in the season.
“Jubilee year would be so charming for your wedding, my darling,” she said effusively.
Alex thought of a white satin dress and long train, of orange blossom and a lace veil, of bridesmaids, presents, the exciting music of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and the glory of a wedding-ring. On any other aspects of the case her mind refused to dwell.
Nevertheless, she made little or no response to her mother’s hinted suggestions. Neither Noel nor Alex ever exchanged the slightest reference to their marriage, although Noel often discoursed freely of a Utopian future for the tenantry at Trevose, the basis of which, by implication, was his suzerainty and that of Alex.
“I rather believe in the old-fashioned feudal system, personally. You may say that’s just the contrary of my old socialistic ideas, Alex, but then I always think it’s a mistake to be absolutely cast-iron in one’s convictions. One ought to assimilate new ideas as one goes through life, and, of course, sometimes they’re bound to displace preconceived notions. I’m a tremendous believer in experience; it teaches one better than anything else. Besides, Emerson says, ‘Dare to be inconsistent.’ I’m keen on Emerson, you know. Are you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Alex enthusiastically, wishing to be sympathetic. “But I only read Emerson a long while ago, when I was at school. Noel, were you happy at school?”
“Oh, yes,” said Noel unemotionally. “The great thing at school is to be keen, and get on with the other fellows. They were always very decent to me.”
“I wasn’t very happy,” said Alex. She was passionately desirous of sympathy, and was full of youth’s mistaken conviction, that unhappiness is provocative of interest.
Noel cheerfully and unconsciously disabused her of the idea.
“Of course, girls don’t have nearly such a good time as boys do at school. But don’t let’s talk about rotten things like being unhappy. I always believe in taking things as they come, don’t you? I never look back, personally. I think it’s morbid. One ought always to be looking ahead. I tell you what I’ll do, Alex — I’ll give you a copy of Emerson’s Essays. You ought to read them.”
Noel was very generous, and often made her presents. Alex was disproportionately grateful, but to her extreme, though unavowed relief, he never again claimed such a recognition as that which had followed the bestowal of her engagement-ring.
She drifted on from day to day, scarcely aware of her own unhappiness, but wondering bitterly why this, the supreme initiation, should seem to fail her so utterly, and still hoping against hope that the personal element for which she looked so avidly, might yet enter into her relation with Noel.
One day she told herself, with shock of discovery, that Noel was curiously obtuse. He had taken her with Lady Isabel and his brother Eric to Prince’s skating-rink. Alex did not skate, but she enjoyed hearing the band and watching the skaters. Eric Cardew was among the latter, and Alex recognized Queenie Goldstein, in magnificent furs.
“Noel, do you see that very fair girl — the one in blue? She was my great friend at school.”
Alex at the same instant saw a look of fleeting, but unmistakable vexation on her mother’s face at the description.
“Why, that’s Mrs. Goldstein, isn’t it?” said Noel, screwing up his eyes in an interested look.
“Yes. I wish I could catch her eye.” Alex was reckless of her mother. “I haven’t talked to her for such a long while. Do you know her?”
“I’ve met her once or twice.”
“Couldn’t you go and speak to her, and bring her over here?” asked Alex wistfully.
Noel looked at her, surprised.
“I don’t think I can do that. She wants to skate.”
“Of course not,” broke in Lady Isabel. “Don’t be a little goose, Alex. What do you want her for?”
“Oh, nothing,” Alex replied dejectedly, and also very crossly.
She was in the frame of mind that seeks a grievance, and her nerves were far more overstrained than she realized.
She felt a sudden, absolute anger when Noel said didactically:
“I don’t think it would be very good manners for me to go and force myself on Mrs. Goldstein’s notice. I don’t know her at all well, and there are heaps of people who want to talk to her — just look at all those fellows!”
“You might do it just to please me,” muttered Alex, less from coquettery than from injured pride.
Noel became rather red, and after a minute he remarked in a severe voice:
“I must say, Alex, I think that’s rather a ridiculous thing to say.”
Alex was silent, but from that day the spirit of resentment had at last awakened within her.
She became irritable, and although she still strove to persuade herself that her engagement meant the ultimate realization of happiness, she often spoke impatiently to Noel, and no longer sought to conform herself to the type of womanhood which he obviously desired and expected to find her.
The old sense of “waiting for the next thing” was strong upon her, and she spent her days in desultory idleness, since Lady Isabel made fewer engagements for her, and Noel’s calls upon her time were far from excessive.
She made the discovery then, less illuminating at the time than when viewed afterwards in retrospect, that she could not bear to read novels.
All of them, sooner or later, seemed to deal with the relations between a man and a woman in love, and Alex found herself reading of emotions and experiences of which her own seemed so feeble a mockery, that she was conscious of a physical pang of sick disappointment.
Was all fiction utterly untrue to life? or was hers the counterfeit, while the printed pages but reproduced something of a reality which was denied to her?
She dared not face the question, and was further perplexed by the axiom mechanically passed on by successive authorities in rebuke of her childhood’s passion for reading:
“You can’t learn anything about Real Life from story-books.”
At all events, Alex found the story-books of no solace to her mental sickness, and turned away from their perusal with a sinking heart.
She seldom quarrelled with Noel because, although he was sometimes unmistakably offended at her petulance, he never lost his temper. On the contrary, he argued with her at such length that Alex, although the arguments left her quite unconvinced of the Tightness of his point of view, often gave in from sheer weariness and the sense of hopeless, exhausting muddle.
She could visualize no possible eventual solution of the intangible problem that somewhere lay heavy,
undefined and undefinable, at the back of all her thoughts.
It seemed to her that such a state of affairs had endured for a lifetime, and must extend into eternity, when her relations with Noel entered into the inevitable crisis to which a fortnight’s mutual fret and dissatisfaction had been only the prelude.
Sir Francis, graciously benevolent, invited Noel Cardew to make one of an annual gathering that, for the Clare children, amounted to an institution — to view the Christmas pantomime at Drury Lane. For more years than any of them, except Alex, could remember, a box at the pantomime had been the yearly almost the solitary, expression of Sir Francis Clare’s recognition of his younger children’s existence as beings other than merely ornamental adjuncts to their mother.
Lady Isabel, who detested pantomimes, never joined the party, and Alex could remember still — had, indeed, never altogether lost — the feeling of extreme awe that rendered unnecessary old Nurse’s severe injunctions to the children as to the behaviour suitable to so great an occasion.
This year, Barbara was at Neuilly, and it was considered inadvisable to “unsettle” her by a return to London for the Christmas holidays. But Cedric was at home, and Archie and Pamela, as clamorous as they dared to be for their father’s treat.
Sir Francis did not sacrifice himself to the extent of foregoing late dinner altogether, but he dined at seven o’clock, and issued what more nearly approached to a royal mandate than an invitation, to Alex, Cedric and Noel to bear him company.
The big cuckoo clock in the hall still showed the hour as short of eight o’clock when Pamela and Archie, the former muffled in a large pink shawl, and both of them prancing with ill-restrained impatience, were at last permitted to dispatch the footman in search of a cab.
The carriage, in the opinion of Sir Francis, would be amply filled by himself, his two daughters and Noel Cardew, and it was part of the procedure that the boys should be allowed to journey to the theatre by themselves in a hansom-cab.
The streets were snowy, and as shafts of light from the street-lamps fell across the crowded pavements and brilliant shop windows, still displaying the Christmas decorations put up a month ago, something of the old childish glamour surrounding the yearly festival came upon Alex.
Pamela, already a modern child in the lack of that self-conscious awe of their father that had kept Alex and Barbara tongue-tied in his presence, nevertheless, had none of the modern child’s blasé satiety of parties and entertainments of all kinds.
The Drury Lane pantomime was her solitary annual experience of the theatre, and she was proportionately prepared to enjoy herself to the full. When Sir Francis, with kind, unhumorous smile, made time-honoured pretence of having forgotten the tickets, Pamela gave Alex a shock by her cheerful and unhesitating refusal to carry on the dutiful tradition of her elder sisters and conform tacitly to the jest by a display of pretended consternation.
“Oh, no, I know you haven’t forgotten them,” Pamela cried shrilly. “I saw you look at them just before we started. Besides, you said last year you’d forgotten them, and you had them in your pocket all the time. I remember quite well.”
She began to bounce up and down on the seat of the carriage, the accordion-pleated skirts of her new pink frock billowing round her.
“Sit still,” said Alex repressively. She reflected that she herself as a little girl, and even Barbara, had been very much nicer than was Pamela.
She wondered what Noel had been like as a little boy, and looked at him almost involuntarily.
His glance met hers, and he smiled slightly. The response touched Alex suddenly and acutely, and she felt a pang of remorse for the intense irritation that his presence had often caused her lately.
When the carriage stopped and he sprang out to offer her his hand in descending, she gave hers to him with a tiny thrill, and her fingers lingered for an instant in his, as though awaiting, almost in spite of herself, an all-but-imperceptible pressure that was not forthcoming.
“It’s begun,” gasped Pamela in an agony of impatience in the foyer.
Sir Francis, always punctilious, placed Alex in the right-hand corner of the box, the two children in the centre, and then, with a slight smile, offered Noel his choice of the remaining chairs.
Alex was conscious of a throb of gratification, perhaps more attributable to vanity than to anything else, when the young man placed himself just behind her own chair.
Sir Francis, the comparative isolation of the engaged couple sufficiently sanctioned by the family party surrounding them, immediately disposed himself behind Cedric at the extreme left of the box.
The curtain went down to the sound of applause almost as they took their places, and the lights were turned up. Alex looked round her.
The huge house was everywhere sprinkled with groups of children — Eton boys in broad, white collars such as Archie wore, little girls in white frocks with wide pink or blue sashes and hair-ribbons.
When the orchestra began a medley of old-fashioned popular airs, Home, sweet Home, Way down upon the Swanee River, Bluebells of Scotland, and the like, Alex overwrought, fell an easy victim to the cheap appeal to emotionalism.
In the irrational, passionate desire for reassurance that fell upon her, she leant back until her shoulder almost touched Noel’s.
“Look at all those children!” she whispered, hardly knowing what she said.
Noel gazed at the stalls through his pince-nez.
“The place is crammed,” he said. “They say it’s the best show they’ve ever had. Of course, I haven’t seen it yet, but my own idea about these pantomimes is that they don’t stick enough to the original story. Take ‘Cinderella,’ now, or ‘The Babes in the Wood.’ The whole thing is simply a mass of interpolations — they never really follow the thread of one idea all the way through. I can’t help thinking it would be much better if they did, you know. After all, a pantomime is supposed to be for children, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Alex wondered what reply she had expected from him to her sudden ejaculation, that the actuality should bring such a sense of ironical disappointment.
She leant forward again as the curtain went up.
She was still child enough to enjoy a pantomime for its own sake, but the swing of catchy tunes and sentimental ballads brought with them something more than the easy heartache to which youth falls so ready a victim.
As the crash of the orchestra heralded a big scenic effect of dance and colour, Noel leant a little towards her and began to speak.
“Of course, it’s a good show in its way. Look, Alex, you can see the man manipulating the coloured lights, up there. If you lean right back into this corner — there, up there.”
His voice was full of interest and almost of eagerness. Alex leant back as he suggested and gazed obediently up at the lime-light operator, although she felt no interest, but rather a faint distaste.
“It’s the ingenuity of these things I like,” Noel’s voice in her ear was explaining. “Of course, the dancing’s good, and the comic bits, though I don’t know that I care tremendously about that. They’re always apt to be rather vulgar, even in front of a lot of ladies and children. Pity, that is. But take the songs, now, Alex; wouldn’t you think that it would pay some one to write really good libretto, and get it taken on at a place like this and set to decent music? The tunes are good enough, but it’s the words that are so poor, I always think.”
Alex listened almost without hearing. The time had gone by when she could tell herself, with vehement attempt at self-deception, that such assertions indicated a fundamental resemblance between her tastes and those of Noel Cardew.
She was now only unreasonably angry and disappointed because of her baffled desire for the introduction, however belated, of a personal element into their intercourse.
She actually felt the tears rising to her throat as the evening wore on, and an intolerable fatigue overcame her.
Sitting upright became more and more of an effort, and the box se
emed narrow and over-full.
The instinct of self-pity made her attempt to draw Noel’s sympathy indirectly.
“Could you move back a little?” she half whispered. “I am getting rather cramped.”
“Are you?” returned Noel with surprise, as he pushed his chair back.
But he did not appear to be in the least concerned about the matter. She looked at him once or twice and he met her glance absently. She knew that her face must show signs of the fatigue that she felt, but she knew also that they would not be perceptible to Noel.
For a moment, one of the rebellious gusts of misery of her stormy childhood shook Alex.
Why — why should there be no one to care, no one to whom it mattered that she be weary or out of spirits, no one to perceive, unprompted, when she was tired? She realized what such instinctive protection and care would mean to her, and the almost passionate gratitude with which she could welcome and return such solicitude.
But with Noel, she need not even exercise it. Had she loved him as she had endeavoured to persuade herself that she did, instead of only the figure of Love called by his name, Alex knew that Noel would have passed by all the smaller manifestations of her love unheeding and uncomprehending.
Her gods were mocking her with counterfeit indeed.
“You look tired, Alex,” said her father’s courteously-displeased voice.
Alex knew that on the rare occasions when he personally supervised a party of pleasure, Sir Francis liked the occasion to be met with due appreciation. She gave a forced smile and sat rather more upright.
“To be sure,” her father said seriously, “it is a prolonged entertainment.”
But Alex knew that neither Cedric, Archie nor Pamela would hear of any curtailment of their enjoyment, and Pamela was already urgently whispering that they must stay for the clown — they always did.
Sir Francis yielded graciously, evidently well-pleased, and they remained in the theatre for the final humours of the harlequinade.
Snow was actually falling when at length Sir Francis Clare’s carriage was discovered, and Alex, her always low vitality at its lowest, was shivering with mingled cold and fatigue.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 104
