“There was a little money of your father’s that he left to me,” said Aunt Beryl hastily. “I was always his favourite sister, whatever Evelyn may say, and it seemed only natural that his child should have the benefit of it, I’m sure. Now leave that, my dear, and tell me what sort of work you think of looking out for in town.”
“Certainly,” said Uncle George, “that must be all cut and dried before you think of starting off.”
Lydia felt almost bewildered by the rapidity with which things appeared to be settling themselves. A boarding-house in London, independent work, and leisure and opportunity for the writing that was to bring her fame and money! She remembered once more, and this time with triumph, Grandpapa’s old assertion: “There’s no such thing as can’t.”
Lydia’s determination to succeed, product partly of an ambitious and resolute character, and partly of sheer ignorance as to the difficulties that might lie in wait for her, was enhanced by an ardent desire to justify the astonishingly practical belief in her that Aunt Beryl and Uncle George were displaying.
Uncle George, who was not at all in the habit of paying compliments, even said to her: “I must say, it isn’t every girl who would have the courage to start life as you’re proposing to do, Lydia, and you deserve every success, I’m sure.”
After this, it was a disagreeable shock to find that another, and entirely opposite, point of view could be taken of her venture.
One Wednesday evening, to Lydia’s infinite surprise, silent, dried-up little Mr. Monteagle Almond suddenly broached the subject. He chose his opportunity with evident care. Grandpapa, who still elected to maintain his pose of rapidly-approaching dissolution, had waited until the first game of chess was in full swing, and then demanded plaintively if his son was too busy amusing himself to give the poor old man an arm upstairs.
“Excuse me one moment, Monty.”
Uncle George had departed dutifully.
Almost at the same moment the maid Gertrude had put her head round the door, the rest of her remaining outside the room, after the fashion most deplored by Miss Raymond, and given breathless utterance: “Oh, miss! Could you come out a minute, please? Shamrock’s got his head squeezed in between the railings at the back, and I can’t get him out, and he’s howling something awful!”
“That dog!” Permitting herself only this forbearing exclamation, Aunt Beryl also had hastened away.
Mr. Monteagle Almond remained seated before the chess-table, sedulously tracing a little imaginary pattern on the board with one long yellow forefinger.
Lydia was seated under the gas, which she had turned up as high as it would go, absorbed in finishing a Sunday blouse for herself.
“I am sorry to hear of your projected departure, Miss Lydia,” suddenly said Mr. Monteagle Almond.
“Quite a break-up of the home circle.”
“Oh, no!” protested Lydia, who would have been more deeply concerned at this fashion of viewing her going if she had not been accustomed to Mr. Almond’s sententious phraseology on every occasion. “Besides, I’m not going yet. It’s only a plan for next winter perhaps. I shan’t leave school until the end of this term.”
Mr. Almond shook his head.
“A great wrench for old Mr. Raymond no doubt, and he seems to me to be breaking up. To-night, for instance, he was quite tremulous. I was sorry to see that.”
“So was I,” muttered Lydia rather viciously. It was really too bad of Grandpapa to put on those airs that would take in anyone who did not know all of which he was capable.
“The old are perhaps less apt at concealing their feelings than we younger folk,” pursued Mr. Almond.
“Now, I’m sure my good friends, your aunt and uncle, have not allowed you to see how deeply your decision will affect them.”
“They’ve been very kind,” said Lydia with emphasis.
She was anxious that no one should think her ungrateful.
“I have no doubt of it at all — none whatever. A most kind-hearted fellow is George — most kind-hearted.
And as for Miss Raymond — well, I need not tell you what she is. I am sure that you remember her devoted nursing of you — for which she afterwards suffered so severely — on the occasion of some childish ailment of yours a couple of years ago.”
Mr. Almond fixed an eye of melancholy severity upon Lydia, looking as though he were much less sure than he alleged himself to be of her remembering the occasion in question, and was consequently determined to recall it to her memory.
Lydia was speechless with indignation.
Pneumonia a childish ailment! One of the chief crises of her youth to be recalled merely as the setting for the jewel of Aunt Beryl’s self-devotion! Mr. Almond was worse than Grandpapa even.
It was clear to her that here was a point of view which required readjustment.
“I shall be very, very sorry to leave home,” she said earnestly. “But indeed I do think it’s the best thing I can do. If I get a good post in London, it will lead to much more than my just going on at Miss Glover’s, teaching, for ever. And it seems a shame not to make the very most of the education I’ve had.”
“Very true. But I’m afraid you’ll be sadly missed.
One had hoped, if I may say so without offence, to see you taking your aunt’s place in time. She has been very much tied now for a number of years.”
“I do hope to help Aunt Beryl. But it would be a disappointment to her and to Uncle George if I didn’t do something with the education they’ve given me. In some ways,” said Lydia, “the thought of going to London by myself frightens me — but honestly, Mr. Almond, I believe if I once take the plunge, it’ll turn out to be the best and most profitable for us all in the long run.”
She saw by his face, with decided relief, that the little man was becoming mollified.
“I’m glad you look at it in that light. You’ll excuse me speaking like this, I hope, but I’ll admit to you, Miss Lydia, that at first I was inclined to think you might be going into this without much thought for anyone but yourself. What you’ve just said shows me that I may have misjudged you.”
“Indeed,” Lydia said deferentially, “I know it’s only from friendship that you’re saying it at all. But I hope you’ll believe that I really am not ungrateful to them all — and I do want to make them proud of me.
I hope I shall, too, if I have my chance.”
The middle-aged bank clerk looked at her with a gaze that seemed half admiring and half envious.
“Well,” he said slowly, “they’re giving you your chance all right, Miss Lydia. And I hope, if I may say so, that you’ll make the most of it, both for your own sake and for theirs.”
And Lydia, whilst agreeing with him in all sincerity, felt with an odd sense of triumph that she had reinstated herself in the good opinion of the loyal friend of the family.
This opinion received a startling confirmation the next time that she saw him.
“Have you decided upon the exact nature of your employment in London?” he inquired of her, with an air of caution.
“Oh, no. I don’t very much care for the idea of teaching, and I should have to learn shorthand and typewriting before I could get secretarial work. What I should really like would be something to do with figures — accountancy perhaps.”
“Ah! I thought so. The mathematical mind! A very rare thing in your sex,” said Mr. Monteagle Almond, as he had frequently said before. “But subject to the approval of your good aunt, I have here something that may interest you, I think.”
Aunt Beryl and Lydia gazed eagerly at the paper he held out to them, covered with telegraphic notes written in Mr. Almond’s neat little clerkly hand.
“New venture. Robes et Modes. Started last year. Establishment owned by Lady Proprietress, personally known to informant. Prem in West End already acquired and cap assured.”
“Opening for educ young lady; a/cs and help in sales-room when required.”
“Live out; midday meal in. Special feature made of em
ployees’ welfare.”
“Personal interview previous to engagt. Probably Sept. Salary to begin — no premium.”
“Only superior young ladies considered.”
“The last item,” said Mr. Almond solemnly, “was much dwelt upon by my informant — Griswell, of the N. S. Bank. He could give me very few details, but seeing that I was interested, he immediately offered to communicate with the lady concerned, a personal friend of his. He merely mentioned her name to me by chance, and was quite surprised at my taking him up, like.”
“It was very kind of you to pass it on, I’m sure,” said Aunt Beryl excitedly. “What do you say about it, Lydia?”
“I should like, if Mr. Almond will be so very kind, to hear all about it,” said Lydia, her eyes shining and her heart full of excitement.
VII
“WELL, Lyddie, I hope you’ll find enjoyment in trimming bonnets for fine ladies,” said Grandpapa caustically.
“She’s to keep the accounts, Grandpapa,” Aunt Beryl repeated in loud, displeased accents. “Nothing to do with the millinery, naturally.”
“I’m not so sure of that — not so sure of that. What did the old party say about helping in the shop?”
“Madame Ribeiro only asked if Lydia would be willing to give a hand at sale-time, or anything like that, and of course she agreed. It’s her book-keeping they want.”
“And who is Madame Ribeiro?”
“Oh, Grandpapa!” cried Lydia reproachfully, “you know very well that Aunt Beryl and I went up to town this morning on purpose to see her. She’s the old lady who owns the shop, and wants to run it on new lines. Why, she’s a sort of lady, isn’t she, Aunt Beryl?”
“It’s a foreign name,” was the indirect, but distrustful, reply of Aunt Beryl. “I didn’t like to ask her what country she belonged to, quite. Is it a French name?”
“Portuguese,” said Grandpapa unexpectedly. “There are Ribeiros all over the Dutch East Indies.”
“She seemed a nice person enough — older than I expected, and dressed very quietly in black, like a widow. She certainly had a moustache, but then some of those very dark foreigners are like that, and I’m sure it’s her misfortune, and not her fault, poor thing — like her stoutness.”
“She talked very, very slowly, and with an accent,” Lydia said. “She never smiled once, either — I never saw such a solemn face, and enormous black eyes. But I think I should like her.”
“But it’s she that’s got to like you,” Grandpapa pointed out. “You’ve got to work at the bonnets under her, haven’t you, Lyddie?”
“Not exactly under her. She doesn’t come to the shop herself, much — someone she calls Madame Elena is in charge there. Madame Ribeiro lives in her own house, in St. John’s Wood. But the shop is hers, and she engages all the helpers herself. She sees them all personally.”
“And is this precious shop in St. John’s Wood, too?”
“Certainly not. It’s in the West End,” said Aunt Beryl with dignity.
“Then I suppose Lyddie would like a little house in Park Lane, so as to be near it?” Grandpapa inquired with an air of simplicity.
“I thought I told you that Lydia was going to Maria Nettleship’s,” said Aunt Beryl stiffly.
“I wish we’d had time to go and see Miss Nettleship,” cried Lydia, hastily turning the conversation.
She did not in the least mind Grandpapa’s sarcasms herself — in fact, she was rather amused by them — but they always greatly discomposed Aunt Beryl.
But when a definite offer had been made by letter and accepted, and it was decided that Lydia was to go, much sooner than they had expected, to London, and work at the accountancy in the shop that old Madame Ribeiro called “Elena’s,” she determined to have some sort of an explanation with Grandpapa.
It worried her very much to see that he regarded this first step in her career as a mere wilful, childish freak, and something of a personal injury to himself.
The spirit of Uncle George and Aunt Beryl was a very different one. They praised her courage and determination in starting out into the world by herself, and were full of pride in the letters so willingly supplied by Miss Glover and Dr. Young, and the clergyman who had prepared Lydia for confirmation, all setting forth her cleverness, and her steady ways and the achievements that lay to her credit in scholarship.
They were proud of her for having obtained so quickly a post at a salary of a pound a week to begin with, and her midday dinner and tea five times a week — which practically brought it up to twenty-five shillings a week, Uncle George pointed out. They would only allow her to pay half of the weekly salary to Miss Nettleship. The rest — an additional ten shillings — Uncle George insisted that he should remit to Lydia by postal order every Friday.
“That will leave you something for ‘bus fares, and dress expenses,” he said. “And I shouldn’t like you to touch your own income, child. Let that accumulate for a rainy day.”
“You can’t hope to save much at first, you know,” said Aunt Beryl. “But you’re well off for clothes, and won’t want anything new except the black dress they said you’d need, and I can make over the old broche easily enough. It’s beautiful stuff — you’ll only have to get the cambric for the neck and sleeves. It’s a great help to a girl when she can do her own dressmaking.”
They could think of nothing but Lydia.
Mr. Monteagle Almond himself, who had procured this fine chance for her, was hardly given any credit by Lydia’s uncle and aunt. They ascribed it all to her own merits.
Lydia quite longed to justify all this faith in her, and to repay Uncle George and Aunt Beryl for their sacrifice. But she did not really feel much doubt of being able to do so eventually.
This made Grandpapa’s attitude the more vexatious.
“I shall be able to come home for Christmas, you know, Grandpapa,” she said one day.
“Where are we now — August? And they want you to begin at the end of this month?”
“That’s so that I shall get used to the work before the rush begins. The end of August is the slackest time in London,” Lydia explained, and the next minute was vexed with herself, as Grandpapa remarked meekly: “Is it indeed, now? Thank ‘ee, my dear, for telling me that.”
“I hope I’m going to make a success of it, and make you all proud of me,” said Lydia with determination.
“You know, Grandpapa, in the evenings I am going to begin writing. Do you remember that when I was quite a little girl I told you that I wanted to write books?”
“I do. You were a nice little girl, Lyddie — a sensible, well-behaved, little child. Not like those hoydens of girls at Wimbledon. If you write anything worth the postage, you may send it to me — though I’m sure I don’t know who’ll read it to me.”
This was the nearest that Grandpapa could be induced to go towards any rapprochement on the eve of Lydia’s departure. She said good-bye to him as affectionately as she dared, and he replied calmly: “Good-bye to you, my dear. Your Aunt Beryl wants me to give you a Bible or some parting advice, but I shall do nothing of the sort. If you’re a good girl, you’ll know how to look after yourself, and if you’re a bad girl, then all the advice in the world won’t keep you straight.”
Lydia could not help thinking rather resentfully that Grandpapa’s tones sounded just as though either contingency would leave him equally unmoved.
“Good-bye, Grandpapa — good-bye, Uncle George — down, Shamrock — good little dog!” But Shamrock pursued Lydia and Aunt Beryl all the way to the station, and Lydia’s last sight of them showed her Aunt Beryl and the station-master uniting their efforts to prevent Shamrock from taking a flying leap on to the rails.
She felt a little lonely, a very little bit frightened, as the train rushed away with her towards London.
Eighteen, which had been a really mature age while one was still at Miss Glover’s, no longer seemed quite so grown up. The other people in the railway carriage all looked much older than that.
Lydia’s habitual self-confidence began slightly to fail her.
What if she proved not clever enough for the work at “Elena’s,” And they sent her home again? Never! She would take up teaching or dressmaking in London, sooner than admit defeat. Besides, there was her writing. She thought of various fragments that she had already put on to paper, and which honestly seemed to her to be good.
The day would come, Lydia was inwardly convinced, when these would work into some not unworthy whole.
In the meanwhile, she reminded herself, in an endeavour to regain her poise of mind, that Uncle George, Aunt Beryl, Mr. Almond, the Jacksons, Miss Glover herself, had all thought her very brave and high-spirited to go away to London by herself, and had made no doubt that her courage and capabilities alike would carry her on to triumph.
She remembered also that Nathalie Palmer had written to her, in reply to her own long letter announcing her plan. She drew the envelope from her pocket, and read Nathalie’s warm-hearted inquiries once more, feeling all the comfort of being so regarded by her friend.
“Lydia, I do think you’re splendid,” wrote Nathalie from Devonshire. “It sounds frightfully brave to be going off to live in London by yourself, and work at the accounts in a big new place like your Madame Elena’s. I hope you won’t be very lonely, but, of course you’re sure to make friends. I do quite agree with you that it will be a tremendous experience, and, of course, I know experience is what you’ve always wanted. I wonder how soon you’ll write a book. How proud I shall be when you’re a famous authoress, and all your books are in rows in my bookshelf.
“Father is very interested about you. He asked what sort of boarding-house you were going to, and I said of course Miss Raymond was frightfully particular, and it was a friend of her own. He said he was glad to hear it, and from what he remembered, you were too good-looking to be let stay just anywhere! I suppose he meant men! “Remember you promised faithfully to tell me if anyone fell in love with you. I’m sure they will! No one has with me, but I hardly ever see anyone. This is the way my days are spent, mostly” The rest of Nathalie’s letter was not so interesting, and Lydia put it away without reading further.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 153
