Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “He was — still is, in fact. I should like to see him at the Treacle Well — we must go there soon, you and I. The Princesse talked to me the other day, Sophie — she came here in a taxi, and sat in it in the avenue, and wouldn’t come in — and I sat there with her. It was altogether absurd and impossible, and exactly like an improbable incident in a third-rate novel — one about international gangs.”

  “Why did she come?” asked Sophie bewildered. “To fetch away Radow, but when she heard that Clarissa meant to keep him, she wouldn’t — as you may suppose — dispute the point. She relinquished Radow, with a single gesture, and proceeded instead to turn her attention to me.”

  “What did she say, Lucien?”

  “What I ought to have said for myself, Sophie, dear.” He put his arm round her, and drew her close. “That I love you, and can’t spare you to anybody else. You mustn’t be engaged to Bat Clutterthorpe, Sophie, or anybody but me.”

  Sophie’s fair head lay against his shoulder.

  “Darling, please, please say it.”

  “I love you, Lucien. I always have.”

  “Only it took Raoul Radow,” Lucien suggested after an interval, “to make it clear to you that, whatever Clarissa may have decreed, I am not your brother.”

  “It took the Princesse to make it equally clear to you,” retorted Sophie.

  Both of them laughed, looking into one another’s eyes.

  “Sweetheart, I’m afraid you’ll have to tell Bat in the morning and I — which will be even worse — shall have to tell Clarissa.”

  “I don’t mind anything much now,” whispered Sophie.

  “Neither do I. Not that I can imagine how anything is going to work out. But we can cope with all that to-morrow.”

  “It’s to-morrow now. I must go.”

  “Not this minute, Sophie. Don’t!”

  “I think I must.”

  Lucien stood up, and drew her to her feet and into his arms.

  “One thing is, this won’t be the first row we’ve been in together!”

  “But it’ll be much the worst one,” Sophie pointed out.

  With his arm still round her, Lucien went with her to the door, opened it, and looked out into the dark passage.

  “All clear. I’ll wait here a few minutes, and then put out the light. Good night, Sophie.”

  Their hands clung together for another moment, until Sophie released her fingers and fled softly down the passage.

  Lucien, listening attentively, heard her door open and then shut, as nearly as possible noiselessly.

  Sophie, in obedience to her stepmother’s orders, did not go downstairs next morning to breakfast. She was in truth very tired, and had no wish to rouse herself from the drowsy sense of contentment to which she had opened her eyes.

  It was nearly ten o’clock when the arrival of her breakfast tray, and the sunlight coming in through drawn-back curtains, woke her completely. She sat up in bed and remembered that she and Lucien had met in the schoolroom, in the middle of the night, and — a moment later — that she was still engaged to Bat Clutterthorpe.

  “To-day,” thought Sophie, “I shall have to tell him that I can’t marry him — and Clarissa.”

  She found that she was quite unable to imagine what would happen when she defied Clarissa. She had never done so. It had always been much easier to yield. It was Lucien who had defied his mother. He had always, in the end, been defeated in the achievement of his desire, when it had run counter to Clarissa’s wishes; nevertheless, Sophie knew that Clarissa had not conquered her son. She had, on the contrary, lost him.

  On the breakfast tray was a note. Sophie picked it up. The envelope contained a sheet of the Mardale notepaper and an enclosure:

  “DEAR SOPHIE — The old man’s telegram got through this morning, and I was roused at an ungodly hour to receive it. However, I’m glad he’s risen to the occasion. I vote we fall in with his suggestion, and I take you to be inspected to-morrow. Hurry up and put in an appearance, won’t you? Bless you. Thine, — BAT.”

  The telegram was one of warmly worded congratulation from Bat’s parents, and concluded with an invitation to Sophie for an immediate visit.

  Sophie’s profound dismay was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Come in!” she faltered, certain that it would be Clarissa.

  It was Fitzmaurice.

  “Well, Sophia, what’s all this I hear, and why didn’t you have the decency to come and tell me you’d picked up a Royal Straight Flush?”

  He sat on the end of the bed looking at her, his rakish air of habitual dissipation showing to his great disadvantage in the strong sunlight of the summer’s day.

  “Really, anybody would think I was a complete nonentity,” he complained. “Here’s my daughter — damn it, Sophia, my only child — gets herself engaged to one of the best fellows of my acquaintance, with pots of money and a title, and doesn’t even think it worth while to come and tell me! It’s a bit thick, Sophia — I’ll be shot if it isn’t.”

  “Who did tell you? Mummie?”

  “Naturally. It’s what she’s been working for, isn’t it, and I’ll hand it to her that she hasn’t spared herself any trouble or expense, either.”

  “I know,” said Sophie. “And I’ve got to tell her now that I — I don’t want to marry Bat.”

  Fitzmaurice emitted a long, low whistle, expressive of profound dismay.

  “Good God, Sophia,” he protested, “you can’t play fast and loose like that with a certain thirty thousand a year, you know. What’s the matter with you? I always thought you were the sort of kid that knew her own mind.”

  Sophie hesitated, asking herself in what light she had best put her own vacillations so that they should appear least incomprehensible to her father. At last she said:

  “I wouldn’t mind not being in love with Bat — which I’m afraid I’m not — if it wasn’t that I — I’m in love with somebody else.”

  “The devil you are. Who is he?”

  “Lucien, of course.”

  “Clarissa won’t see any ‘of course’ about it. She’ll say it’s incest, or something. She’s been pulling that brother and sister stuff over you ever since you were both in the nursery.

  “I know,” said Sophie sadly.

  “Well, it’s a pretty kettle of fish. Did you turn Bat down?”

  “No, I didn’t. That’s much the worst of it, of course. He thinks I’m engaged to him. I’ve got to tell him that I’m not, and — I’ve got to tell mummie.”

  “And may God have mercy on your soul,” facetiously ejaculated Fitzmaurice. “She’ll never let you off, Sophia.”

  “Isn’t there any way you can help me, daddy?”

  “I? Not on your life, my dear. For once in my life I’m out of the mess, and I shall jolly well keep out of it.”

  Sophie, not at all surprised, sighed a little.

  “It’s up to you,” said Fitzmaurice with a decision that he seldom displayed. “Up to you and Lucien — that is, if he’s in the same boat?”

  “Yes, he’s in the same boat.”

  “Then all I can say is, Heaven help you both. It’s quite the dottiest thing I’ve ever heard of. Not only chucking Clutterthorpe — though that’s bad enough — but this Lucien business. How on earth you can imagine, either of you, that Clarissa will ever stand for that—”

  “No, I know she won’t.”

  “Then give it up, Sophia,” Fitzmaurice advised paternally. “You’ll have to give in in the end, old girl, and what’s the good of having the deuce of a row and making everything rotten all round for everybody. You know what she’s like.”

  “Yes, I know, daddy.”

  Fitzmaurice got off the bed and patted Sophie’s shoulder.

  “Hang on to Bat, there’s a good kid. He’s a good sort, and you could have lots of fun with all that money, and there’s not a hope about the other affair. Lucien’s only a boy, and he hasn’t a penny, and couldn’t earn one if he tried, I don’t suppose. Y
ou’ll get over it.”

  “Oh, daddy! when I’ve known him ever since I was ten years old?”

  “I shouldn’t care if you’d known him since you were ten minutes old. One can get over anything, believe me, Sophia.”

  Fitzmaurice went to the door, and from thence delivered his final words of wisdom.

  “Look at me!” he proclaimed. “Eleven years ago I thought I was in love with your mother. And what’s it brought me to, I should like to know? Can’t call my soul my own, and never shall, either. All because of that dam’ money. That’s what does it, Sophia, every time. Better make up your mind to it. As long as Clarissa’s got the money — she wins.”

  XV

  SCYLLA OR CHARYBDIS

  FROM beneath Sophie’s window sounded a low, clear whistle. The first five notes of “Come, Lasses and Lads” had always served as a signal between herself and Lucien.

  She ran to the window and saw him standing below.

  “How soon shall you be down?”

  “About quarter of an hour.”

  Their voices exchanged the words; but each was conscious of unspoken things.

  “Lucien, is mummie out of her room yet?”

  “I don’t think so. She had breakfast upstairs.” That meant that Clarissa, at any moment, might send for Sophie or come and find her.

  “I’m going to dress now,” said Sophie hurriedly. “I shall be down directly.”

  “Will you come and—”

  The stocky figure of Bat Clutterthorpe came round the house. He joined Lucien and stood beside him, shorter and more solid than ever next to Lucien’s tall slightness.

  “Hallo, Sophie! Hurry up and come downstairs.”

  “I’m going to.”

  “Come for a drive with me?”

  “I’d better find out what mummie’s plans for the day are first.”

  “My dear, her plans for the day include unlimited tete-a-tetes for a newly engaged couple, I imagine.”

  She saw Bat turn his head and look up at Lucien.

  “Has it been broken to you that you behold in me” — he struck an attitude— “your future brother-in-law?”

  Sophie, drawing the blue silk kimono more closely round her, leant farther out of the window, a pale gold plait swinging over either shoulder.

  “Bat!” she called desperately. “I’m afraid that’s all off.”

  His large, pale face, usually inexpressive, assumed a look of almost ludicrous astonishment.

  “Have you gone mad?”

  “No, Bat, I haven’t, and I’m terribly sorry — truly I am. And I know that — that this isn’t the way to tell you — but I thought you’d better know at once.”

  “What a bad joke, Sophie!” said Bat, his voice icy.

  “It isn’t a joke.”

  “Shall I explain?” Lucien asked.

  “Yes,” called Sophie, relieved.

  She watched them walk off together — for Lucien appeared to compel his companion away from the spot.

  What a way to break off an engagement — bawling from an upper window — thought Sophie. But she was thankful that it was done. Bat hadn’t seemed quite to believe her, but Lucien would make it clear.

  The next, and worst, thing would be telling Clarissa.

  She put on her newest frock — a very soft washing silk, with little printed roses scattered over it — aware, with a glow of warmth, that she was adorning herself for Lucien’s eyes.

  Then she went downstairs.

  Fitzmaurice, with the Delmars and Delphine Wingate, could be seen playing at clock-golf on the lawn. If she went out and joined them, it would put off the moment when she must speak to Clarissa. Coward, thought Sophie, with a little sigh. Then the decision was taken out of her hands.

  “So — phie!”

  The lilt in Clarissa’s voice indicated her most exhilarated mood.

  “Here, mummie.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Who?” said Sophie faintly.

  “You don’t suppose I mean the gardener’s boy, do you? Don’t pose, Sophie, it’s silly. Has Bat shown you his father’s telegram?”

  “Yes, mummie.”

  “Did he come to your room?” asked Clarissa quickly. “If so, you deserve to be slapped. It’s not in the least smart to do that kind of thing now, and I won’t have it.”

  “But he didn’t. I spoke to him out of the window.”

  “That’s all right, then. Now about plans, Sophie.

  I’ve worked everything out, and this is what I’ve settled for you.”

  It was now or never. And it must be now, thought Sophie, nearly distraught, because it couldn’t, of course, be never.

  Instinctively she closed her eyes, and, in a voice that sounded quite unlike her own, spoke.

  “I’ve told Bat that I can’t be engaged to him. I can’t marry him.”

  There was an instant of absolute silence. Sophie opened her eyes and found herself looking straight at Clarissa, who had turned white beneath her make-up. Her voice, although sharpened, was extraordinarily restrained.

  “Why have you done that?”

  “Because I don’t—”

  “Don’t be a silly schoolgirl. That’s not the reason. You always knew perfectly well that you weren’t in love with him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sophie,” said Clarissa, “do you want to drive me quite mad? Can you, none of you, think of anyone but yourselves? What in hell do you mean by behaving like this?”

  “I can’t possibly marry Bat,” repeated Sophie, beginning to tremble. She knew that she had no reserves of courage left on which to draw before her final and most disastrous admission. Then, miraculously, Lucien was behind her. She had not seen him come in, but he was there, and his hand closed over hers just as in the days of their childhood, giving her courage because he was there, and because she knew that he, too, was afraid of Clarissa.

  “It’s Lucien.. said Sophie.

  “It’s no good, mother,” Lucien said. “Sophie and I have always cared for one another. It couldn’t ever be anybody else for either of us.”

  Clarissa stared and stared at them. She was angry, but she was not wholly taken aback. Sophie suddenly realized that Clarissa had never, for one instant, ignored the possibility that had so recently passed into the region of actual fact. She had always known that it might happen, and part of her highhanded management of Sophie’s affairs had been in the nature of a defence.

  At last she spoke.

  “Lucien, I’ve nothing to say to you now. You can run away. I’ll deal with you later.”

  She stopped.

  Lucien did not stir.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Quite well. But it’s no good, mother,” Lucien repeated. “This is my affair as well as Sophie’s, and I’ve got to stay.”

  “Sophie’s engagement hasn’t anything to do with you. At the present moment, Sophie is engaged to Bat Clutterthorpe.”

  “No,” said Sophie. “I’m not any more.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I told him this morning that I wasn’t — out of the window.”

  “He understands,” Lucien contributed. “He was with me afterwards.”

  “What did you tell him?” Clarissa asked swiftly. “I told him that Sophie and I were in love,” answered Lucien.

  The effort by which Clarissa obtained, and kept, mastery over her rising excitement was plainly evident.

  “And do you and Sophie suppose, for one moment, that anybody is going to take this nonsense seriously, or that it can go on without my leave? Do you understand that you’re both of you dependent on me for every single penny?”

  “We’ve heard that all our lives,” Lucien answered; “but I suppose it needn’t always be true. I could work.”

  “No, you couldn’t. You’ve no training and no particular ability, and no influence except what I choose to exert for you. Don’t make any mistake about that, Lucien — you can’t do anything at all without m
y help. But I’ll talk to you later. As for Sophie” — she turned and faced the girl. “You haven’t either gratitude or sense of decency. I’ve done everything in this world for you — given you everything, had you taught all you know, seen that you had every single advantage — and in return you make a fool of yourself and of me, and insult the son of my oldest friends — a man whom any girl in England would be absolutely delighted to marry.”

  Clarissa was working herself up to the pitch of hysteria. Her voice continually caught in her throat, her hands were tearing at the pleated frill of her dress.

  The door burst open, and Leila Delmar, noisy, alert, exuberant, came into the midst of them.

  “Am I interrupting anything? Clarissa, darling, I’m too sorry, but we’ve simply got to tear our selves away in another five minutes. Tony says so.” She laughed, but her big, inquisitive brown eyes were roaming, full of malicious amusement, from Lucien to Sophie, and back to Clarissa Fitzmaurice again.

  “I haven’t seen anything of you, my dear.” Clarissa’s tone, instinctively, had dropped into the staccato emphasis that marked the intimate speech of her world. “Come into my den and smoke a cigarette before you start. Sophie, you ought to be looking after Delphine. Lucien, I’ve made an appointment for you with King to meet him at Bradley’s Farm in an hour’s time. You’d better start.”

  She put her arm through Sophie’s, drawing her out of the room.

  Delphine Wingate was in the hall, doing nothing.

  “Delphine, you and Sophie had better play a single at tennis. You’re putting on weight, both of you,” Clarissa said, brightly and hardly.

  “But my train goes at twelve,” said Delphine, looking frightened. “I — I did tell you, Mrs. Fitzmaurice — I think I did, didn’t I? I’m so sorry if—”

  “It doesn’t matter whether you did or not,” Clarissa flung at her, suddenly losing her self-control. “Ring the bell, Sophie.”

  When the butler came, Clarissa snapped out an order for the car to take Miss Wingate to the station.

  “I’ll see you before you start,” she said, over her shoulder, as she left the hall.

  Delphine, unhappy and disconcerted, murmured something unintelligible, unable to realize that Clarissa’s evident anger was not directed against her at all — that she was, in fact, as nearly as possible unaware of her existence.