Radow wandered upstairs — whence he would presently wander down again, for it was never possible to make him go to bed at any reasonable hour — and the Princesse stopped in the hall to pet Tarzan the cat.
“I shall be sorry to say good-bye to him,” she said, looking up at Cliffe Montgomery. “Doesn’t he sometimes remind you of Carruthers?”
“Perhaps,” said Cliffe. And he added, afraid that he might have sounded unsympathetic:
“You won’t have to say good-bye to him for a long time yet. Perhaps Miss Silver may stay abroad longer, and suggest our keeping on the house.”
“No,” said the Princesse, shaking her head. “It is most fortunate that the year’s rent is all paid, Cliffe, for there will be nothing to speak of next year. But as you know, we can manage, Catiche and I, on—”
“What have you done?” said Cliffe Montgomery, an old and never very deeply dormant anxiety springing into active life within him.
“My poor Cliffe! You will not be at all pleased, I know.”
“Probably not,” said little Montgomery, with no humorous intent whatever.
“It was my own money,” pleaded the Princesse. “Who has got it?”
The Princesse, by degrees, told him.
“And nobody else in the world must know, not even Catiche. We shall have to live very economically, of course, but one can do that so easily abroad, even nowadays... I’m sorry, Cliffe.”
Cliffe Montgomery, small, and drawn, and haggard, faced her in the moonlight.
“It was a most impossible thing to do. It was disgraceful. It was exactly like you... that swine Fitzmaurice... I’d like to—”
“Clarissa will do it all, and more,” swiftly interposed the Princesse, laughing like a girl.
But little Montgomery did not laugh at all. “To go back to that utter insecurity — that vagabond existence — !” he groaned. “We can’t do it. Do you understand that we’re no longer young?”
“We?” said the Princesse softly.
“You and I and Catiche.”
“My poor Cliffe, stay in England. You’ve given up so much for us already. Perhaps we shall go with Alberta to America. But no — I think not. I shall try to keep an eye on Radow, I have no trust in his Lawrence. I wonder,” said the Princesse — and the tone that Cliffe most dreaded had come into her voice— “I wonder if I should like Roumania.”
“What about Alberta?”
“Alberta will never come with us,” said the Princesse sadly. “I have failed terribly with both my children. I, who am always insisting on the importance of personal relations! But,” she added, irrepressibly, “a summons from Alberta would bring me from the ends of the earth. I would give her everything I have in the world —— —”
“You need not tell me that.”
“I suppose not.” She broke into laughter again.
Cliffe Montgomery drew a long breath, and then unconsciously braced his shoulders, as though adjusting a burden.
“You must go to bed, it’s late,” he said with austerity.
As though in confirmation of his words, the soft note of the French clock with the little gilt cupids reverberated in the stillness.
“My clock!” sentimentally exclaimed the Princesse. “It has seen almost all the changes of my life. In Russia — I remember—”
“Here is Catiche, come to look for you,” he interrupted.
Catiche, a grey ghost enveloped in shroud-like coverings, hovered at the top of the stairs, holding a little lamp.
She beckoned to the Princesse imperiously.
“Catiche! Go to bed,” murmured the Princesse.
She put her arm round the old woman’s shoulders, and held out her hand to Cliffe Montgomery.
“What friends you have been to me!” she said, looking from one to the other.
Little Montgomery frowned — cleared his throat.
“Go to bed,” he said severely. “We can talk of plans in the morning.”
How often had he stemmed midnight confidences with that injunction!
“Plans?” said Catiche, and there was no sound of surprise in the weary inquiry.
The Princesse nodded.
“We have got to begin again” — the blitheness of joyful anticipation was in her voice. “You and I, ma vieille Catiche.”
“And monsieur Cliffe?”
“Of course,” said the Princesse simply.
Little Montgomery, harassed, valiant, indomitable, echoed:
“Of course.”
THANK HEAVEN FASTING
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE. The Eaton Square Tradition
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
BOOK TWO. The Anxious Years
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
BOOK THREE. The Happy Ending
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
DEDICATED
TO
MARGARET RHONDDA
MY DEAR MARGARET,
You will probably requite this dedication with one of those charmingly grateful letters that you so well know how to write. Let me at once forestall you by saying that the gratitude is entirely on my side, and that this book is only a very small expression of it.
Again and again, I have found that the sincerity and strength of your own work, both in Time and Tide and elsewhere, have set a standard for mine. I wish I could feel that I had attained to it.
Apart from the fact of our friendship, that to me is so wholly delightful, you are the fitting person to receive the dedication of this book, for it has sprung out of many conversations that we have held together.
Please accept it, with my gratitude and admiration.
ELIZABETH M. DELAFIELD
BOOK ONE. The Eaton Square Tradition
Chapter I
Much was said in the days of Monica’s early youth about being good. Life — the section of it that was visible from the angle of Eaton Square — was full of young girls who were all being good. Even a girl who was tiresome and “didn’t get on with her mother” was never anything but good, since opportunities for being anything else were practically non-existent.
One was safeguarded.
One’s religion, one’s mother, one’s maid…. But especially one’s mother.
Monica’s mother was even more of a safeguard than most, for she was very particular. Monica was brought up at home — an only child — and was not allowed to make friends with any of the other little girls at the dancing-class or at MacPherson’s gymnasium unless her parents knew their parents, and all about them.
“You may ask the little Marlowes to tea on Saturday, darling, for a great treat,” said Mrs. Ingram from time to time.
It was a pity, Monica felt, that it so often had to be the little Marlowes. Frederica was domineering and conceited, and Cecily was shy and dull. Besides, both of them were older than she was, and Monica did not enjoy being the youngest.
But as Mrs. Ingram so often said: “The little Marlowes will be very nice friends for you later on, when you come out. Their mother knows practically everyone in London, and you could be certain of meeting all the right people there.”
Lady Marlowe, the twice-widowed mother of Frederica and Cecily, was very rich. She had a house in Belgrave Square, and entertained a great deal. Her first husband had been a German Jew, but her second husband, the father of Frederica and Cecily, had been English. So it was all right.
Monica realized, as she grew up, how important it was that one should meet all the right people, since it was only amongst the right people that a young girl could find the man she might hope to marry.
“My darling, never fall in love with a man who isn’t quite, quite — —” Mrs. Ingram had said, at interv
als, from the time that Monica was fifteen.
Besides this perfectly definite and direct piece of advice that she often pondered over very seriously, the whole tradition of Monica’s world was daily and hourly soaking into her very being, so that it became an ineradicable part of herself, never wholly to be eliminated again from her innermost consciousness.
She could never, looking backwards, remember a time when she had not known that a woman’s failure or success in life depended entirely upon whether or not she succeeded in getting a husband. It was not, even, a question of marrying well, although mothers were pretty and attractive daughters naturally hoped for that. But any husband at all was better than none. If a girl was neither married nor engaged by the end of her third season it was usually said, discreetly, amongst her mother’s acquaintances, that no one had asked her.
Monica, sent for to the drawing-room to help her mother pour out tea, or sitting demurely on the edge of a chair in someone else’s drawing-room at an Afternoon, took in fragments of conversation.
“I hear the poor Salthavens are sending that girl of theirs out to India to stay with her sister. If she doesn’t get engaged out there, she never will.”
“It’s always much easier abroad…. Besides, there’s the long voyage out.”
“Oh yes, a sea-voyage is always an opportunity. And I must say, if I were the girl’s mother, I’d hurry on the wedding at once, even if she has to get married out there. It’s much too risky to let them wait, and, perhaps, the girl comes home to get her trousseau and things, and meanwhile be may find somebody else. …”
“I quite agree. It’s funny, that girl never having got off. She’s quite pretty, too, and both the elder sisters married early.”
“One can never tell.”
And at that point Mrs. Ingram might glance, perhaps a little anxiously, at Monica, who was not yet really come out, so that it was impossible to tell whether she was going to be one of the lucky ones or not.
Good looks had nothing to do with it. Monica had been told that very often, and fully realized it. It was nice to be pretty, and men might admire one for it, but that alone didn’t really lead to anything.
Mrs. Ingram had a horror, with which she had impregnated her daughter, of things that didn’t really lead to anything.
“Never make yourself cheap, darling. It doesn’t lead to anything, in the long run, to let a man know that you like him or want him to like you.”
“Don’t talk about being ‘friends’ with a young man, my pet. There’s no such thing as a friendship between a girl and a man. Either he wants to marry you, or he doesn’t. Nothing else is any good.”
“A girl who gets herself talked about is done for. Men may dance with her, or flirt with her, but they don’t propose. She gets left.”
“Never have anything to do with a young man who’s familiar — asking if he may call you by your Christian name, or write to you, or anything like that. A gentleman doesn’t do those things to the kind of girl that he respects, and might want to marry.”
Monica had heard these and similar maxims so very often that she had long ceased to pay conscious attention to them, and merely accepted them as being amongst the fundamentals of life.
At eighteen, she was presented at Court, and made her formal debut.
Mrs. Ingram and Lady Marlowe, jointly, gave a ball for the Misses Marlowe and Miss Monica Ingram.
“Do you see, my darling, how wise I was to insist upon your making friends with Cecily and Frederica? Look what it’s led to!” said Mrs. Ingram, triumphantly and tenderly both at once.
It led, amongst other things, to the most crowded three weeks that Monica’s young life had hitherto experienced. The ball was to be given at the Ritz. Mrs. Ingram would have secretly much preferred it to take place at Lady Marlowe’s house in Belgrave Square, but this the elder lady did not offer. She said that she intended to give one or two quite small dances there in the course of the season, and that was enough. “Certainly, those girls are having every chance.” Mrs. Ingram said to Monica privately. “Lady Marlowe pretends that there’s a man after Frederica, but I don’t believe a word of it. If there is, why hasn’t he proposed to her, and why isn’t she engaged? She’s nearly twenty-four.”
Monica didn’t believe a word of it, either, although Frederica occasionally made a pretence to the same effect. But she did so rather half-heartedly, as though aware that Monica had known her too long, and with too profound a schoolroom intimacy, to believe her when she was lying. Besides, Cecily, who never lied and who adored Frederica, had a way of turning white and looking miserable, when her sister was not speaking the truth, that gave the whole thing away.
Monica felt sorry for Frederica, and did not blame her for pretending to a non-existent conquest. A girl simply had to, for the sake of her own self-respect. Cecily never did — but then Cecily was quite unlike other girls. She seemed immature and childish, although she was twenty-two years old, and she was completely dominated by Frederica.
Their mother was always saying how wonderful was their devotion to one another, but Monica thought that Frederica was a bully, and that Cecily would be happier if her elder sister got married.
Frederica, however, did not get married.
Monica couldn’t help feeling that it really would be wonderful, and a great triumph, if she herself could get married before Frederica. Mrs. Ingram, too, when the date of the ball had been definitely settled, and just before the great rush of preparations for it began, said to her daughter:
“I must say, darling, it would be really rather funny, supposing you were to get engaged before either of the Marlowes. I don’t see why something shouldn’t happen. This ball is a wonderful start for you, and might lead to any number of really good invitations.”
In the meanwhile, there was a tremendous amount to be done. A lady — she wasn’t really a lady, naturally, but one called her so to the servants — came to Eaton Square, and was established at the writing-table in the back drawing-room, with piles of envelopes, gilt-edged invitation cards, and Mrs. Ingram’s address-book, and set to work.
Mrs. Ingram was driven in the brougham between the Ritz and various florists, caterers, and other Bond Street establishments. She was having her tiara reset, and her rings cleaned, and Monica’s pearl necklace restrung. There were also appointments to be made, and kept, with dressmakers, hairdressers, and milliners.
Mrs. Ingram did not take Monica to her own dressmaker. She had been told of a woman who was really wonderful for jemes filles — Myrtle, in Hanover Street.
So to Myrtle they went.
“White, of course.” said Mrs. Ingram to Monica. “And I’m going to have it of satin. It looks much more comme il faut. You might have a tiny little diamanté edging, perhaps.”
“A pearl trimming is pretty.” suggested Monica.
“Oh no, darling, I don’t care for that nearly so much.” said her mother.
So that settled that.
Madame Myrtle — a large, camomile-coloured person — was full of assurances about knowing exactly what Moddam meant, and said that she was always more interested in a coming-out dress than in any other. She showed Mrs. Ingram a number of designs, and one or two models, and finally Monica was directed to come into the fitting-room and try on one or two evening-dresses, “just to see.” In the tiny cubicle behind pink plush curtains there was just room for Mrs. Ingram, sitting on a little gilt chair, Monica standing before the long mirror on the wall, and Madame Myrtle, half in and half out of the recess, an arm extended behind her to receive the dresses brought by an assistant.
“Can Mam’zelle manage? We’re hoping to move into larger premises in the autumn…. I’m really sorry you’re so cramped, Mam’zelle.”
“It’s all right. If you’ll just unfasten me at the back, mother.”
Mrs. Ingram dealt competently by Monica’s hooks and eyes. The girl stepped out of her dress and took off her flower-wreathed hat — pink roses and green leaves. It was a pity that one�
�s hair always became so untidy under a hat. Monica’s brown hair was soft and straight, and very fine, and it fell in untidy wisps round her face. She hastily pushed some of the ends back, trying to tuck them under the pad that, pinned to the back of her head, supported two little rows of sausage curls. Then she untied the blue ribbons of her embroidered camisole, unfastened it, took off her white petticoat and pulled down her thick chemise, rucked up under her heavily boned, tightly laced stays. Her black lisle-thread stockings and patent-leather shoes looked incongruous, coming below all the white underclothing — but they wouldn’t show, once the dress was on.
“There!”
A pale-blue satin evening-dress, the round décolletage edged with very pale-pink velvet pansies, was carefully put over her head, whilst Madame Myrtle herself guided Monica’s uplifted hands and arms into the short sleeves.
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Ingram instantly. “I shouldn’t dream of letting her wear colours yet. She’s much too young.”
“But, of course, Moddam,” returned Madame Myrtle reproachfully, “this is simply for the style. I should never think of suggesting anything but white or ivory, or perhaps the very palest pink, for a débutante like Mam’zelle. I only wished Moddam to judge the general style.”
“Oh, I see. Well — turn round, Monica.”
Monica turned obediently, although the double rows of hooks and eyes, one on the lining and the other on the dress itself, were not yet fastened.
Madame Myrtle’s thick, cold fingers set deftly to work, and meanwhile Monica looked at herself in the glass.
She thought it was a pity that her mother would not allow her to wear coloured evening-dresses. It seemed to her that they suited her very well indeed. Pink would probably be even better for her than blue, because her eyes were brown, and her face naturally rather pale. She wished, not for the first time, that her nose had been short instead of aquiline and rather long — but the wish was tinged with a slight feeling of guilt, for her mother had told her that it was a foolish one, and that an aquiline nose was very much more distinguished-looking than a short one. Monica still remembered how, at fifteen, she had tried to argue the point, and her mother had said very quietly:
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 343
