Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Lydia was sent to stay with Aunt Evelyn, and then, just as she was beginning to feel rather more at home with her noisy, teasing cousins, her mother fetched her away again and they went to rooms in Hampstead. But the landlady there objected to the number of times that Lydia’s mother asked her friends, although only one at a time, to come and have supper and spend the evening.

  The two ladies would sit up very late, while Lydia’s mother talked of all that made her unhappy, and generally cried a great deal, and very often, even after the visitor had gone, would come and wake Lydia up by kneeling at her bedside and sobbing there.

  From Hampstead, her mother went as paying guest to a family in West Kensington and Lydia was sent to a boarding-school. She never forgot the mortification of her mother’s sudden descent upon her, when she had been there nearly a whole term, to say that she had come to take her away.

  “But she’s getting on so well!” the head mistress, whom Lydia liked, had protested. “You’re very happy with us, aren’t you, dear?”

  “Yes,” Lydia had muttered miserably, and with only too much truth.

  She had been happier than ever before, and had made friends with other little girls, and enjoyed the games they played, and the interesting lessons. And she had felt almost sure of getting a prize at the end of the year. But she knew with a dreadful certainty that if she showed her great reluctance to leaving school, and her disappointment and humiliation at being taken away without rhyme or reason’, her mother would have a fit of the tempestuous crying that Lydia so dreaded, and would say how heartless it was of her little girl not to want to come home, “now that they only had each other.” So she swallowed very hard, and looked down on the floor, clenching her hands, and made hardly any protest at all. Her only comfort was that her mother’s impetuosity, which could never wait, insisted upon her immediate departure.

  And Lydia was glad to avoid any farewells, with the astonished questions and comments that must have accompanied them.

  She felt that she could never bear to see the nice Kensington school again.

  After that she had lessons or holidays as seemed good to her mother, and very seldom spent a consecutive three months in the same place. No wonder that Regency Terrace, unaltered in half a century, seemed a very haven of refuge to Mrs. Raymond’s child.

  III

  EXPERIENCE has to be bought, generally at the cost of some humiliating youthful mistakes. Those who profit by these unpleasant transactions early in life may be congratulated.

  Lydia, the anxious diplomatist, so acutely desirous of keeping in the good graces of those who had control of her destiny, found that she had made a mistake in approaching Grandpapa privately upon the momentous subject.

  Grandpapa, indeed, had received her carefully thought-out explanation with not too bad a grace.

  “So you don’t think you’re learning enough, eh, Lyddie? D’you think you know more than Aunt Beryl already?” Lydia had nearly cried.

  “No, Grandpapa,” she began in the horrified accents of outraged conventionality, when she remembered in time Grandpapa’s uncanny faculty for penetrating to one’s real true, inmost opinion.

  “Not more,” she said boldly, “but I know as much of Little Arthur’s History as there is in the book, and auntie can’t take me any further in French or fractions, and she never has time to give me proper music lessons. I only do scales, and Weber’s Last Valse, by myself. And I can feel I’m not getting on, Grandpapa — and I do so want to.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got to earn my own living,” said Lydia, rather proud of the words, “and besides, I’m going to write books.”

  “Can you spell?”

  “Yes, Grandpapa.”

  “You’ll be the first woman of my acquaintance that could, then,” said Grandpapa unbelievingly.

  “But there are heaps of other things I ought to know besides spelling,” she urged.

  “Well, I suppose that’s true. But what is it you want to do? I won’t pay for a Madame to come and parlyvoo every day,” said Grandpapa in sarcastic allusion to a recent flight on the part of Aunt Beryl’s friends, the Jacksons.

  “Would it be very expensive to let me go to school for a little bit, Grandpapa?”

  “What, and come back a great hulking tomboy, all muddy boots, and scratched hands like your cousins?” There was less opposition than Lydia had expected in his manner, and she began to plead eagerly.

  “I wouldn’t, truly I wouldn’t — I needn’t play games at all. It’s only for the lessons I want to go. Beatrice and Olive only like it for the hockey, they hate their lessons. But I would work all the time, Grandpapa, and bring back heaps of prizes.”

  “Mind, if I let you go at all, it would be only as a day boarder,” said Grandpapa warningly. But there was more than a hint of concession in his tone.

  “That’s all I want,” said Lydia.

  “I’ll think it over, and talk to your aunt. Now go and fetch me to-day’s paper.”

  Grandpapa occasionally made a feint of reading the newspaper to himself, although he was never seen to turn over a page.

  “I can’t, Grandpapa. Aunt Beryl took it away, but she is going to bring it back this evening.”

  “You can’t?” said Grandpapa in a voice that contrived to be terrible, although it was so small and highpitched: “Don’t talk nonsense! There’s no such thing as can’t. There’s won’t, if you like.”

  Lydia felt very much distressed. Grandpapa’s anger and contempt were not pleasant at any time, and just now when he appeared so nearly disposed to grant her heart’s desire, she was less than ever wishful of incurring them.

  “Aunt Beryl has lent the paper to Mrs. Jackson for something,” she faltered, feeling much disposed to cry. “She said you were sure not to want it before to-night.”

  “Quite wrong. I want it at once. Now don’t say can’t again,” said Grandpapa sharply.

  The unfortunate Lydia looked helplessly at her tyrant.

  “There’s no such thing as can’t,” said Grandpapa truculently. “Just you take hold of that and don’t you ever forget it. Never place any reliance on a person who says can’t. Let ’em say they won’t — or they don’t want to — that may be true. The other isn’t. Anybody can do anything, if they only make up their minds to it.”

  Grandpapa and his descendant faced one another in silence for a minute or so across the echo of this Spartan theory. At last the old man said contemptuously: “If you haven’t learnt that yet, you’re not ready for any more schooling than we can give you here, I can tell you.”

  It was as Lydia had feared! The future of one’s education, the whole of one’s career in fact, was at stake.

  Lydia gulped at an enormous lump in her throat and managed to articulate with sufficient determination: “I’ll fetch it.”

  Then she hurried out of the room, wondering what on earth she should do next.

  Rush out and buy another paper? The shops were a long way off, and very likely the morning papers might be all sold out.

  The station book stall? That again was open to the same objections.

  Borrow one from somebody else? But whom? Suddenly Lydia caught her breath.

  Why not? It seemed obvious, once one had thought of it.

  She hastily put on her hat, left the front door ajar behind her, and walked out into the road and down a street that ran at an angle to Regency Terrace.

  “If you please, Mr. Raymond would be glad to have the morning paper back again if Mrs. Jackson has quite finished with it,” she said politely, relieved that it was late enough in the day for “the girl” to open the door of the Jackson establishment to her, instead of one of the family.

  Five minutes later she was again confronting Grandpapa, this time feeling triumphant and highly pleased with herself..

  “I’ve got it, Grandpapa!” Grandpapa’s claw-like old hand shot out and snatched at the newspaper.

  “What’s the date on it?” he demanded.

  Lyd
ia read it aloud.

  “That’s to-day’s all right.”

  “I went round and asked “began Lydia, desirous of exploiting her resourcefulness.

  “That’ll do, me dear. Never spoil an achievement by a long story about it,” said Grandpapa. “I asked for the paper and you’ve brought it. That’s quite enough.”

  “Yes, Grandpapa,” said Lydia submissively.

  Grandpapa pointed the moral no further but Lydia had unconsciously added another paragraph to the Book of Rules which was to guide her throughout the mysterious game that was just beginning for her: “There’s no such thing as can’t.”

  She heard nothing more for the next few days of her ambitious request to be sent to school, and was far too cautious to risk a peremptory refusal through importunity.

  It was a week later that she became uncomfortably aware of an indefinable alteration in her aunt’s manner towards her.

  “Is anything the matter, auntie?” she gently ventured.

  “Why should anything be the matter, dear?” said Aunt Beryl, her lips very close together and her gaze not meeting Lydia’s.

  The child’s heart sank.

  Quite obviously Aunt Beryl was offended, and meant to adopt the trying policy of ignoring any cause for offence. Twice she was too tired to come upstairs and say good night to Lydia, although this had never happened before, and several times when Lydia made little obvious comments, of the sort that always constituted conversation between them on their walks, Aunt Beryl appeared to be too much absorbed in thought to have heard her.

  “I would much rather be scolded,” reflected Lydia dismally.

  She was not scolded, but Aunt Beryl’s sense of grievance presently passed into a more r rticulate stage.

  “Oh, don’t ask me, dear. I’m nobody. I don’t know anything,” she suddenly exclaimed with extreme bitterness, on a request for advice in respect of Lydia’s knitting.

  “Oh, auntie! are you angry?”

  “Why should I be angry, dear? I may be grieved, but that’s another matter.”

  On this ground Aunt Beryl finally took her stand.

  “I’m not angry, dear — I’m grieved.”

  And grieved Aunt Beryl remained, tacitly waving away all Lydia’s timid attempts at apology or explanation.

  Could anything be better calculated to make one feel thoroughly remorseful and uncomfortable? Lydia, however, characteristically felt more resentful than remorseful.

  The tension of the situation was slightly relieved one evening, greatly to Lydia’s surprise, by Mr. Monteagle Almond.

  “So you’re being sent to school, young lady?” he remarked quietly, making Lydia jump.

  “Oh, ami?”

  “You ought to know. I understand that a certain young lady, not a hundred miles away from where we are now, asked to be sent to school, so that she might grow very learned. Isn’t that so?”

  “I should like to go to school,” faltered Lydia.

  “Very natural,” said Mr. Almond indulgently.

  “Companions of your own age attract you, no doubt.

  What would childhood be without other children, eh, George? You remember?”

  “I was not so well provided as you were, Monty,” said Uncle George rather resentfully.

  “Indeed, no. Are you aware, young lady, that I was one of a family of fifteen?” Aunt Beryl made a clicking sound with her tongue.

  “Yes, Miss Raymond, fifteen. My father and mother were old-fashioned people, and held that each child carried a blessing with it. Three died in infancy, and a young brother was lost at sea. Otherwise I’m thankful to say that we are all spared to this day.”

  “Fancy!” said Aunt Beryl in a flat voice.

  “Fifteen children,” repeated the grey-bearded clerk, “and my mother kept her figure to the last day of her life. A lesson to the young wives of to-day, I often think.”

  “Your bedtime, Lydia,” said Aunt Beryl briskly.

  “Go upstairs now and I’ll come and put the light out.”

  Lydia was much too tactful to point out that it was still ten minutes before her bedtime, understanding perfectly that the indiscreetness of Mr. MonteagkAlmond’s conversation was responsible for her accelerated departure.

  She had learnt that she was really going to school, and she was happy.

  Aunt Beryl gradually became reconciled to the loss of her pupil, and presently began to show signs of pride in Lydia’s advancement.

  Once or twice Lydia heard her talking to Mrs. Jackson in the rapid undertones always adopted by Aunt Beryl and Aunt Evelyn with their friends.

  “Quite a backward child, when she came to us last year. Between ourselves, my sister-in-law never took much trouble... I was quite against sending her to Miss Glover’s at first — you know, I thought she’d be so behind in everything. So she was, too, but the way that child has picked up! You really wouldn’t believe it — I’m sure half the sums in her book I couldn’t do myself. Never was good at figures.”

  Lydia was very proud of her faculty for arithmetic.

  She thought very little of being first in her class for English composition, and none of the other girls thought much of it either, but they all envied her when the weekly announcement came, as it frequently did: “Problem No. 15. No one got that right except Lydia Raymond. Stand up, Lydia Raymond, and show the class the working of No. 15 on the blackboard. ‘If a train left Glasgow at 8.45 a in on Wednesday, travelling at the rate of 60 miles an hour ‘“ Lydia enjoyed those problems, worked by herself on the black-board in full view of half-a-dozen befogged, pencil-chewing seniors.

  But for her French, Lydia would have found herself more highly placed than she was in the school.

  Monday and Thursday afternoons.

  O horrible verbs, O hateful Premiere Annee de Grammaire, and thrice-hateful genders! Why should a table be feminine and an arm-chair masculine? Lydia hated her French, and continued to say “Esker le feneter de la salong ay ouvere?” in a lamentable voice and an unalterably British accent. Very few of Miss Glover’s girls were “good at French.” Only three had any acquaintance with German, and of these one was Dutch.

  Many of them could play the piano correctly, and even brilliantly, some of them could copy free-hand drawings or plaster casts, but hardly one could write a letter without making mistakes in spelling, punctuation, and English. All, unconsciously enough, were more or less defective in the correct pronunciation of English.

  Since brains, in Great Britain, are for the most part the prerogative of the middle classes, it follows that their possessors enjoy a certain prestige among their compeers which would, on those same grounds, be denied them in more exalted circles.

  Lydia found that her schoolfellows were proud of her cleverness, and disposed to seek her friendship.

  She easily assumed leadership amongst the group of girls of her own age who were also day boarders at Miss Glover’s.

  “Do help me with this beastly sum, Lydia. I’m sure you can do it.”

  Lydia always acceded very graciously to such frequent requests, partly because she loved to show her own superior attainments, and partly because of a very definite conviction, which she had never yet put into words, that it was always worth while to show oneself agreeable. In consequence of this complacence, she was seldom at a loss for companionship in play-time.

  There was always someone to walk about with, arms round one another’s waists after the immemorial schoolgirl practice, heads close together under black or scarlet tarn o’ shanter, for a better exchange of confidences.

  Then Lydia put into practice Grandpapa’s Golden Rule: Always let the other people talk about themselves.

  “I say, Lydia, I’ll tell you a secret. Mind, now, you’re not to say a word to anyone, because I promised not to tell... but I know I can trust you?” An interrogative turn to that last sentence.

  “Yes, truly you can, Ethel. Tell me.”

  “Well, promise you won’t tell. Not even if you’re asked?”


  “Cross my heart “in the glib, accustomed formula.

  “Well, then, Daisy Butcher and May Holt have had a row. You know what frightful friends they’ve been ever since the beginning of the term? Well, it’s all over, and they’ve quarrelled. Only don’t ever say I said so because Edith told me, and I said I wouldn’t say because it was May Holt herself who told her, and she made her promise not to say. I wouldn’t say a word myself, only I really thought you ought to know, sitting next to May in class and everything. I say, do you like May Holt?”, Lydia, who thought May Holt common and stupid, was for a moment tempted to say so. Then, innate caution and a distrust of her companion’s garrulity restrained her.

  “She’s all right” she said vaguely. “I thought you were rather friends with her?”

  “Not now,” said Ethel hastily. “If the quarrel comes out and there’s any taking sides, I shall be on Daisy’s side. I think May Holt’s been awfully mean. I simply can’t bear mean ways. I’m like that, you know.”

  Thus Ethel’s confidences, similar to scores of others, all ending in an exposition of the speaker’s view of her own personal traits of character.

  Storms raged in teacups, confidences were violated, the identical Ethel who had sworn Lydia to secrecy on the May and Daisy quarrel, found herself taxed with various indiscreet utterances and sent to Coventry.

  “Well, it was Edith who told me, and she said May Holt was a liar, what’s more,” sobbed Ethel, in counteraccusation that availed her nothing, although it raised fresh and terrible issues between herself and Edith, and again between Edith and May Holt, and all May Holt’s partisans.

  Lydia listened to it all, ‘and thought how clever she had been to keep clear of all this trouble.

  It was a thing always to be remembered — the unwisdom of uttering opinions that would probably be repeated to their object — never, never to say anything that could not be safely repeated without making for one an enemy.

  Lydia silently added this conviction to her increasing store of worldly wisdom.

  So she welcomed the confidences of the other girls, most of whom seemed quite unable to prevent themselves from talking, and she was at the same time very careful never to render herself unpopular by mischiefmaking or by carrying backwards arid forwards any of their indiscreet utterances.