Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  She said I’d never cared for anyone but myself, and in the same breath accused me of caring for Jennie selfishly — as though I hadn’t lived my whole life for Jennie since her father died. After all, I was quite a young woman when I was left a widow. I — I might have married again.”

  “I have sometimes wondered, dear.”

  “Of course, living quietly in the depths of the country, I practically never saw anyone. But all the same — I could have married.”

  “I daresay that would be so, dear.”

  “But don’t you see, that would have meant that Jennie could no longer be my first consideration. And I’ve always put her first, Aunt Beryl — always.”

  “She’s grown up a very dear girl, I’m sure,” said Aunt Beryl expressionlessly.

  “If she were marrying someone we’d all known and liked — and there wasn’t this horrible war hanging over it all; if I could only feel that she was going to happiness, naturally and normally — then I could bear losing her. It’s the lot of parents, and I’d face all my loneliness gladly — if only I didn’t feel that some awful loss or grief may be coming to her that I shan’t be able to take in her stead.”

  “Well, of course you know, dear, Jennie has to live her own life.”

  Aunt Beryl had spoken. Colloquially, without emphasis, she had repeated the verdict already voiced crudely by young Valentine, and vehemently by Joyce.

  They thought that Lydia grudged Jennie — had always grudged her — the right of experience.

  Lydia had never held Aunt Beryl’s opinions in high esteem. Indeed, there were very few opinions so to hold. One talked with Aunt Beryl of the people one knew, of household difficulties, and of clothes. Never of abstract questions, nor of inner perplexities. One knew instinctively that for such she would have no solution to offer.

  And yet Aunt Beryl’s simple statement that Jennie had to live her own life carried with it to Lydia an altogether disproportionate dismay.

  “To see one’s own child suffer — it’s far worse than suffering oneself,” she reiterated helplessly.

  “I’m not saying it isn’t hard on you, dear.”

  Aunt Beryl softly picked up the little knitted shawl that had slipped from Mrs. Senthoven’s shoulders and replaced it without waking her.

  “I’m sure it isn’t good for Aunt Evelyn to sleep in the day-time the way she does, Lydia. It isn’t what I call wholesome sleep either — hark at the way she’s breathing!” Aunt Beryl reseated herself.

  “About what we were saying, dear. No doubt, you’ll say, me being an old maid, I can hardly enter into a mother’s feelings, and probably it’s the case.

  But I always remember that time, years and years ago, Lydia, when you went off to London to that Madame Elena’s, that shop — I always remember what a way I was in about it. Feeling you were too young, you know, and that someone ought to stand between you and the world, and so on and so forth. You know the way one goes on, dear. And then something or other set me thinking — and Mr. Monteagle Almond and Uncle George and I got talking one evening, I remember, and it seemed as though it would be more myself I was thinking about than you, really, if I insisted upon you being kept under my wing, as they say, instead of letting you learn for yourself. Of course,” said Aunt Beryl apologetically, “I’m not saying it’s the same thing as being a mother, you understand — but it does seem as though one ought to be ready to let the young people suffer for themselves, so to speak, if] that’s the way they’re going to learn.”

  “But I want to see my Jennie happy,” said Lydia piteously.

  “I suppose there’s no real happiness without there’s been sorrow too,” said Aunt Beryl simply.

  Her speech had never been free from provincialisms such as Lydia had instinctively known all her life how to avoid.

  “If you can reach the bell without getting up, Lydia.

  I wish you’d ring, dear. I’m trying to train the girl to be a bit more punctual with tea of an afternoon — she’s very bad that way. She could start laying, and then wait the teapot for Jennie and Mr. Valentine. I said tea up here this afternoon so as to save a fire in the dining-room. I thought you’d understand, dear.”

  “Of course,” said Lydia, hardly hearing. “I suppose they’ll be back in a minute. Oh, Aunt Beryl — if only I knew what was best for Jennie.”

  “I should let her judge for herself, dear — truly I should,” said Aunt Beryl placidly. “It may hurt you more just to stand by and watch, but it’ll be better for her in the long run to have been let learn her own lessons.”

  There was a curious stability about Aunt Beryl’s point of view. Lydia did not feel that she could hope to modify it, however mildly it might be reiterated in homely and uneloquent phrases.

  “You mean that I’ve got to sacrifice Jennie for Jennie’s own good?” The door of the drawing-room opened.

  “You can start bringing up the tea-things, Gladys,” said Aunt Beryl. “Don’t make the tea until the young lady and gentleman are in — they’ve left the door on the jar, but in case you don’t hear them I’ll ring.”

  “Yes, Miss Raymond.”

  Gladys went away again.

  “She’s quite a smart-looking girl, isn’t she, Lydia?” said her mistress complacently. “And one doesn’t have to keep nagging all the time — she’s thoroughly willing.

  You were saying, dear, that you ought to sacrifice Jennie for her own good, but I don’t know that that’s exactly how I’d put it, myself. It’s more sacrificing yourself that I meant — sacrificing your own feelings, like.”

  Another echo.

  Roland Valentine had said: “It’s only another kind of sacrifice that’s wanted... the way you can do it best is just the way that’ll hurt you most.... Let her take her own risks and shoulder her own responsibilities.”

  Yes — it was just the way that hurt Lydia most. No doubt of that.

  “That’s the hall-door! If the water’s boiling — really boiling, mind, Gladys — you can make the tea, and bring up the hot toast.”

  Aunt Evelyn woke suddenly.

  “Tea already?” she said eagerly. “I must have closed my eyes. It’s a shame Olive couldn’t stop for a nice cosy tea by the fire before going out.”

  “She had a cup in the dining-room, dear — Gladys had it all ready — and a piece of cake,” “I don’t like this mad way of scamping her meals,” said Aunt Evelyn dejectedly. “Fancy that now, Lydia! A bitter wind like to-day and there’s Olive will come home, on the top of a tram as like as not, with her chest and all, at nine or ten o’clock to-night.”

  Aunt Beryl firmly picked up the ear-trumpet, adjusted it, and spoke through it with vigour.

  “Olive’s all right, Evelyn! You know the doctor said she could try it for a bit, and she was wild to do something for the war. She’d have fretted herself to fiddlestrings if she hadn’t got this job.”

  They both of them spoke, Lydia thought with a little amusement, as though Olive were quite a young girl, instead of a middle-aged woman.

  As Aunt Beryl’s shrill voice ceased, her sister nodded her head reluctantly.

  “Well, well, it’s a terrible war, and I wish I were good for anything besides knitting. Though they say the boys out there can’t have enough woollies. But it would be easier to go out and do the hard work oneself, if only one could, and leave the children safe at home, like when they were little. I expect you’re beginning to feel that, Lydia. It’s the way of the world, and we must just make the best of our shelf, now we’re on it.”

  Aunt Evelyn even laughed a little.

  But Lydia felt as though the whole world were in league against her.

  XXVIII

  THEY did not go down to Devonshire until the middle of the following day.

  Lydia had the whole morning to herself, even after she had finished packing up her small suit-case and Jennie’s. This time Jennie had made no protest when her mother began to pack for her. She and Roland had gone out together quite early, and although Lydia t
hought that they had told her of their destination, she seemed able to remember nothing but the essential fact that they were to meet her at the station at one o’clock.

  In the meanwhile she felt an urgent need of occupation, and remembered an apologetic request of Aunt Beryl’s.

  “I don’t know whether you could ever recommend poor Maria Nettleship’s rooms to any of your friends, Lydia — but it would be a real kindness. The boardinghouse has been giving her ever so much trouble lately — and then this war coming. One doesn’t know how things will be, and she hasn’t got much put by, I’m afraid. I never hear from her without she asks after you in the letter, you know. She’s never forgotten you, and if ever you’re up that way, I know it will give her real pleasure to see you. But, of course, she understands you’re busy.”

  So far as Miss Nettleship was concerned, Lydia had been busy for many years.

  Now, however, half curious and half listless, she found herself in the old Bloomsbury neighbourhood.

  Looking up at the tall house, Lydia supposed that it was unchanged, but such a lassitude had crept over her perceptions that she seemed to herself utterly incapable of summoning any vivid recollection to her mind.

  Should she go in? She felt little inclination to do so, but it would please Aunt Beryl, and anything was better than to remain alone with one’s thoughts, and expose oneself perhaps to a more active realization of certain dimly-apprehended truths. Europe was at war — Jennie was going to be married, a mere baby, to a young Canadian who cared nothing for the traditions in which she had been brought up, who upheld her ungrateful defiance of her mother, and would, if he lived, take her right away.... no one left.... Nathalie thinking of her husband and her boys.... Lady Lucy thinking of her young grandson, the only male Damerel left, gone into the fighting-line... no one giving a thought to Lydia, save Lydia’s racked and bewildered self.

  She shuddered involuntarily, and rang the door-bell.

  “Miss Nettleship?”

  “Will you step up into the drawing-room?” said the maid.

  She preceded Lydia upstairs, pulling down the sleeves of her dress as she went.

  “I’ll tell Miss Nettleship, if you’ll take a seat.”

  Lydia heard her clattering downstairs again. No doubt Miss Nettleship was in the basement, supervising the activities of a successor to someone whom she had invariably alluded to in the old days as “poor old Agnes.”

  Lydia actually smiled a little, as her surroundings recalled old, forgotten details of the boarding-house life.

  The drawing-room was still furnished in yellow, the heavy gilding of the mirror over the mantelpiece seemed only slightly more chipped and tarnished.

  There was no fire, although it was cold.

  The smell of distant, greasy cooking still hung in the air.

  On a small shelf in a corner were some very dirty and tattered numbers of the Lady’s Realm, “Molly Bawn,” devoid of cover, and the novel written nearly twenty years ago by Lydia herself.

  Time worked very few changes at Miss Nettleship’s house in Bloomsbury.

  Lydia looked up when the door of the drawing-room opened, feeling sure that she would have no difficulty in recognizing Miss Nettleship, although it was nearly six years since they had last met, on one of Lydia’s infrequent expeditions to Regency Terrace.

  But in effect they were strangers to her who entered the room, although a curious sense of familiarity seemed to indicate that the type was not new to her.

  Both ladies were middle-aged, both looked pinched and cold and shabby, and both gave Lydia the same furtive, hesitating bow as they passed.

  They took their seats on either side of the empty grate, and talked to each other in low, discontented murmurs.

  “It’s too bad not to have a fire a day like this, with the dining-room smoking so that one can’t stay in the room.”

  “She said she’d have the fire in here lit after midday dinner. I thought I’d tell you, Mrs. Morrison, knowing how bad your chest has been, so that we could slip out of the dining-room early, and get two nice chairs and keep warm all the afternoon. Otherwise, we know who will get the best places.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s always the same. Selfish I call it.

  Thank you for the hint, Miss Parry. I shall make the most of it. I suppose it isn’t anywhere near dinnertime yet?”

  “Oh, no! Only just gone twelve.”

  “Is that all? I thought the breakfast very poor this morning, didn’t you?”

  “Downright robbery, considering the money we pay.

  It isn’t at all the sort of thing I consider one has the right to expect in a Residential Private Hotel either.”

  “The porridge burnt.”

  “And all the toast finished, if one’s so much as five minutes late.... Old Mr. Kinch thinks nothing of helping himself to two pieces at once — I’ve seen him do it. And one doesn’t like to say anything.”

  “Certainly not. It isn’t the food one cares about, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Miss Nettleship ought to stop it, you know. But of course, there it is — he’s a permanent let, and doesn’t care what he pays — naturally, she won’t risk losing him.”

  “Oh, naturally. Why, they say he thinks nothing of ordering in wine for himself, and fruit out of season.”

  “Of course, it’s good for the house, I suppose, seeing things delivered at the door like that from West End shops.”

  Miss Forster — Mrs. Clarence — ancient Miss Lillicrap, with her heart disease — the old, forgotten ghosts all crowded back upon Lydia’s memory.

  The dingy walls of the drawing-room had encompassed the same conversations about food, and lack of warmth, and grasping fellow-boarders, year in and year out.

  “They say this war is going to affect the price of food, and there’ll be things we shan’t be able to get any more.”

  “Ah, things we’ve been getting from Germany, I daresay that would be,” vaguely said the spinster, Miss Parry.

  “I should have thought we could make anything here that the Germans could make, I must say.”

  “Not at the price though,” said Miss Parry sagely.

  “They’ve been making a regular business of cheap trades, you know. That’s part of their cleverness.”

  “Ah, I daresay. They say the Kaiser had all this war planned out as far back as the old Queen’s death.

  How he can sleep in his bed at night, I can’t imagine!”

  “Perhaps he can’t,” said Miss Parry darkly. “I couldn’t, in his place, I know that.”

  “Oh, nor could I.”

  The ladies fell silent, perhaps each imagining herself in the unenviable position of the potentate under discussion. Lydia felt sure that such a flight of fancy was well within the humourless capacity of each.

  When the door opened again and Miss Nettleship came in, very fat, and panting a great deal, but otherwise unchanged, Miss Parry and Mrs. Morrison watched with furtive eagerness her enthusiastic greeting of Lydia, whilst pretending to conceal themselves behind the loose sheets of an illustrated paper.

  The uncertain movement made by Mrs. Morrison towards the door was forestalled by Miss Nettleship, however.

  “Come into my room for a little chat,” she begged Lydia. “I’ve a sitting-room now, besides the office.”

  The sitting-room was a small back bedroom, hung with cheerful red twill curtains, and almost entirely filled by an arm-chair and an old-fashioned sofa, designated by its owner as “the couch.”

  “Take the couch, won’t you? It’s a nice, comfortable seat, and I’ll have the room warm in a minute.”

  Miss Nettleship knelt down upon the floor, not without difficulty, and applied a match to the small gas-fire.

  A fierce, yapping sound ensued, and then a pale-blue flame appeared, gradually extending the length of the grate, and began to glow, sending out an amount of heat that seemed to scorch up the air in the tiny room, in spite of the shallow pan of water standing just in front of
the grate. Lydia, in a strange, detached way, reflected that it was a long while since she had sat in the dry, odorous heat of a gas-fire. At Regency Terrace they made use of smoking coal, in Devonshire, most of the hearths that she knew burnt sweet-smelling wood.

  Miss Nettleship assailed Lydia with a flood of eager and interested questions. She seemed to know by name and reputation everyone belonging to the family of Damerel, and inquired solicitously for Lady Lucy, anxiously for news of her grandson, and compassionately for his mother.

  At Lydia’s replies she nodded her head, fixing upon her round, absorbed brown eyes, and saying from time to time: “Of course — one sees how it is, Mrs. Damerel. I quite understand.”

  It all seemed curiously unchanged, even to Miss Nettleship’s old phraseology.

  And Miss Nettleship’s memory! She recalled names and incidents that seemed to Lydia to have been delved out of some other life, and all with a comfortable assurance that Lydia would remember even as she herself did.

  “You’ll want to hear of the people who were here in your time. Let me see now — we’d Miss Forster then, of course. Did your auntie tell-you about her? — I remember I wrote to her about it when the accident happened.”

  “What accident?”

  “Oh, poor thing, she got run over in the street, and died in hospital — about five years ago it must have been. She’d left here, you know, and gone into rooms.

  But I went to the inquest, of course — naturally I did,” said Miss Nettleship with mournful pride. “She’d put on a lot of flesh, poor thing, and it was quite a shock to see how stout she’d grown. She often asked after you, you know.”

  Lydia had not known. It surprised her again and again to hear of the extraordinary fidelity with which so many of these people, in their limited circles of interests, had remembered her.

  “There was that old lady who had a weak heart — Miss Lillicrap — what happened to her?”

  “Poor Miss Lillicrap! She was old, you see, and ill, and one couldn’t say much — but you know how it was.