Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  She pulled out a gold watch from her tight waistband.

  “Poor child! the girls will have finished dinner. I suppose they didn’t like to fetch you while you were in here — and quite right too. You’d better come out and get some lunch with me.”

  They went out through the show-room, and Lydia saw Rosie Graham sitting in the small, glass-panelled box near the door, with neat piles of change on the ledge in front of her.

  As they went past, Lydia meekly walking behind Madame Elena, Rosie made a derisive fact at her, and Lydia understood that it was an unusual honour to be taken out to lunch by the principal.

  They went to a small restaurant close by, and Madame Elena made Lydia blush by remarking impressively to the waitress who brought them the bill of fare: “Make out two separate bills for this, waitress.

  Now, my dear, what are you going to have?” Lydia had not expected to be Madame Elena’s guest at the meal, but she considered the emphasis indelicate, and wished that it had not been thought necessary.

  On the whole, however, she liked Madame Elena, who kept up an incessant stream of lively talk, and gave her a quantity of information about the business, the customers and the staff.

  “That little Graham, now — she’s been with us ever since we opened, and done her job first class. But she’ll never do any better for herself than she’s doing now. The reason why, because she’s got no tact. I’d never trust her to show so much as a motor-veil to a client — she’d tell her the colour was too young for her, as soon as winking. Of course, my dear, I’m telling you these things because you’re not quite in the same position as the show-room girls. That’s an understood thing, and has been from the first. More like my understudy you’ll come to be in time, I hope. That is if you and I understand one another, as I think we’re going to.”

  Lydia felt flattered.

  “I’ll do my very best,” she said earnestly.

  “I’m sure you will, and once you’ve mastered the system you’ll be all right, and I’m sure I shall be thankful to get the books off my mind. I’ve no head for figures, and never had,” said Madame Elena, with perfect complacency.

  She dismissed Lydia at five o’clock, although the working day was not over until six.

  “But I know well enough what a first day’s work is,” she remarked shrewdly. “You’ve a splitting head, and don’t know a one from a two by this time. Trot along, and if I were you, I’d walk home. The air will do you good. You can start properly to-morrow. It’s a slack time of year, anyhow.”

  Lydia departed gratefully.

  Business life was not going to be the inhuman affair that books represented it to be, after all; Madame Elena had been good-natured and patient, although Lydia easily divined that she could be far otherwise on occasion, and although she had had no opportunity for intercourse with the other girls, they had looked at her in a not unfriendly way.

  She walked across the Park, gazing with interest at the people she met, until she perceived that several of the men that passed her were inclined to stare frankly back at her, or to smile furtively.

  Lydia remembered certain pieces of advice given long ago by Aunt Beryl, and which had always been disregarded, because they sounded so singularly superfluous to the quiet neighbourhood of Regency Terrace.

  She ceased to look about her, and walked more quickly, conscious all the time of a certain exultation.

  Surely men only stared like that at pretty girls or attractive girls? She wished that she knew whether she were really pretty or not.

  In a very little while Lydia lost the sense of novelty, and began to feel as though she had always been independent.

  She soon found that her life at Madame Elena’s and her life at the boarding-house had both become quite real to her, and very interesting. Each was absolutely separate from the other, but both made up a sum of experiences that absorbed and excited her.

  People were extraordinarily interesting.

  For all her capability and astonishing effect of maturity, Lydia was not quite nineteen years old, and it was only much later on that she realized how entirely her interest in her fellow-creatures had confined itself to the effect produced upon them by the personality of Lydia Raymond.

  IX

  THERE were wheels within wheels at Madame Elena’s establishment. Romantic friendships for one another amongst Madame Elena’s “young ladies,” sudden desperate quarrels and equally desperate reconciliations, all formed part of the fabric of everyday life, and afforded discussion at the midday dinner in the basement.

  The girls, as Miss Graham had said, were all catered for.

  “Don’t be afraid to come again,” Mrs. Entwhistle, the housekeeper, would exclaim jovially from the head of the table, acting, it was understood, under direct orders from Madame Ribeiro, whom the girls called Old Madam.

  It was well known that Old Madam would not have anyone who might be working at Elena’s stinted of a good meat meal in the middle of the day, which she called “an economy in the end.” The number of helpings was never restricted, and the meat was always followed by a substantial pudding.

  Lydia at first watched with amazement the two accomplished young women from the millinery, both of them pale London girls, send up their plates twice or three times, in eager response to Mrs. Entwhistle’s invitation.

  Miss Graham, always at her desk, and the little needlewoman who attended to alterations, were the only girls on the premises not selected, partly on account of good looks.

  “A pretty saleswoman sets off the goods,” was another of Old Madam’s reported aphorisms. “Prettiness” was the keynote of the establishment, and with this end in view, Christian names were always used in business hours.

  Rosie Graham told Lydia that Miss Ryott’s name, Georgina, not considered an ornamental one by Madame Elena, had been abbreviated to Gina, as having a pleasant soupcon of Italian romance. Gina, in fact, rather looked the part. She was a tall girl, of a full figure, with crape-black hair rolled back from a round, cream-coloured face, dark-brown eyes and beautiful teeth.

  Gina only painted her lips a very little.

  Miss Saxon, the other show-room “young lady” on the other hand, who said that her name was Marguerite, painted her face, as well as her lips, most artistically.

  She was flaxen-haired and very slim, with babyish blue eyes and a tiny mouth. She was always called for by Madame Elena to show off any toilette de jeune fille.

  Lydia found it easy to believe that the staff was made up of young women taken from a class superior to that of the ordinary London shop-girl. That was Old Madam’s policy.

  At intervals, Madame Ribeiro, always unannounced, drove up to the shop entrance of “Elena’s,” in her little old-fashioned, closed carriage, and walked slowly through the show-room, up the shallow steps that led to millinery, and into the small alcove, glass-panelled, where sat Madame Elena, poring over large tomes, or sometimes inditing scrawled communications on large, mauve-coloured sheets of notepaper, with “Elena” carelessly running across the top corner of the page in big purple lettering.

  Old Madam never distinguished Lydia by any special notice on these occasions. She generally remained with Madame Elena for half an hour or so, and sometimes the latter would strike her little bronze bell, and ask, “Marguerite, cherie,” or “Gina, my child” to bring in afternoon tea for Madam.

  “Anyone would think we were tea-shop girls,” said Miss Ryott pettishly.

  The order meant an excursion to the basement, where Mrs. Entwhistle had to be found, the keys asked for, and bread-and-butter cut very thin and arranged on a china plate, and two or three sponge biscuits taken out of a special tin, and the whole arranged on a small green-and-white tea-service consecrated to Madame Elena’s use. But then Madame Elena had her tea sent up at a reasonable hour, when the girls had theirs, and Mrs. Entwhistle prepared it, which she would never do unaided at any hour earlier than four o’clock. If Old Madam chose to have tea before half-past three one of the girls mus
t get it ready.

  Gina, especially on a hot afternoon in the slack season, very much preferred the shop.

  “Shall I help you, dear?” affectionately inquired Marguerite. “Lydia could give us a call if anyone came in. Not that anyone will — they are all in Scotland or at the sea somewhere — lucky things!”

  “Thanks, dear — how sweet of you!” They went away arm-in-arm, leaving Lydia drowsily writing out “Marked down” tickets, copied from a list of Madame Elena’s making.

  “That friendship won’t last,” remarked Miss Graham sapiently, from her desk.

  She was right, as usual Lydia had not been very long at Elena’s when the Great Quarrel took place, and assumed an intensity that could only have obtained during the month of September.

  It all reminded Lydia very much of the girls at Miss Glover’s school.

  Gina, it was evident enough, had hitherto dominated the little group of girls, but her temporary infatuation for the society of Miss Marguerite Saxon had rather diminished her prestige, and Marguerite, moreover, had made herself popular with the millinery young ladies by talking agreeably to them at dinner-time, when they sat together at the second table. Consequently they championed her with vigour.

  “It really is too bad, you know, dear. Marguerite is awfully sensitive — those blondes so often are, much more so than brunettes, I fancy — and of course she feels it all the more because they used to be such friends. That’s what hurts her so much.”

  “Well, Gina is hurt about it, too — and has cause to be, in my opinion,” inexorably said the girl who did alteratiors.

  The first and second tables were allowed to overlap during the slack season very often.

  “How did it begin?” Lydia asked.

  But to this there was no satisfactory reply.

  How did the slackening of those romantic bonds first make itself felt? “Marguerite couldn’t help noticing that Gina’s manner had altered, of course,” said someone vaguely.

  From this painful illumination it appeared as though Miss Saxon and Miss Ryott had proceeded to revive their drooping interest in one another by a series of mutual provocations.

  “Gina is awfully proud. You couldn’t expect her to take the first step. I mean, she’s so frightfully proud.”

  “You know, I believe Madame Elena knows about it,” said Rosie, giggling, precluded by Mrs. Entwhistle’s presence from making use of the auburnheaded principal’s usual sobriquet of “Old Peroxide.”

  It was quite true that Madame Elena was inclined to favour Gina. Lydia had noticed it with resentment.

  When Rosie Graham’s shrewdness was justified, as it almost invariably was, by the event, and Madame Elena showed definite signs of partisanship in the quarrel, Gina became established as the heroine of the hour.

  One afternoon, just before closing time, she suddenly burst into tears after a prolonged search for a mislaid pencil — that eternal preoccupation of the shopgirl’s day.

  “Don’t cry,” said Lydia very gently, and feeling very impatient, since she disliked any display of emotion in other people — unless it was directly concerned with herself.

  “I’ll lend you mine.”

  Such a loan was unheard of, for the pencils, suspended by a chain from each girl’s waist, were in constant use, and the rule obliged each one to provide her own.

  “Oh, I don’t care,” sobbed Gina, recklessly noisy.

  “Thank’s most awfully, dear. I know it’s sweet of you — but I’m fed up with everything.”

  She sank into a chair, still sobbing hysterically.

  “So are we all,” said Miss Saxon low and viciously, looking up from the drawer before which she was kneeling, carefully swathing some frail chiffon scarves in tissue-paper. “So are we all, I should imagine, in this heat and all, but we don’t make a song and dance about it, I suppose. What I should call absolute carrying on for notice.”

  As though to verify the words, Madame Elena’s glass door flew open.

  “What’s all this noise?” she asked irately. “If you girls think you’re here to make a row” Her eye fell on Gina, who had the wisdom to make a visible effort to check her sobs and rise to her feet.

  Lydia noted, with instinctive approval, that the face she turned to her principal was paler than usual, with black marks under either eye.

  “I’m very sorry, I’m sure,” she faltered.

  “What’s the matter?” Gina was silent, gulping.

  Madame Elena looked sharply round. Her eye fell on Marguerite, still demurely smoothing out silver paper.

  Miss Saxon, less intelligent than Gina, and evidently far less intuitive than the watching Lydia, made the mistake of allowing a very small sneer to show itself upon her little roseleaf face.

  Lydia saw Madame Elena’s expression alter.

  She laid an authoritative hand upon Gina’s shoulder, and gave her a friendly push.

  “Go in there,” she said. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

  They vanished into the principal’s own sanctum, Marguerite, apparently no expert in the interpretation of signs, observing with satisfaction: “I hope she’ll get properly skinned alive for making a row like that in business hours. Why, it’s downright unladylike.”

  Miss Graham, from her desk in the corner, gave her little scoffing laugh.

  “Don’t be a fool, Marguerite. She was playing for that, of course. She made that noise on purpose so as Perox should hear her, and ask what was up. Old Perox has been dying to hear what the row’s about between you two for days, and now Gina can pitch her own yarn. Just like Gina!” Lydia was astounded, as she often was, at the little Cockney’s penetration.

  “Why are you staring, goggle-eyes?” said Miss Graham, rudely but not unkindly. “Don’t you think it’s true?” With Marguerite Saxon’s small, squirrel face turned to catch her answer, Lydia made a diplomatic evasion.

  “Rather an unfair advantage to take, wasn’t it?” she hazarded.

  “I’ll tell Gina you think so,” said Rosie, like a shot.

  She burst out laughing at the dismay which Lydia, involuntarily, and to her own vexation, felt that she reflected upon her face.

  “You don’t like that, do you?” remarked the terrible Miss Graham. “You want to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds — keep in with everyone all round, and boss the lot of us. I know your sort. I daresay you’ll bring it off, too, given you’re here long enough.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Lydia, instinctively adopting the phraseology of her surroundings.

  Rosie gave her little shrug.

  “Don’t you worry, I’m only chaffing. I shan’t make mischief. I like pulling your leg,” explained Miss Graham kindly, “because it’s so dead easy, that’s all.”

  “Don’t mind her, dear,” said Marguerite. “That’s her style, that is. It doesn’t mean anything. I say, do hark at that girl in there!” Faint sounds, as of an eloquent outpouring of words mingled with an occasional sob, came from the partition behind which Gina and the principal were secluded.

  “She’s crying dreadfully,” said Lydia, with a dim idea of diminishing, by her compassionate tone, the effect of her previous comment upon Miss Ryott’s methods.

  A sardonic glance from Rosie Graham made her uneasily aware that this manoeuvre had been only too transparent.

  However, Rosie only remarked scornfully: “Crying! That’s nothing at the end of a day’s work. Anyone can cry in the evenings — in fact, it’s easier than not. One’s tired, and it’s been beastly hot all day, and it’s a relief to sit down and howl. Most girls do it regularly if they aren’t going out anywhere, and can risk having a red nose. Wait till you see a girl crying at eight o’clock in the morning — then it’s time enough to be sorry for her. If she cries then, it’s because she can’t help it. If she cries at night she’s just letting herself go.”

  “My difficulty is that I never can cry, however much I feel things,” said Miss Saxon, true to the feminine instinct, so
much condemned by Lydia’s grandfather, of making instant personal application of a generality.

  “I get awfully upset — quite foolishly so, mother always says. ‘You’ll never go through life, dear,’ she says, ‘if you take every little thing to heart so much.’ It’s awfully wearing, too — things kind of prey on me. I just go on turning them over and over in my own mind, you know. But as for crying — well, it’s just as though I couldn’t. I’d give anything to, sometimes — you know, I feel it would be such a relief, like — but I never was one to cry, even as a child.”

  Miss Saxon, much interested in her own monologue, appeared as though she might go on for ever.

  Rosie Graham made an expressive grimace at Lydia, and formed with her lips: “Good reason why!” at the same time pointing to her own little sallow face, with a glance at Marguerite’s carefully rose-tinted cheeks.

  Lydia smiled discreetly, safely conscious that she had her back turned to Miss Saxon.

  The opportunity for which she had been looking came that evening.

  She waited for Gina.

  The other girls went down to the dressing-room, pinned on their straw and flower-wreathed hats, took hasty glances into the tiny mirror propped up against the window, and rubbed at their shining, heated faces with leaves of papier poudre, torn from little pink or blue books. Only Marguerite Saxon possessed a small silver elegance, hanging from a long chain, containing a little puff, with which she dabbed the tip of her nose delicately.

  “Good night, dear,” she said cordially to Lydia, who responded as cordially, with her readiest smile. Already she guessed that Miss Saxon was willing to make a bid for her friendship, in the new-born apprehension that the tide of partisanship was turning rapidly in Gina’s favour.

  With Gina, the advance was even easier. It was long after closing hours when she finally emerged from Madame Elena’s room, and then she was not alone.

  Madame Elena, in the immense be-plumed hat and long suede gloves that she always affected, preceded her.