Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  October 5th. — Develop really severe cold twenty-four hours after reaching home. Robert says that all Institutes are probably full of germs — which is both unjust and ridiculous.

  October 13th. — Continued cold and cough keep me in house, and make me unpopular with Robert, Cook, and Gladys — the latter of whom both catch my complaint. Mademoiselle keeps Vicky away, but is sympathetic, and brings Vicky to gesticulate dramatically at me from outside the drawing-room window, as though I had the plague. Gradually this state of affairs subsides, my daily quota of pocket-handkerchiefs returns to the normal, and Vapex, cinnamon, camphorated oil, and jar of cold cream all go back to medicine-cupboard in bathroom once more.

  Unknown benefactor sends me copy of new Literary Review, which seems to be full of personal remarks from well-known writers about other well-known writers. This perhaps more amusing to themselves than to average reader. Moreover, competitions most alarmingly literary, and I return with immense relief to old friend Time and Tide.

  October 17th. — Surprising invitation to evening party — Dancing, 9.30 — at Lady B.’s. Cannot possibly refuse, as Robert has been told to make himself useful there in various ways; moreover, entire neighbourhood is evidently being polished off, and see no object in raising question as to whether we have, or have not, received invitation. Decide to get new dress, but must have it made locally, owing to rather sharply worded enquiry from London shop which has the privilege of serving me, as to whether I have not overlooked overdue portion of account? (Far from overlooking it, have actually been kept awake by it at night.) Proceed to Plymouth, and get very attractive black taffeta, with little pink and blue posies scattered over it. Mademoiselle removes, and washes, Honiton lace from old purple velvet every-night tea-gown, and assures me that it will be gentil á croquer on new taffeta. Also buy new pair black evening-shoes, but shall wear them every evening for at least an hour in order to ensure reasonable comfort at party.

  Am able to congratulate myself that great-aunt’s diamond ring, for once, is at home when needed.

  Robert rather shatteringly remarks that he believes the dancing is only for the young people, and I heatedly enquire how line of demarcation is to be laid down? Should certainly not dream of accepting ruling from Lady B. on any such delicate question. Robert merely repeats that only the young will be expected to dance, and we drop the subject, and I enquire into nature of refreshments to be expected at party, as half-past nine seems to me singularly inhospitable hour, involving no regular meal whatever. Robert begs that I will order dinner at home exactly as usual, and make it as substantial as possible, so as to give him every chance of keeping awake at party, and I agree that this would indeed appear desirable.

  October 9th. — Rumour that Lady B.’s party is to be in Fancy Dress throws entire neighbourhood into consternation. Our Vicar’s wife comes down on gardener’s wife’s bicycle — borrowed, she says, for greater speed and urgency — and explains that, in her position, she does not think that fancy dress would do at all — unless perhaps poudré, which, she asserts, is different, but takes ages to brush out afterwards. She asks what I am going to do, but am quite unable to enlighten her, as black taffeta already completed. Mademoiselle, at this, intervenes, and declares that black taffeta can be transformed by a touch into Dresden China Shepherdess à ravir. Am obliged to beg her not to be ridiculous, nor attempt to make me so, and she then insanely suggests turning black taffeta into costume for (a) Mary Queen of Scots, (b) Mme. de Pompadour, (c) Cleopatra.

  I desire her to take Vicky for a walk; she is blessée, and much time is spent in restoring her to calm.

  Our Vicar’s wife — who has meantime been walking up and down drawing-room in state of stress and agitation — says What about asking somebody else? What about the Kellways? Why not ring them up?

  We immediately do so, and are lightheartedly told by Mary Kellway that it is Fancy Dress, and she is going to wear her Russian Peasant costume — absolutely genuine, brought by sailor cousin from Moscow long years ago — but if in difficulties, can she lend me anything? Reply incoherently to this kind offer, as our Vicar’s wife, now in uncontrollable agitation, makes it impossible for me to collect my thoughts. Chaos prevails, when Robert enters, is frenziedly appealed to by our Vicar’s wife, and says Oh, didn’t he say so? one or two people have had “Fancy Dress” put on invitation cards, as Lady B.’s own house-party intends to dress up, but no such suggestion has been made to majority of guests.

  Our Vicar’s wife and I agree at some length that, really, nobody in this world but Lady B. would behave like this, and we have very good minds not to go near her party. Robert and I then arrange to take our Vicar and his wife with us in car to party, she is grateful, and goes.

  October 23rd. — Party takes place. Black taffeta and Honiton lace look charming and am not dissatisfied with general appearance, after extracting two quite unmistakable grey hairs. Vicky goes so far, as to say that I look Lovely, but enquires shortly afterwards why old people so often wear black — which discourages me.

  Received by Lady B. in magnificent Eastern costume, with pearls dripping all over her, and surrounded by bevy of equally bejewelled friends. She smiles graciously and shakes hands without looking at any of us, and strange fancy crosses my mind that it would be agreeable to bestow on her sudden sharp shaking, and thus compel her to recognise existence of at least one of guests invited to her house. Am obliged, however, to curb this unhallowed impulse, and proceed quietly into vast drawing-room, at one end of which band is performing briskly on platform.

  Our Vicar’s wife — violet net and garnets — recognises friends, and takes our Vicar away to speak to them. Robert is imperatively summoned by Lad y B. — (Is she going to order him to take charge of cloak room, or what?) — and I am greeted by an unpleasant-looking Hamlet, who suddenly turns out to be Miss Pankerton. Why, she asks accusingly, am I not in fancy dress? It would do me all the good in the world to give myself over to the Carnival spirit. It is what I need. I make enquiry for Jahsper — should never be surprised to hear that he has come as Ophelia — but Miss P. replies that Jahsper is in Bloomsbury again. Bloomsbury can do nothing without Jahsper. I say, No, I suppose not, in order to avoid hearing any more about either Jahsper or Bloomsbury, and talk to Mary Kellway — who looks nice in Russian Peasant costume — and eventually dance with her husband. We see many of our neighbours, most of them not in fancy dress, and am astounded at unexpected sight of Blenkinsops’ Cousin Maud, bounding round the room with short, stout partner, identified by Mary’s husband as great hunting man.

  Lady B.’s house-party, all in expensive disguises and looking highly superior, dance languidly with one another, and no introductions take place.

  It later becomes part of Robert’s duty to tell everyone that supper is ready, and we all flock to buffet in dining-room, and are given excellent sandwiches and unidentified form of cup. Lady B.’s expensive-looking house-party nowhere to be seen, and Robert tells me in gloomy aside that he thinks they are in the library, having champagne. I express charitable — and improbable — hope that it may poison them, to which Robert merely replies, Hush, not so loud — but should not be surprised to know that he agrees with me.

  Final, and most unexpected, incident of the evening is when I come upon old Mrs. Blenkinsop, all over black jet and wearing martyred expression, sitting in large armchair underneath platform, and exactly below energetic saxophone. She evidently has not the least idea how to account for her presence there, and saxophone prevents conversation, but can distinguish something about Maud, and not getting between young things and their pleasure, and reference to old Mrs. B. not having very much longer to spend amongst us. I smile and nod my head, then feel that this may look unsympathetic, so frown and shake it, and am invited to dance by male Frobisher — who talks about old furniture and birds. House-party reappear, carrying balloons, which they distribute like buns at a School-feast, and party proceeds until midnight.

  Band then bursts into Auld
Lang Syne and Lady B. screams Come along, Come along, and all are directed to forma circle. Singular mêlée ensues, and I see old Mrs. Blenkinsop swept from armchair and clutching our Vicar with one hand and unknown young gentleman with the other. Our Vicar’s wife is holding hands with Miss Pankerton — whom she cannot endure — and looks distraught, and Robert is seized upon by massive stranger in scarlet, and Cousin Maud. Am horrified to realise that I am myself on one side clasping hand of particularly offensive young male specimen of house-party, and on the other that of Lady B. We all shuffle round to well-known strains, and sing For Ole Lang Syne, For Ole Lang Syne, over and over again, since no one appears to know any other words, and relief is general when this exercise is brought to a close.

  Lady B., evidently fearing that we shall none of us know when she has had enough of us, then directs band to play National Anthem, which is done, and she receives our thanks and farewells.

  Go home, and on looking at myself in the glass am much struck with undeniable fact that at the end of a party I do not look nearly as nice as I did at the beginning. Should like to think that this applies to every woman, but am not sure — and anyway, this thought ungenerous — like so many others.

  Robert says, Why don’t I get into Bed? I say, Because I am writing my Diary. Robert replies, kindly, but quite definitely, that In his opinion, That is Waste of Time.

  I get into bed, and am confronted by Query: Can Robert be right?

  Can only leave reply to Posterity.

  THE END

  CHALLENGE TO CLARISSA

  CONTENTS

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  I

  TEN YEARS BEFORE

  “THE thing I’m afraid of,” Fitzmaurice had said piteously, “is that she means to marry me.”

  “Impossible, my dear fellow,” little Montgomery answered earnestly, and with no especially uncomplimentary intent, for he knew well that Fitzmaurice was the kind of dashing bounder predestined to attract women. Fitzmaurice, however, was already married. He was — incredibly, Cliffe Montgomery always felt — the husband of Aldegonde de Candi-Laquerriere. It was his marriage, only, that was responsible for the connection — necessarily a close one — between himself and Cliffe Montgomery.

  The two men sat under the striped red-and-white awning of the cafe open to the Brussels street, and sipped from their little glasses.

  “How can she marry you when you have a wife already?”

  “A thing like that wouldn’t stop Clarissa Marley,” rejoined Fitzmaurice gloomily. “It probably wouldn’t stop her even if my wife and I got on well together, but as things are — she’ll make me divorce Aldegonde. Aldegonde will be only too pleased.”

  “That is a very strange way of putting it,” little Montgomery rejoined, rather severely. It was the protest that he felt bound to make, always, at any criticism, spoken or implied, directed against Aldegonde or her mother.

  There had, in the past thirty years, been occasion for many such protests from Cliffe Montgomery. It seemed to him, sometimes, wearily reviewing the past, that his long relationship with the Princesse de Candi-Laquerriére and her daughters had been divisible into those periods when he had, or had not, to blame them for the cumulative misfortunes they so infallibly attracted to themselves. But never had he allowed, never would he allow, anyone else to blame them unrebuked, least of all Fitzmaurice, himself their major misfortune.

  “Why shouldn’t I divorce Aldegonde? I could have done so almost any time these last two years,” callously said Fitzmaurice. “Not that I want to, you understand — in fact, if it’s to mean Clarissa Marley, I’d rather not. But one must face facts.”

  It was one of his favourite phrases. One must face facts. Montgomery had come to realize, slowly, the meaning of it. Other people must face facts, and must deduce from them the course of action most favoured by Fitzmaurice. They must not expect him to take a decision, either on his own behalf or on theirs.

  “I don’t know,” Fitzmaurice went on disconsolately, “why Clarissa Marley should want to marry anyone. She has lashings of money, and she’s young, and good-looking enough. I thought it was what every woman wanted most — to be a widow under forty, with heaps of money.”

  “Are you sure that she wants to marry you?”

  “Certain. She’s told me so.”

  “What did you say?”

  Little Montgomery put his preposterous question very seriously. For so many years now had he been living in the incredible circle of the Princesse, where impossible questions were asked, and answered, under the stress of impossible emotions, that it was as though the original mould in which he had been cast — that of younger son of an English county family — had broken, leaving only a jumble of pieces that might be fashioned to any crazy pattern.

  Fitzmaurice, besides, didn’t mind what he was asked. It was not only that he was insensitive: he totally lacked respect for himself as for other people.

  “What does one say when a woman makes violent love to one?” he retorted. “My word, Cliffe, she’s a live wire, is Clarissa.”

  Montgomery made a gesture of distaste.

  “Why don’t you leave Belgium?” he suggested. Fitzmaurice shook his head.

  “It’s cheap here. We couldn’t live like this anywhere else.”

  Cliffe thought to himself: “You can’t even live here without getting into debt right and left.” Perhaps Fitzmaurice remembered the same thing, for he exclaimed ruefully: “All the same, if I’d met that woman ten years earlier — though, come to think of it, she wasn’t a widow then. The late lamented only left us in nineteen-eighteen, two years ago. And the money’s all hers — every last cent of it. The boy only gets Mardale, and whatever she chooses to leave him.”

  “A nice-looking boy.”

  “Is he?” said Fitzmaurice indifferently. “Just think of it, Cliffy — a wife with twenty thousand a year, or so, and Clarissa’s ideas about spending it. She adores cars, and racing, and a houseful of people, and she turns herself out dam’ well. There isn’t a man who wouldn’t jump at it, even if she was twenty times less attractive than she is.”

  Cliffe Montgomery gazed silently at his companion. Long ago it had been proved to him that Reggie Fitzmaurice was irresistible to women. His height, his good looks, his vitality — even, Montgomery sometimes thought in bewilderment, his very vulgarity — attracted them. Little Montgomery, spare, small and sandy-haired, with a permanently worn expression, and the frown of the short-sighted, attached an exaggerated importance to physical charm, but still the successes of Fitzmaurice remained to him incomprehensible, although indubitable, facts.

  “Well,” said Fitzmaurice, “Paris’ll settle it.”

  “Paris?”

  “She’s asked me to take her to the races next week. In her car, of course, as her guest.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Naturally,” said Fitzmaurice.

  The waiter, in a dirty white apron, stopped beside the table, and Montgomery paid for their drinks. He turned his worried gaze upon Fitzmaurice again.

  “You can’t get out of this Paris business? Or is it that you don’t want to?”

  “I wish to Heaven I knew. I give you my word of honour, old man, that I don’t know whether I’m in love with the woman or not. She’s not really my style, but on the other hand—”

  “No, no,” little Montgomery protested, in an agony lest he should be about to receive some unspeakable confidence. “I only meant that if you do want to break with her altogether, this is surely an opportunity.”

  “Then,” said Fitzmaurice with simple finality, “I don’t. We
ought to have a jolly good time in Paris. Why should I turn down a priceless opportunity of free fizz, free fun at the races, perhaps the chance of making some money on a horse?”

  Why indeed?

  Cliffe Montgomery was well aware that to make the obvious reply would be a waste of words.

  Besides, so strangely blurred had his original standards become that he was by no means certain of wishing to see Fitzmaurice withdraw from Mrs. Marley’s pursuit. Might it not be the best thing for all of them if Clarissa Marley were to succeed, and Aldegonde be divorced by her husband and thus freed from the most disastrous of her own and her mother’s numerous mistakes?

  “You’ll find Aldegonde and her mother at home,” said Fitzmaurice as the two men rose. It was almost as though he had guessed the trend of his companion’s thoughts. “Why not go and have a talk with them? I’m off to the Grand Hotel.” To see Clarissa Marley. Unnecessary to add the words. They parted, Cliffe turning off from the sunny place to a narrow street that would lead to yet narrower ones where thin, tall houses, with shutters that perpetually peeled green paint, rose high above the uneven cobble-stones.

  So absorbed was he with his problem — that the outraged English gentleman in him knew to be no problem at all, since it was capable of but one honourable solution — that he started with unmixed astonishment on hearing himself hailed.

  “Mr. Montgomery! Mr. Montgomery!”

  An enormous blue touring-car had drawn up noiselessly a few yards ahead of him. Sitting in the back, and now waving wildly in Cliffe’s direction, was Mrs. Marley herself, wearing dazzling yellows-and-reds, that somehow emphasized, rather than diminished, the candid scarlet of her mouth, outlined to an outrageously improbable Cupid’s bow. A vague, additional impression of pearls and diamonds assailed little Montgomery’s bewildered mind as the chauffeur sprang from his seat to open the door, and Mrs. Marley’s ungloved hand imperiously beckoned him in.

  “You’re just the person I wanted. I must go back to my hotel, but I’ll send you anywhere you want to go afterwards. Drive slowly, Charles.”