Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Oh, poor Cousin Ethel! And what did Cousin Charlie do?”

  “He never knew anything about it. I wouldn’t have let him know for the world. He would have thought I was unhappy.”

  Lily was more perplexed than ever. It seemed that because a wife was unhappy, it must at all costs be avoided that her husband should think her unhappy.

  “Wouldn’t he have understood?”

  “I daresay he would. I’m sure he would have been very dear and kind. But men do dislike that kind of thing so much. You know, dear, a woman, after she’s married, has to forget herself and think of her husband.” Lily had been taught to regard self-abnegation as a virtue, and she saw nothing but cause for shame in her own fleeting suspicion that it might in reality be nothing but a weakness.

  “There’s one thing, you won’t have the wretched question of money to worry you. When I first married I had no allowance, and had to ask Charlie for every penny. Not that he ever grudged it, poor dear — far from it. But it used to make it so difficult, somehow, to ask for a shilling here and a shilling there — even though it was absolutely necessary. Of course later on, when we were a little better off, he gave me a fixed sum for the housekeeping, and I always saved on that. Charlie sometimes asked me how I’d managed to find a new bonnet, or some little thing for the babies, but I never told him very much about it.” Ethel laughed reminiscently.

  “Would he have minded?”

  “Oh, I don’t suppose so. But one never quite knows about money, with men. They’re so odd about that sort of thing. And, of course, women don’t know anything about money matters.”

  It seemed a pity that there should be so many things that women knew nothing about.

  “Marriage is the only life for a woman, my dear. I hope all my three will marry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for women who are old maids — no interests, no children, very likely no home. Whereas a happy married life—” She paused expressively, and then said:

  “You were too young to notice very much when your mother was still alive, but look at your father without her! He has never got over her loss. They were absolutely devoted to one another. Or if you want to know what really happily married people are like, Lily dear, you’ve only to look at us.”

  The contemplation of Mr and Mrs. Hardinge left Lily still speechless.

  Perhaps something of this dubious spirit showed in her face. At all events Mrs. Hardinge said very earnestly: “Now don’t mix up love and romance, Lily. They have nothing whatever to do with one another. You girls never seem to realize that, and then of course you’re disappointed. Being in love is one thing, and a very right and natural and charming thing — but you mustn’t expect to stay in love all the days of your life.”

  “I suppose not,” said Lily doubtfully.

  She had not the moral courage to suppose anything else, imbued as she was with the theory that it was both her duty and to her advantage to accept her opinions readymade from her seniors.

  “I don’t want to sound hard and cynical, dear,” said Ethel, looking harassed and motherly. “Of course you’re in love with Nicholas and he with you, and it’s the very happiest and most idyllic time that you’ll ever know. I only meant to put you a little bit on your guard — after all.... No mother, poor child!”

  It came in almost like the refrain of a song.

  “And even if — when the actual glamour of falling in love is over, then, you know, there’s something very much better that takes its place.”

  “What, Cousin Ethel?”

  “Oh, my dear child! Love — trust — confidence — all the little ups and downs you’ve been through together — even the little quarrels. It all helps to draw you more closely together. Charlie and I laugh together now sometimes, at all sorts of funny things that happened to us years ago. It all helps.”

  Helps — what did it help?

  Lily would not ask any further, because of a strange, sick feeling that kept on invading her and to which nothing would have induced her to give the name of dismay.

  So that was love.

  She felt ashamed and almost angry at the thought of her own secret, past dreams. Romantic, indeed. Miss Melody and Cousin Ethel, extremely unlike as they were, would most certainly have joined issue in kindly condemnation here. Both would alike have made use of the self-same words. Beware, foolish little child, of romance and of imagination alike.

  Love was a thing of ephemeral excitements, greatly accrued self-importance, preparations, gifts, congratulations, a great deal of talk and discussion.

  It was also a thing of rather bewildering demands and claims. Nicholas had the right to hold her hand now whenever he wanted to, and he always did so whenever they were alone together, playing with her engagement- ring, bending back the supple fingers, examining the tips of them, very often kissing them. He put his arm round her when they were together, frequently. He kissed her lips at each meeting and parting — sometimes he unexpectedly bent and touched her check or her forehead.

  It had been a relief to Lily to find that his touch did not actually displease her, as did that of most people.

  She was by temperament, she supposed, undemonstrative, but it disappointed her vaguely that certain latent possibilities in herself had not in any way been roused by Nicholas. She wished that there was anyone to whom she could turn for explanation.

  But of course everybody would make the same humiliating accusation, and inform her regretfully that she was romantic. These wild, sweet dreams had been romantic, undoubtedly.

  She had thought of love as a thing of flames and carnations — the odd, beautiful words had served her fancy instinctively. Something so wonderful that talk would spoil it. Or if there had to be talk and discussion and preparation, it would all pass by unheeded, because of something that mattered so infinitely more.

  She had a curious idea that one would not care to have a wedding, and a beautiful lace veil, and all those presents. It would be more like an inevitable recognition of a great central fact in the whole universe, and then — what?

  She hardly knew, but could formulate vaguely the picture of a going forth. The soft, dark-blue gloom of a summer night, and the trusted, hidden depths of a known and loved beech-wood, or the lashing wind of a grey, winter sky and the shelter of a flung cloak and the lee of a high boulder — what would it matter, which the setting were?

  O folly, O romance! O shadows of Philip Stellenthorpe, tremulously proud of a future position, of Charlie and Ethel happily married and discussing the new asparagus- bed, and the children, and the ups and downs of their joint past, of Dorothy Hardinge, gaily pursuing her course of handy-pandy, eyesie-pysie and the rest of it, and yet frankly envious of Lily’s new dignities!

  Those were the real things, the real necessities, and so were the wedding preparations, and the beautiful ring, and the endless consultations over clothes and furniture and journeys....

  The dreams were — just Romance, to be condemned and eschewed, now that Reality had come. And Cousin Ethel had said that this was the happiest and most idyllic time of Lily’s life.

  It was full of excitement, certainly.

  “Lily dear, you’ll have to settle about that blue brocade quickly, if you want to take it away with you. Of course, if you wait for it till you get back there’s heaps of time.”

  “Oh, must I write another letter, Cousin Ethel?”

  “Poor child, your hand must be tired. Janet can write it for you quite well if you tell her what to say.”

  And Janet, not at all unwillingly, was pressed into the service.

  Lily’s own sudden importance positively bewildered her. “My dear child, the vicar wants to know your choice of hymns for the ceremony. Will you and Nicholas talk it over, and let me know as soon as you can? Nicholas will be here on Saturday, I suppose?”

  “Yes, Father. You know you said every week-end until the wedding.”

  “Of course, my little pet, of course. I only wish he could give us more time; but after all, he’ll want
the holiday more, later on. How long are you hoping to be away?”

  “He thinks he can spare a month quite well.”

  “That’s excellent. It’ll be a wonderful time for you both, my dear child.”

  “Lily, Lily!” Kenneth burst into the room. “There’s another enormous parcel for you just come — it says Glass. Come and see what it is.”

  “A telegram for you, miss.”

  “Nicholas can’t get away on Saturday, Father. He isn’t coming.”

  “Dear me, how very disappointing. My poor, dear child!”

  “He’ll come next week-end, for certain.”

  Lily was actually experiencing an unacknowledged relief at the thought that the claims upon her time necessitated by the presence of Nicholas were at least postponed.

  There were so many letters to be written, parcels to be unpacked, clothes to be tried on, and it was all so very important.

  “That’s my good little girl,” said Philip, in a tone that expressed as much relief as though he had feared the outbreak of tears to be expected from a child disappointed of its treat.

  Mrs. Hardinge was plain-spoken.

  “Well, you’ll see plenty of Nicholas after the wedding, and now you can get some of those letters off your mind, Lily. You can make them very short. Everybody knows that a bride never has time for long letters, and you simply must get everything finished up before the wedding.”

  Before the wedding — until the wedding — because of the wedding.

  They all said that, in a frenzied sort of way which implied that the wedding was the final goal towards which Time itself was tending as to the ultimate bourne.

  “After the wedding” was only alluded to as some remote period during which rest might obtain which must until then be utterly foregone. Lily’s own imagination refused to entertain more than the crowding preoccupations of the present. She knew that she and Nicholas were going to Paris together, but all that she could realize was that by that time all the presents must be acknowledged, all the new frocks finished and packed up, and all the various business of the last few weeks finally accomplished.

  The relief of it would be incalculable.

  The last Saturday before the wedding-day brought Nicholas, but this time he stayed with the Hardinges. Lily saw him, alone, less than ever.

  “Can’t I see you in your wedding-dress, just for a minute?” he urged.

  “Good gracious, no!” Cousin Ethel was horrified. “Don’t you know it’s unlucky? She isn’t going to put it on again till she goes to the church. You’ll see it then. And she looks lovely. It’s the prettiest wedding-dress I’ve ever seen.”

  Lily thought of the misty whiteness of her wedding- dress, swathed in tissue paper, hanging alone in a large closet, with a dust-sheet spread upon the floor beneath it, across which lay the heavy gleaming folds of the embroidered train.

  She could not believe that she was to wear it. On the eve of her wedding, the preparations all somehow miraculously completed, Lily was principally conscious of overpowering physical fatigue.

  The wistfulness of an utterly over-wrought spirit possessed her, and she felt strangely inclined to tears.

  “It will be a very sad house without you, little Lily,” said her father pathetically.

  “Oh, I hope not, Father.”

  “Well, well — I mustn’t let my loneliness sadden your joy. You are happy, my darling?”

  “Very,” said Lily in a choked voice.

  “Remember that if you have the slightest doubt of your own feelings, it’s not too late to say so. Even now, at the eleventh hour,” said Philip solemnly. “It’s not too late.”

  It was the first time that he had made any suggestion of the sort, and Lily was by this time quite incapable of viewing it as a practical possibility. The beautiful and costly wedding-dress hanging in the closet upstairs, the lace veil and the pearl necklace, the packed and corded trunks with new-painted initials, the very fact that within less than twenty-four hours a number of guests would be assembling in church, made it quite impossible to receive Philip’s portentous warning as being more than a mere form of words.

  It almost seemed as though he regarded it so himself, for when Lily murmured an inarticulate and meaningless reply he said:

  “You’ve chosen a good man, and one to whom I am proud to give you.”

  He kissed and blessed her very kindly, rather as though it were part of some grave ritual.

  “I approve your choice on behalf of your mother, as well as myself. If only she were here, Lily! Poor child, it’s hard on you.”

  Philip suddenly began to fidget with whatever lay nearest to hand.

  “You’ve had a little talk with Cousin Ethel?” he said meaningly.

  Lily had had innumerable talks with Cousin Ethel, but a terrifying certainty suddenly invaded her that her father was alluding to none of them.

  She said “Yes” nevertheless, and Philip said hastily. “That’s right, that’s right,” and did not look at her.

  Lily hoped fervently that there the mysterious question would be allowed to rest.

  When Mrs. Hardinge sought her that evening, however, she knew that her hopes were futile.

  Cousin Ethel looked at the wedding-dress, scrutinized the white gloves, told Lily to drink a glass of hot milk so that she might sleep, and then began to wander aimlessly round Lily’s bedroom, straightening small pieces of furniture with a confused and absent air.

  “Everything is absolutely ready, I think, and Dorothy and I will be round in good time to help you dress. You — you’re all right, dear?”

  “Yes, thank you, Cousin Ethel. I’m so tired I believe I shall go to sleep at once.”

  “That’s right. Try and not think about anything, but just go off to sleep.”

  Cousin Ethel seemed to hesitate, picked up a packet of labels and put it down again, and said rather hoarsely: “You mustn’t be nervous, my dear. Poor little thing — I wish you had your mother. But it’ll be quite all right really, you know.”

  Mrs. Hardinge gazed at her with an apprehensive look.

  “You’ve lived in the country all your life, after all. You — you know — Well, dear,” said Mrs. Hardinge in a sudden burst of courage, “after all — you’ve seen the animals.”

  The expression was perhaps infelicitous.

  Lily, terrified and over-tired, began uncontrollably to cry.

  XIV

  It was a surprise to Lily Aubray to learn, while she was still upon her honeymoon, that her husband considered her to have been a spoilt child in the house of her father.

  He did not in the least make this a subject of reproach, but humorously took it for granted.

  “You were probably much too pretty not to spoil,” said he.

  The accusation mortified Lily.

  “But I really don’t think I was particularly spoilt, Nicholas. Not after Mother died, anyway. Father was rather strict about a good many things. I was not allowed sweets, for instance, and hardly ever saw any other children, and never went to parties. And you know how particular he is — and always was — about manners.”

  “Too particular,” said Nicholas significantly. “He never scolded you, I suppose?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Just let you sec when you’d done the wrong thing, eh? That’s the trouble, my dear. A little wholesome criticism would have made you much less thin-skinned. It’s a great pity there’s so much difference in age between you and Kenneth. You’ve practically been an only child since you were ten years old.”

  Lily remembered various disparaging comments applied to herself by the girls at Bridgecrap, and certain doubts of her father’s absolute infallibility, stifled conscientiously hitherto, began to stir within her. It was true that she was childishly over-sensitive, brooding over a trifling criticism, and hurt by it the more, when she could not help recognizing its truth. Philip, when obliged to point out a defect in his offspring, had always done so with portentous elaboration and had himself suffered
so obviously in the composition and the delivery of his rebuke, that each such occasion had acquired a monstrous and deplorable significance.

  Nicholas, whether he praised or blamed his wife, did so with cheerful and unsparing candour. Far more often than he criticized her, however, he paid her extravagant, and not always discerning, compliments.

  “You’re so keen about things, Lily, that’s what’s so splendid of you. So thoroughly interested in everything.”

  Sometimes Nicholas said this when Lily had not been interested at all, but had merely, in accordance with the training of her childhood, simulated interest or amusement, in order that she might not disappoint him. She was not sufficiently well-educated to enjoy a very great deal of sight-seeing, and certain prolonged visits to art galleries and museums in Paris tired more than they pleased her. Music, of which she had a real appreciation, Nicholas professed to love, but Lily found that although he beat time with his hand very enthusiastically at the beginning of any well-known work, and frequently hummed something rather indeterminate under his breath, he found concerts in reality tedious.

  When they visited a large cordite factory, he was enthusiastic, and Lily endeavoured to be so as well, understanding very little of what he told her, but saying “Yes, I see,” and asking questions that she hoped might please him.

  Sometimes a fleeting wonder crossed her mind as to the possibilities of companionship between two people of identical tastes and desires. Once, even, she found herself reflecting upon the extreme, and obviously unattainable, luxury of perfect honesty, frank admission of likes and dislikes, frank recognition of differences to be admitted and respected. An impractical idea, and one that verged upon the disloyal. She did not mention it to Nicholas. There were, in fact, several things that could not be mentioned to Nicholas, although this, like so much else, Lily would not have owned to herself.