Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  There was no sound as she came across the grass and parted the bushes that surrounded the summer-house, but she could feel, beyond doubt, that curious certainty of human proximity that is independent of the senses.

  The interior of the small, decaying wooden structure was so dark that for an instant Sophie thought it was empty.

  Then the light fabric of a woman’s dress revealed itself, and at the same moment she heard her father speaking, in a thick, breathless voice.

  “One more, Leila...”

  Sophie, with a quick movement of recoil, fled back through the tangled syringa and rhododendron bushes. She pushed her way through them, regardless of the cracking branches, and then regained the path.

  Almost ever since her fifteenth year, Sophie had known of Clarissa’s bitter complaints that Fitzmaurice constantly made love to other women. She had, since leaving school, many times heard Clarissa’s furious recriminations and accusations, and Fitzmaurice’s grumbling, half-hearted excuses that never either actually denied or admitted anything.

  But it was the first time that she had come upon so direct a piece of evidence, and she felt shocked and unhappy. It was one thing to know all about it theoretically, and it was quite another, thought Sophie miserably, to have heard her father’s voice — like that — and to be made to realize that it was Leila Delmar — trivial, vulgar, and with a well-established reputation for promiscuity — to whom he was making love whilst she was Clarissa’s guest.

  Neither religion nor conventional morality had played any part in Clarissa’s upbringing of Lucien and Sophie. She had intermittently offered to their adolescent gropings after truth, breezy, ready-made phrases about Playing the Game, and Never letting down a Pal. They had, again and again, seen Clarissa herself transgressing these simple rules. What she wanted she had, for all they knew to the contrary, always taken, whether at the expense of somebody else or not. They had frequently heard her lie, bully those weaker or less wealthy than herself, and openly despise a large number of people who were outside a certain section of society. She was, quite evidently, without real principles.

  It did not, therefore, occur to Sophie to regard her father’s lapse in the light of sin. It did, however, profoundly offend her taste, and cause in her a strong revulsion of feeling at the idea, which inevitably occurred to her immediately, that marriage would imply such contacts, and probably, in a few years’ time, a husband who would seek, in all the vulgarity of surreptitious intrigue, similar alleviations to the monotony of married life.

  Sophie, overwhelmed, felt that she could never marry Bat Clutterthorpe.

  On regaining the house she fled to her own room. She was terrified, not at the thought of having to break off her brief engagement, but at the thought of Clarissa’s wrath.

  At this very moment, Clarissa was expecting her to conduct Bat, with a carefully concealed triumph of which all three would be perfectly well aware, to make his announcement. She was waiting for them in her little writing-room.

  “I ought to find Bat now, and get it over,” thought Sophie, feeling sick.

  She stood, trembling and hesitating, on the threshold of her room.

  Steps came along the passage, and Delphine Wingate, with Leila Delmar’s husband, called for Sophie. In another moment, Delphine would be at her door.

  In desperation, Sophie opened it.

  “Oh, there you are. Sophie, couldn’t we go and bathe? It’s frightfully hot, and Lord Delmar says he wants something to do.”

  “Your brother’s gone for the key of the boathouse. I vote we all get into bathing-suits and have a swim,” said Delmar.

  “Can you find me anything to wear, Sophie? I didn’t bring a bathing-dress,” Delphine explained anxiously.

  As surely as Clarissa had omitted the erection of any moral or ethical standards for Sophie’s guidance, so had she developed in her a rigorous sense of social duty.

  It was with no conscious effort, but only as one meeting an inevitable obligation, that Sophie instantly gave herself up to the entertainment of Clarissa’s guests.

  She even made a little joke about the fashionably low-cut back of the scarlet-and-white swimming-suit that she produced for Delphine.

  “You’ve got another one for yourself, though?”

  “Oh, yes. But—” Sophie hesitated, “I’m not sure mummie doesn’t want me just now. I may join you later.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t want you,” Delphine declared. “She’s in her writing-room with Bat

  Clutterthorpe, and I heard her say they didn’t want to be interrupted.”

  “Come along, you girls,” called Delmar from the stairs.

  Sophie picked up her green-striped suit and gay-patterned cloak of turkey towelling, and followed Delphine downstairs.

  XIV

  NOT BROTHER AND SISTER

  THEY came back late from swimming. Delmar had clamoured for a picnic tea, and Leila and Fitzmaurice had joined them. Bat Clutterthorpe, much later, appeared too.

  He murmured to Sophie:

  “You might have faced it with me. Not that I blame you. My dear, it was too awful. Really, your parent is outside the pale of decency. She embraced me at least five times, and the announcement is going up to The Times the instant we’ve heard from my papa, to whom she compelled me to send a telegram on the spot.”

  “Did she really, Bat?”

  “She did, indeed. I telephoned it, so I shan’t have to pay, that’s one thing.”

  He paused for her to laugh; and, faintly and automatically, Sophie did so.

  Her fate, she thought, was out of her own hands now. One couldn’t, unsupported, defy Clarissa.

  “I mentioned that you had a father too,” continued Clutterthorpe, “but she carefully pointed out to me that nobody’s consent but hers was in the least necessary, as it was her money that had kept you from the workhouse — or something to that effect. Is that true?”

  “I suppose it is,” murmured Sophie, scarcely knowing what she was saying.

  “Terribly interesting,” commented Bat, with a grimace. “Anyhow, I’m spared a second embarrassing interview, if your papa is to be looked upon as a man of straw. I suppose somebody’s going to mention to him that I’m engaged to his daughter, though? Otherwise, I’ve got a deadly fear that Clarissa means to make a public announcement at dinner to-night, or something equally awful.”

  “Oh, no, Bat.”

  “She will, unless you can stave it off, or get Lucien to.”

  “I’ll speak to Lucien,” Sophie said, remembering that she had promised to try and come down early to meet Lucien in the schoolroom.

  It did not prove easy.

  It was already within twenty minutes of the dinner hour when she hastened upstairs, and Lucien was still talking about tennis downstairs with the Delmars. She caught his fleeting glance of dismay as she pointed to the clock.

  It seemed to her that her maid — a very young girl who was supposed to be receiving training under the supervision of Foster — had never been so slow. She had put out two dresses, from which she expected Sophie to make a choice.

  “Either will do. The white, it looks coolest — but I’m in a hurry.”

  “You’ve ten minutes, Miss Sophie. You won’t be late.”

  The girl hunted for a pair of evening stockings to match the white frock and silver shoes. She found them at last, and Sophie, who had already drawn her frock over her head, put them on in haste.

  “Your pearl necklace, Miss Sophie!”

  Sophie caught it up from the dressing-table and put it round her neck. Just as she snapped the clasp there was a knock at the door and Clarissa, without waiting for an answer, came in.

  “Clear out,” she said, briefly, to the maid.

  All traces of Clarissa’s nervous misery of the afternoon had been removed. She was beautifully made-up, and looked particularly radiant and triumphant in a long dress of figured brocade.

  “Well, my child, I’ve talked to him, and you’re quite all right. You
’ve brought it off. Congratulations, my dear — though it’s I that deserve them, as I hope you realize.”

  She kissed Sophie very lightly on the forehead, and stood back scrutinizing her.

  “You look your absolute worst. Excitement, I suppose. Take off that white frock,” she commanded, “and get into the gold — no, that won’t do. It’ll clash with mine. You’ve got a pink one, haven’t you? Try that.”

  “Oh, mummie, need I change? Won’t this do?” protested Sophie.

  Clarissa stared at her in frank astonishment. It was seldom indeed that Sophie was anything less than perfectly submissive.

  “Don’t stand there arguing! Change at once. That white makes you look completely washed out.”

  In silent despair, Sophie changed her frock.

  The gong reverberated in the hall below.

  “Dinner can’t be announced till I’m there,” said Clarissa, with a short laugh. “There, that’s rather better. Just do your mouth again — you’ve got the new Mountain Tan, haven’t you? Sophie, I’m terribly pleased about everything. I’ll talk to you to-night. You haven’t told anyone yet, have you?”

  “No — I don’t want—”

  “That’s right, we must wait till his father telegraphs, but Bat says it’ll be absolutely all right. He’s wired to him, of course. With any luck, the answer will get through to-night.”

  “Mummie, I want to talk to you before we tell anybody at all,” said Sophie, desperate.

  For sole answer, Clarissa opened the bedroom door and walked out of the room.

  As Sophie followed her along the passage, she turned and spoke over her shoulder, very gently and distinctly.

  “Directly the father’s wire comes, you little silly, we’re going to proclaim the news. Do you think I’m going to run any risk of your losing him at this stage? It’s got to be made public just — as — quickly — as — possible.”

  In another instant, she was in the drawing-room. Everybody else had assembled. Bat was at the piano — once more, in the absence of Raoul Radow, the gifted musician — and in the midst of the noisy conversation and laughter that broke out as Clarissa opened the door, Sophie, after one look round, turned and slipped out again. Lucien was coming down the stairs.

  “I couldn’t come,” she said breathlessly. “Mummie came to my room and — oh, Lucien!”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked gravely. “Lucien, I — I wanted to tell you. Bat has asked me to marry him.”

  Lucien stopped dead, looking down at her. “But what have you answered?” he asked urgently.

  “I said, Yes,” said Sophie, half crying, “but I don’t really want to do it.”

  Lucien’s young, set face relaxed into an expression that caused Sophie to put out both hands in a gesture of mingled trust and entreaty.

  “I can’t possibly get out of it, can I?” she whispered. “If you’ll help me, Lucien?”

  “Of course, darling. Does Clarissa know?”

  “I’m afraid she does. That’s the worst of it.”

  “It is, indeed. We shall have to—”

  The door of the drawing-room opened.

  “What about the schoolroom to-night, after everyone’s gone to bed? Isn’t that our one chance?”

  “I expect so. I’ll come.”

  The evening was as noisy, as full of futile conversation, and as much permeated by the autocracy of Clarissa, as any other evening at Mardale. The expected reply from his father to Bat Clutterthorpe’s telegram failed to arrive, to Sophie’s intense relief. The triumphant glitter in Clarissa’s whole expression was not, however, diminished.

  Soon after eleven o’clock she rose, and as was her wont, deliberately dismissed the party.

  “It’s bedtime, now. Delphine, you’re not to chatter in Sophie’s room to-night. She’s looking a perfect rag, and wants a good night’s rest. Good night, everybody. There are drinks in the billiard-room, Reggie.”

  She herded the women upstairs, smartly shutting the door of Delphine Wingate’s room upon her.

  “Now, Sophie — I’ll come in for one minute, and then to bed you go. I can see you’re perfectly worn out with excitement, and no wonder. I wish Bat had had his telegram to-night, but it’ll come through first thing in the morning. We’ll give it out then, before the party breaks up. It’ll give Leila Delmar something to talk about in Scotland.”

  “Mummie, I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I mean — I’m not quite sure.”

  If only one didn’t feel so extraordinarily tired, thought Sophie, how much easier it would be to talk to Clarissa. She knew that a note of rather feeble appeal had come into her voice, and that nothing was better calculated to rouse all Clarissa’s most domineering instincts.

  “Darling, don’t be sillier than you can help. Take off that frock — carefully, Sophie — and get ready for bed. If I was a religious woman — which I’m not, because I think creed doesn’t matter a bit, only kindness, and running absolutely dead straight all the time — I’d tell you to go down on your knees and thank God. It’s simply too marvellous. And what’s more,” said Clarissa triumphantly, “I believe you’ll be very happy with him. Bat really is one of the best.”

  “I know he is, but, mummie, need I settle anything at once?”

  “You have settled,” said Clarissa, lightly and coldly. “All you had to say was ‘Yes’ — and dam’ lucky you are to have got the chance of saying it. I’ll arrange all the rest for you. You, my child, have nothing to do but go straight ahead and be happy.”

  Sophie began to cry.

  “You’re dead to the world,” said Clarissa. “It’s the heat, as much as anything. For God’s sake, Sophie, don’t be silly. Think of me. I’ve moved heaven and earth to bring this off for you, and now all you can do to show your gratitude is cry like a silly schoolgirl. Go to sleep, and you’d better have breakfast in bed to-morrow. It’ll be quite good for Bat to have to wait about a bit before seeing you.”

  She rose.

  “I forbid you to think of anything at all tonight. I’ll tell Foster to bring you some hot milk. Good night.”

  She was gone.

  Sophie mastered her own inclination to sit down and go on crying. She was not often tearful, and regard for her own personal appearance, partly innate and partly the result of Clarissa’s intensive training, was quite strong enough to check further emotional reaction from a long period of unacknowledged strain.

  She drank the glass of hot milk that Foster presently brought, and lay on her bed, cool and free in the thin blue crépe pyjamas of Clarissa’s choosing, until she heard steps and voices on the stairs. Then she pulled on slippers and kimono, opened her door, and went softly down the passage.

  The schoolroom lay deserted in the moonlight. The servants had forgotten, or neglected, to draw the curtains, and cold white light lay across the oak boards and imparted a curious petrified aspect to the dark panelling.

  Sophie sought the electric light switch, and turned on a small green-shaded reading-lamp that stood on a table in the corner.

  She sat down on the shabby green leather fire-seat in front of the empty grate and waited. The schoolroom that she and Lucien had shared in the early days of Fitzmaurice’s marriage to Clarissa held the joint memories of their childhood.

  She could see the bookcase with all R. M. Ballantyne’s books and those of E. Nesbit, and the bound copies of Children’s Annuals.

  In the cupboard below were the relics of joint hobbies — photography, and painting, and shipbuilding. A board creaked from outside, and the door-handle turned. Lucien, still in his evening clothes, came in, closing the door gently behind him.

  Sophie looked up at him without moving, and he came and sat on the fender seat beside her.

  “I couldn’t get away any earlier. Have you been waiting long?”

  “No. I only came here when I heard you all on your way upstairs.”

  “Clarissa made you go to bed?”

  “Yes. She just came to my room for a few minutes.
I didn’t really have much chance of saying anything.”

  “I suppose not, poor little Sophie.”

  He broke off, looking round the room.

  “I say, Sophie, do you remember Clarissa rowing me in here because I told a new Mademoiselle you weren’t really my sister?”

  She nodded, smiling.

  “Clarissa won, of course. But I was right for all that. Which was exactly what Clarissa didn’t want me to realize — or you either, my sweet. I think, on the whole, she succeeded rather well, at least as far as you were concerned, didn’t she?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sophie answered in a soft, troubled voice, without raising her eyes.

  “Was that — one reason — why you got yourself into this ridiculous mess?”

  “Perhaps. That, and being afraid of Clarissa, and having been taught to think that one belonged to her. She told me it — Bat’s asking me to marry him — would most likely happen before he came here at all.”

  “The mountebank,” remarked Lucien meditatively.

  “No, no,” Sophie protested. “He isn’t only that, is he? I — I don’t like him much, but I think that’s only since he asked me to marry him. And he is clever, and different to other people—”

  “Radow didn’t seem to think much of his music that he’s always pushing down one’s throat —— —”

  “Radow,” said Sophie, and paused on the name. “This morning — oh dear, was it only this morning?

  — he was in the hall with his Mr. Lawrence. And he told me that you weren’t my brother at all — that I hadn’t any brother.”

  “It comes back, then, to Clarissa’s being wrong and my being right.”

  “The worst of it is,” said Sophie, looking up at him and smiling suddenly, “that Clarissa’s being wrong has never yet made any difference to her getting her own way.”

  Lucien, too, smiled.

  “Unless,” he suggested, “she comes up against Radow’s Mr. Lawrence.”

  “Oh, wasn’t he wonderful?”