Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Lydia! What are you doing here?” she exclaimed sharply.

  “I’ve finished those Paris model tickets, Madame Elena,” said Lydia meekly.

  She had printed over two dozen cards whilst she waited, it being one of the sign manuals of the establishment to display all such tickets in elaborate fancy letterings.

  “You haven’t!” Madame Elena made one of her rapid, swooping movements, and snatched up a handful of the cards, miraculously avoiding those on which the ink was still wet.

  “Now I call that charming,” said Madame Elena, with genuine enthusiasm. “First class. How on earth did you manage to get the letters all different and so straight! But don’t stay overtime another evening like that. You may find yourself locked in.”

  She nodded and passed out of the side door, demonstratively waiting for the two girls, in order to lock it behind her.

  “I get in here,” she said, pausing where a long row of omnibuses was drawn up beside the kerb. “Good night, girls.”

  “Good night, Madame Elena,” they chorussed politely.

  “Which is your way, dear?” inquired Gina, who called everyone “dear” without discrimination.

  “Right across the Park. I generally walk,” said Lydia.

  “Rotten to be so far off. I live miles out, too, right the way to Mornington Crescent. I’ll walk with you, if you like. The air’ll do my head good, and I may as well get in at Oxford Circus as anywhere else.” “Have you a headache?” said Lydia sympathetically.

  “I should think I have! Why, I’ve been howling, on and off, since five o’clock. I daresay you think I’m a fool,” said Gina dolorously.

  “No, of course I don’t. I’m so sorry for you.”

  “Thanks, dear. I don’t generally say much about things when I feel them,” said Miss Ryott pensively, “but I don’t mind talking to you, between ourselves, like. Now, Rosie Graham — she’s the sarcastic sort — or tries to be. I could never let myself go in front of that girl” Gina paused, expressively enough, in lieu of seeking in the barren fields of the shop-girl’s range of imagery.

  “I know what you mean,” said Lydia. She had long ago found out the incalculable value of this sympathetic, and entirely non-committal, form of words.

  “You may have noticed that I haven’t been exactly what you might call a Sunny Jim lately,” said Miss Ryott.

  She looked sidelong at Lydia, who turned a deeply interested gaze upon her, but said nothing at all. The echo of Grandpapa’s wisdom came back to her, as it so often did: “Always let the other people talk about themselves.” And once more it was justified.

  Whilst her companion talked, Lydia congratulated herself upon the success of her manoeuvre in waiting for Gina, and at the same time impressing upon Madame Elena, ever alert for signs of enthusiasm in the staff, her eager devotion to her work. There was not another employee in the shop who would voluntarily have remained on after hours, apparently from utter absorption in the task on hand.

  Lydia marvelled, with perfectly genuine wonder, that none of them should have the wit to see how enormously worth while it was to sacrifice an hour or two of leisure once in a way for the sake of the immense effect that such a display produced upon the authorities.

  She never made the mistake of attempting to deceive herself as to her own motives, and was consequently able to estimate to the full the results at which she had consciously aimed.

  “You’re a perfect dear to have listened to me,” said Gina warmly when they parted. “I’m sure I’ve been the most frightful bore, really.”

  Lydia assured her that this had not been the case, and was able to do so with the more earnestness that she was inwardly full of exhilaration at the growing conviction that her personality was once more giving her prominence amongst her surroundings.

  The next day Marguerite Saxon twice emphatically called her “my dear” — a mark of potential friendship as distinguished from the professional and abstracted “dear,” that invariably punctuated the day’s intercourse.

  She was also required to listen, during the tea interval, to Miss Saxon’s version of the recent disturbance.

  It need scarcely be said that Lydia’s perfectly noncommittal sympathy was extended as freely to Marguerite as it had been to Gina, with the result that each declared a warm liking for her, and she speedily became the central figure in their little world.

  Madame Elena was not prone to personal enthusiasms, and the signs that she gave of having distinguished Lydia from among her compeers, were all but imperceptible. Only Lydia’s ruthless clear-sightedness where her own interests were concerned enabled her to discern them.

  She soon found that the two young ladies in the millinery were rather looked down upon by the showroom young ladies, who had, indeed, little opportunity for intercourse with them. Nevertheless, Lydia smiled sedulously at them when she said, “Good morning,” and never pretended deafness when one or the other of them asked her to “pass along the bread, please,” at dinner.

  Consequently they were overheard to say to one another that Miss Raymond was the only lady in the place, so far as manners went.

  Mrs. Entwhistle was somewhat of the same opinion, since Lydia was the only girl who never grumbled at helping her when Old Madam’s unexpected calls led to a sudden demand for afternoon tea.

  There remained Miss Rosie Graham.

  Lydia was perhaps more nearly afraid of her than she had ever been of any member of her own sex.

  To a Cockney sharpness of tongue, Rosie added an almost uncanny power of insight into the minds of her neighbours, and it was commonly asserted amongst the girls that she could “thought-read.”

  The “thought-reading,” Lydia decided, was a trick, based upon natural shrewdness and an almost infallible instinct for the detection of small affectations and insincerities, but it may reasonably be supposed that it added no sense of security to the circles of which Miss Graham was a member.

  Lydia knew that Rosie was not, and never would be, popular, but she uneasily surmised in her a strength of character that might equal, if it did not surpass, her own. And the idea was disturbing to Lydia’s conception of her own allotted role in life, well to the forefront of the stage.

  She was always charming to Miss Graham, in accordance with her invariable rule, but after three months at Madame Elena’s she was still vexedly aware that the medium by which the charm could be made efficacious had yet to be discovered.

  It was obviously waste of time to say to Rosie, as she might have said to Marguerite Saxon, for instance: “You do look tired to-day. I’m sure you’re not a bit strong.”

  For, whereas Miss Saxon would have denied the charge, simpering with gratification the while, and at an early opportunity have returned the kindness by some such compliment as, “What a sweet figure that costume gives you, dear. I’m sure you wear lovely corsets,” it might safely be assumed that Rosie would shrug her shoulders, and retort matter-of-factly that her pallor was due to indigestion. She frankly disliked personalities, although she was willing enough to give her opinion, uncivilly and often unkindly, although never maliciously, in regard to other people.

  Lydia sometimes thought that the only avenue of approach lay in the sense of humour that they shared, and which was deficient in the other members of the small group. And it always gave her an odd sense of reassurance when, in the course of the day, some trivial incident, or chance word, would cause her eyes and those of Rosie Graham to meet, involuntarily and quite instinctively, in a silent laugh.

  X

  “THERE’S only one piece each,” said old Miss Lillicrap, in the sharp, fierce squeak that the other boarders always heard with dismayed resentment, rendered powerless because of her extreme age, and the violet tinge that shadowed her hard old lips.

  Miss Lillicrap had been known to have a violent and mysterious “attack” for a less reason than the appropriation of a second piece of seed-cake at tea-time on a Sunday afternoon by someone other than herself.

 
The boarders assembled in the drawing-room instantly entered into the unanimous league of a silent resolution to ignore Miss Lillicrap’s indelicate insistence on the extremely limited quantity of cake supplied by Miss Nettleship.

  “Meal-time again!” sighed little Mrs. Clarence, at the same time edging her chair forward, so as to sit nearest to the small milk-jug and inadequately-filled sugar-basin. “It always seems to be time to eat, somehow.” Her pale, pink-rimmed blue eyes were anxiously scanning the food on the table as she spoke.

  “Only one piece each,” snapped Miss Lillicrap again, more loudly than before.

  Again they all ignored her.

  “Who’s going to do ‘mother,’ and pour out?” asked Mrs. Bulteel with a rather nervous laugh.

  Everyone knew that as the principal married woman in the room, she felt herself entitled to the office of dignity. Almost equally well, everyone knew that it would be disputed.

  “I thought Miss Forster did that,” said old Miss Lillicrap.

  Had Miss Forster been present she would certainly have supported Mrs. Bulteel.

  “Miss Forster is out, Miss Lillicrap,” retorted Mrs.

  Bulteel, raising her already shrill voice, so as to impress upon Miss Lillicrap that she was old, and must therefore be very deaf as well.

  “Oh, all right — all right. Yesterday I was awake nearly all night, the tea was so strong.”

  “I’ll give you the first cup,” shrilled Mrs. Bulteel, provided with an excellent excuse for snatching the tea-pot before Mrs. Clarence, who, as a widow, could have no status at all, could put her little be-ringed, claw-like fingers round the handle.

  Lydia, who, for reasons connected with her own undoubted popularity at the boarding-house, never took part in the tea-time amenities of the boarders — of which, indeed, she was only witness on occasional Saturday and Sunday afternoons — looked sympathetically at Mr. Bulteel, waiting nervously for the teacups which he habitually handed politely round.

  He evidently thought his wife very spirited and clever when she used her shrewish Cockney tongue against the other women.

  “Allow me,” said he, taking round the cups of strong, black brew. He threw a resentful glance, as he did so, at the Greek gentleman, who never took his share in dispensing these small courtesies. He only stood, as he usually did, in front of the empty fireplace, his hands in his pockets, and his dark eyes roaming sardonically round the room. He was still spoken of as “the Greek gentleman,” since no one had mastered his name. Lydia had listened with interest to various conversations about him, but had derived little information from them. It might be entertaining, but it was not particularly illuminating to hear Mrs. Bulteel say to Mrs. Clarence, as Lydia had heard her say a little while ago, in a very penetrating manner: “That’s not a face I should trust.”

  Mrs. Clarence, who never ventured to differ from anybody, and least of all from Mrs. Bulteel, who had a live husband and son to testify to the fact that she had justified her feminine existence, had only replied doubtfully: “No? Well, perhaps you’re right. What makes you think...?”

  “He looks as though he had foreign blood in him.”

  Mrs. Bulteel adduced the damning grounds for her inference with gloomy prescience, which she appeared to think amply justified by the facts that the Greek spoke English with a slight accent, and had a name that even Miss Nettleship only rendered as Mr. M... in... m.

  A little while afterwards the unconquerable Mrs.

  Bulteel had actually asked him outright, “And do tell me, how is your name pronounced?” in a very intelligent way, as though she knew of two or three excellent alternatives.

  To which the Greek gentleman had replied, with slightly outspread, volive fingers: “Just — exactly — as you please.”

  “But how do you say it in your own country?”

  “I am not in my own country.”

  “I know that. You are a foreigner,” said Mrs. Bulteel, much as she might have said, “You are a cannibal.”

  “But if you were in your own country?” Then had replied the Greek gentleman morosely: “I should have no need to say it at all. It is too well known.”

  And Mrs. Bulteel, seeing herself defeated, could only cry out in a shaking voice the time-honoured indictment of the English middle classes of whatever is slightly less than blatantly obvious: “Oh! How sarcastic!” Nothing could be more evident than that the Greek was indifferent to the charge, or, indeed, to any other that might be proffered against him by his fellow-inmates.

  That very Sunday morning had been spent by him in reading a French novel in the drawing-room, whilst almost all the other inmates had decorously attended church.

  “Will you keep some tea for Hector?” suggested Mr. Bulteel, as his wife put down the teapot and uncrooked her little finger.

  “I have come to an arrangement with the manageress about Hector’s tea,” retorted Mrs. Bulteel, with a magnificence that seemed inadequate to the cup of strong tea, and slices of bread-and-butter on a thick plate now probably waiting on the kitchen range for Hector’s return.

  “The poor boy is never much later than half-past five, after all, even on week-days.”

  Mrs. Clarence and Miss Lillicrap exchanged a look.

  Everyone knew that the main interest of the senior members of the Bulteel ménage was to exercise a rigorous censorship over every unaccounted-for moment of their only son’s existence.

  It was as a matter of course that everyone present heard the accustomed routine of question and answer gone through by Hector and his parents on the youth’s entrance into the drawing-room.

  “Is that you, Hector?” said Mrs. Bulteel mildly, as soon as her son had slouched to a seat, and no further doubt of his identity could possibly prevail.

  “Have you asked for your tea?” Mr. Bulteel inquired.

  “The girl opened the door to me.”

  Few of the boarders possessed latch-keys, and Hector was not one of these.

  “That girl!” exclaimed his mother. “Better ring, and I’ll tell her.”

  Mrs. Clarence looked rather awed. She would never have dared to ring the drawing-room bell for the parlour-maid.

  Lydia herself had come in late for tea, and although Mr. Bulteel had handed her a cup, smiling rather apologetically, there was very little left to eat.

  “There’s no more cake — nothing left!” cried old Miss Lillicrap with a sort of vicious triumph, as Lydia gazed at the empty plates on the table.

  Lydia shrugged her shoulders, and Mr. Bulteel said nervously and kindly: “They will bring you some more, no doubt.”

  Everybody knew that any such concession to a late arrival was most unlikely, and the effect produced was proportionate when the Greek gentleman, on the arrival of Hector Bulteel’s belated cup and saucer, turned to the maid who had brought them in: “This young lady will want some tea and bread-and-butter, also.”

  Irene looked astounded.

  The Greek gentleman fixed upon her the steady, sardonic gaze of his dark eyes.

  “If you please,” he said, with the unctuous sibilance that was the only accent marring the perfection of his English speech.

  “I’ll see what the manageress says,” gasped Irene, and they heard her clattering down the stairs.

  The boarders exchanged glances, of which Lydia was perfectly aware, and which did not altogether displease her. She knew that they were all waiting curiously to see the outcome of Irene’s mission, and the Greek’s reception of its almost certain failure. Miss Nettleship had long ago explained to Lydia that she dared not make any difference in her treatment of the boarders.

  “You quite understand how it is, dear, I know. The boarders know very well that your aunt is a friend of mine, and so they’re sort of on the look-out for any favouring. And it wouldn’t do at all, would it, to have any talk made? It would only be disagreeable for both of us — you know how it is, dear.”

  Irene reappeared at the door, breathless.

  “Miss Nettleship’s very sorr
y, there’s no more boiling water,” she announced defiantly, and disappeared before the Greek gentleman could do more than look at her, which he did as disagreeably as was possible in the time.

  “I am sorry,” he remarked gravely to the object of his benevolence.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Lydia, smiling.

  “But it’s not right,” cried Mr. Bulteel, as though sheer distress were compelling him to break into the conversation contrary to his will, and certainly contrary to his usual habit.

  “It’s not right. One pays for tea, and one ought to have it. She never deducts a meal like tea from the bill, even if one hasn’t had it.”

  His wife tittered shrilly.

  “I should think she didn’t! It’s disgraceful the way that woman charges for the food. No one ever has a second helping.”

  The room became animated on the instant.

  Mr. Bulteel had introduced one of those topics, that, from sheer force of unending discussion in the past, become eagerly acclaimed as suitable for unending discussion in the present.

  “I ask for a second helping,” said old Miss Lillicrap triumphantly. “I ask for it. And I get it, too. I had two helpings of the pudding yesterday, and I sent the girl back for some custard. She brought it to me without any custard the second time, but I sent her back for it. It was the disobliging waitress, too, not Irene, and I could see she didn’t like it. But she had to go back for the custard, and Miss Nettleship gave it to her. She knew it was for me, and she didn’t dare to refuse it.”

  No one congratulated Miss Lillicrap on her achievement. She was very unpopular, and it was evident that to most of the boarders the recollection sprang to mind vividly of the methods to which she had recourse for the maintenance of her privileges. Indeed, Miss Nettleship had herself told Lydia of her own defeat at the aged but determined hands of Miss Lillicrap, who had once had five cardiac attacks in succession sooner than pay a disputed item on her weekly bill, emerging from each one in order to say, “It’s extortionate, and you’ll have to take it off. I shan’t pay.”

  When she had said it five times, and showed an iron intention of relapsing into a sixth catalepsy, as a preliminary to saying it again, the manageress had cast up her eyes to heaven, and exclaimed that the charge should be remitted.