Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  This afternoon she was looking nice. The frock suited her, there was no sign of any spot on her chin, and her hair had “gone” successfully.

  From far below, she thought she heard faintly the whirr of the front-door bell, for which she had, almost without knowing it, been listening all the afternoon. Monica kicked off her shoes and hastily pulled on a narrow, pointed pair of bronze ones with tiny gold beads on the toes, and went out to the landing.

  Leaning over the banisters she could hear, distantly but unmistakably, the sound made by the baize-covered door at the head of the basement stairs, as it was pushed open.

  Palter, going to open the door.

  Monica rushed noiselessly down two flights of stairs, steadied herself outside the drawing-room and assumed an expression, then walked in quickly.

  “Very nice, darling. Just catch up that piece of hair at the back — no, the other side — that’s right. I think I heard the bell just a minute ago.”

  “Oh, did you?”

  “It may very likely be poor cousin Blanche. She said she might come round.”

  It was cousin Blanche.

  Monica, feeling acutely all her mother’s disconcertment as well as her own, moved forward to receive the greeting of her ancient relative, whose sealskin coat always smelt faintly of camphor, reminding Monica invariably of her childhood.

  Cousin Blanche never seemed to alter at all. She was now said, although a little uncertainly, to be nearly seventy; but Vernon Ingram, whose relation she was, always declared that she looked just as she had looked in his little boyhood — gaunt, aquiline, high-coloured, and with entirely unconvincing bright-brown hair closely curled round her head beneath the meshes of a net.

  She had never married.

  It was on that account, Monica had always taken for granted, that Mrs. Ingram invariably referred to her as “poor cousin Blanche,” for cousin Blanche, in the literal sense of the term, was far from poor. She owned a house in Queen’s Gate, and a box at the Opera, and some magnificent pearls, and she had quite recently bought a motor-car and engaged a chauffeur.

  “Well, Imogen — well, Monica. You’re looking very well, Monica. No, thanks, I’ll keep my coat a little while, till I’m thawed. I should never be surprised if we had snow. How’s Vernon?”

  “Very well indeed, thank you, Blanche. He’s not in just now, but I dare say presently —— Monica, give cousin Blanche a screen to hold in front of the fire.”

  They began to talk about relations. It was a topic that automatically arose in cousin Blanche’s company. She was interested in all her relations, however distant, and always seemed to know what all of them were doing.

  “You’ve heard about Sylvia, I suppose?”

  Mrs. Ingram raised her eyebrows and glanced quickly at Monica, and then away again.

  “Has it —— ?”

  “She’s got a little girl. Born yesterday morning.”

  “Is everything —— ?”

  “Oh yes, quite, I believe. Her mother telephoned to me last night. She said the baby was a lovely little thing, very healthy, weighed nearly eight pounds.”

  “I suppose they’re very disappointed that it isn’t a boy.”

  “Well, of course it’s a disappointment, naturally, but Daisy said Sylvia was very sweet about it and said she didn’t mind.”

  “I expect her husband had set his heart on its being a son.”

  “Naturally, they both hoped for a son, but after all — it’s the first one, and they’re young. Think of poor Adeline Ingram who had three daughters, one after another, and then twin girls.”

  “Dreadful, poor thing! Just imagine having to find husbands for them all!”

  “That’s what she says. She’s most amusing about it — so brave of her I always think. She says she’ll give them each a London season, one at a time, and the moment the eldest has had her chance, the second one comes out and the eldest one goes in again — and so on. But she’s never going to be seen about with more than one daughter at a time.”

  “I don’t blame her. It ruins a girl’s chances to go about with two or three sisters. Men never know which is which, and besides, it’s always such a bore for hostesses; they don’t like to be unkind and only ask one sister, but of course nobody wants extra girls.”

  Monica was only partially attending to the conversation. She had heard similar conversations very often, and agreed in a tepid way with everything that had been said.

  She was really thinking of little Sylvia, years younger than herself, who was safely married and had a baby. Monica was ashamed of herself for the furious jealousy that gnawed at her, and the secret, mean relief that at least Sylvia’s triumph was only partial, since she had not achieved the supreme glory of giving birth to a boy. The door opened again: this time she had not heard the bell.

  Palter announced sonorously:

  “Mr. Pelham.”

  His frock-coat tightly fastened across increasing girth, his air of wooden impassivity scarcely disturbed by the slight, grave smile that accompanied his handshake, Mr. Pelham sat down on a low chair beside the sofa, carefully drawing up his trousers at the knees as he did so.

  He called on the Ingrams quite often, and had done so ever since Monica’s first season. He could not possibly be thought interesting, and his rather clammy hands, the few streaks of dark hair brushed across his baldness, and his heavy paunch, made him slightly disagreeable to Monica. But she was, obscurely, grateful to him, because he still went to balls and could always be counted upon to ask her for a dance. She tried not to remember that the younger girls laughed at him behind his back, and asserted that he had been refused by half a dozen different heiresses.

  This afternoon she was definitely glad to see Mr. Pelham. It would show cousin Blanche that men came to call. And if Carol Anderson did turn up….

  She tried to steel herself against disappointment by asserting inwardly that he would not come.

  If she made herself believe that, perhaps she could cheat the fates. By five o’clock hope was sinking within her.

  A taxi came down the quiet street and stopped outside.

  Monica kept her eyes fixed upon Mr. Pelham, and repeated “Yes” and “I see” to all that he was painstakingly telling her about the Highlands.

  She heard the slam of the street door.

  Suspense was making her feel sick.

  “Ring for some hot water, darling,” said Mrs. Ingram.

  “I think Palter’s just coming, mother.”

  The butler threw open the door.

  “Mr. Anderson.”

  The room, for an instant, reeled round Monica.

  It was as from a distance that she heard her mother’s exclamation: “How d’y do — this is very nice,” uttered in a high, pleased, artificial voice.

  Chapter II

  It did not take long for Monica to make friends with Carol Anderson.

  She found that he asked nothing better than to sit and talk to her for as long as she would listen, and after that first Sunday afternoon call he came often to Eaton Square.

  Mrs. Ingram’s early strictness, in the days when her daughter had first been grown-up, had long since relaxed, and when Mr. Anderson asked at the door for Miss Ingram, he was taken direct to Monica’s sitting-room.

  They sat, one on either side of the fire, and talked.

  Almost at once he seemed to want to go below the surface of conversation and talk intimately.

  Monica responded, deeply moved. She admitted to him that she had been lonely for years.

  “I thought perhaps you had,” he replied simply. “So have I.”

  Once or twice it seemed to her that he was hovering on the verge of a confidence, but she was so much afraid of risking any check to their friendship that she pretended unawareness. For the same reason, she dared not talk to him very much about herself.

  “Men get very quickly bored with a woman who talks about herself,” was one of Mrs. Ingram’s axioms.

  Not that she quoted it no
w, or gave Monica any advice at all. Only the daughter knew, as well as if she had been told so, that the mother was quivering with anxiety and with a hope that she hardly ventured to acknowledge, even to herself.

  Perhaps — perhaps — it might be going to happen at last! Spring, coming early that year, seemed to waft new hope and happiness into the house in Eaton Square. Even Vernon Ingram smiled proudly at Monica once or twice, and gave her one day an unexpected five-pound note, telling her to go and choose a pretty new hat for Easter.

  Monica got the hat, and gloves, and a silk blouse as well. She wanted to wear them for an expedition that Carol Anderson had proposed.

  He wanted her to drive with him into the country and spend an afternoon there. He had a motor-car. The day that they had chosen, towards the end of March, was a lovely one.

  They went to Hindhead.

  Monica, happier than she had been for years, knew that she was looking pretty, that Carol admired her, and that she need no longer feel inferior to other women. She was being sought out by a man, and not only that, but he was good-looking, tall, and a gentleman. It seemed too good to be true.

  They left the car at the big new hotel after lunch, saying that they would return for tea, and began to walk down the long hill, branching off presently on to common land.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” said Carol suddenly. He looked round at her, smiling. “The day, I mean, and having this weather, and knowing you, and everything.”

  Monica’s heart leapt.

  “I feel like that too.”

  “Should you be cold if we sat down for a little while?”

  “Not a bit. It’s so mild — and besides I’ve got quite warm walking.”

  Monica really hardly knew what she was saying, but there were a number of felled trees lying by the side of a deep ditch, and she took her seat upon one of them. Carol sat beside her.

  She glanced at his profile, motionless beside her. He was poking little holes in the ground with his stick. At last he spoke.

  “Do you remember the first time we met, at the Lester wedding? It seems queer, to think it was only about two months ago.”

  “Yes, doesn’t it. I feel as if I’d known you so much longer than that.”

  “I’ve sometimes wondered whether — —”

  He broke off abruptly, then began again.

  “Look here, I’ve been meaning to ask you whether you won’t call me Carol, instead of Mr. Anderson. It seems rather absurd, to be so conventional, after all. And may I call you Monica?’’

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thanks awfully.” For the first time, he turned his head and looked at her, smiling rather shyly.

  “Because we are friends — Monica.”

  A small shiver of excitement passed through her when she heard him speak her name.

  “I feel that too.”

  She wanted to say much more — to tell him that she cared deeply for his friendship, that she wanted him to tell her everything about himself, and to give him her confidence in return — but she was inhibited by her own emotion, her abiding sense of insecurity, and the ever-present recollection of her mother’s reiterated warnings — that to show a man how much one liked him, was to cheapen oneself in his estimation. She dared not risk it.

  “The very first time I saw you, at the wedding, I wondered if I should ever get to know you. To know you really well, I mean.”

  “Did you — Carol?”

  He gave her a quick glance and smile, in recognition of her use of his name.

  “I was most dreadfully unhappy that day, and I would have given anything in the world to know that there was someone I could talk to — someone who’d understand.”

  “Tell me why you were unhappy.”

  “I’ve never told anyone,” said Carol slowly. “But I think I’d like to tell you.”

  “I wish you would,” Monica said, sincerely and earnestly.

  She felt that his confidence would be almost a pledge of another, more profound, relation between them.

  Presently he began to speak, at first slowly and with hesitation, but afterwards more freely.

  “I didn’t want to be best man at that wedding — or at any wedding. You see — the only woman I’ve ever cared for is married to Lester’s brother.”

  Monica caught her breath.

  Two thoughts sprang, almost simultaneously, to life within her.

  He cares for somebody else.

  But she’s married.

  Anderson went on speaking, looking down at the little dents that he was still assiduously making with the point of his stick.

  “Do you remember talking about weddings that day, and I said they oughtn’t to be church affairs at all, but just a contract, civil if they liked, between two people?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Viola Lester is married to a brute — she’s been tied to him for seven years — and she won’t divorce him or leave him because she’s a religious woman,” said Carol bitterly.

  “Did you — want her to leave him?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He squared his shoulders and then turned and looked at her. There was something faintly histrionic in the gesture.

  “Yes, I did. You’re not shocked, are you, Monica?”

  “No, I’m not shocked,” Monica repeated dully. And after a moment she added:

  “Tell me about it.”

  “There isn’t much to tell, really. I met her two years ago and fell in love with her. I’d had fancies — one or two — and thought myself in love before. But this was quite different. It was something absolutely real.”

  He spoke with an intensity of conviction that seemed to require acknowledgement.

  Monica said: “I know.”

  “I saw she was very unhappy. Her husband drinks, and does other things as well — she was only nineteen when she married him. That her people should have let her do such a thing — —” He spoke through clenched teeth.

  A strange, dreamy feeling as though she had heard all this before began to creep over Monica. She did not understand nor attempt to analyse it.

  “At first we were just friends. I tried to make things a little easier for her — I hope perhaps I did — I was able to help her over business once or twice. And we used to talk. I hope — in fact, I know” — he spoke now with quiet confidence, “that she was less lonely after I had come into her life. But I don’t think she really took me seriously until — one night in June. It was the tenth of June. I don’t suppose that I shall ever forget that date however long I may live.”

  Carol paused and let the walking-stick drop from his hand. When he spoke again his voice had taken on a deep, restrained tone.

  “I couldn’t stand it any longer. I asked her to let me take her away. I told her that I — loved her.”

  His face had flushed darkly, and he was bending and twisting with both hands a stout branch that had lain on the ground at their feet.

  “There were no children. If she’d had children, it would have been different. I realize absolutely what a woman feels about her children — I have a peculiarly strong imagination, much more so than most men, and I understand women. But there was nothing like that to hold her. Only this — this so-called religion. I don’t mean that she wasn’t absolutely sincere, of course — she was only too much so. But to me it’s so incredible — so utterly monstrous — that anyone should think that God requires a woman to stay with a man she loathes, and who makes her wretched.”

  “Did she care for you too?” asked Monica.

  He hesitated before replying, but at last said:

  “She would never, actually, admit it. But — yes, I think she did.” His voice gained in assurance. “I know she did. I understood her in some ways much better than she understood herself. I know perfectly well that I was the right man for her. I could have made her happy. She knew it, too, at the bottom of her heart. Only she wouldn’t own to it. That sounds as if I’m blaming her — and I couldn’t do that.”
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  The branch snapped between his fingers, and he continued to break it, rather violently, into small pieces as he went on speaking.

  “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I cared for Viola — and still care.”

  Monica’s heart sank, and she experienced a fierce resentment against herself. Was she, then, incapable of a generous and self-forgetful response? Carol Anderson was honouring her with his deepest confidence — one that he said he had never bestowed upon anybody else. She could not, and would not, fail him.

  “Two weeks before Jack Lester’s wedding, I’d seen Viola, and asked her if she’d come away with me. I thought she was nearer saying Yes than she’d ever been before. I let myself hope. I was a fool, I suppose. I’m not a very hopeful person, as a rule. Perhaps I’m rather more free from illusions than most men — I don’t know. Anyhow, I thought I’d won Viola. And then — then, Monica — —”

  The last available fragment of the stick snapped, and was flung away. Carol Anderson hid his face in his hands.

  “It’s no good. I can’t tell you. It goes too deep. Forgive me, please, Monica. You’ve been a perfect dear to me. But I can’t talk — not even to you. I’m not made that way.”

  Monica, not knowing what to say, rather timidly laid her hand upon his. It was taken and grasped tightly.

  “Thank you for listening to me.”

  “Won’t you tell me the rest, Carol?”

  “There’s not anything to tell, really. She wrote to me and said that it must come to an end. She was going abroad with her husband. He was ill, and she was going to forgive him, and let him start again. They — they’re going round the world. They’ll be away two years, or more.”

  “She’ll come back,” hazarded Monica.

  “Perhaps. But it’s over. I know Viola. She means what she says. If she’s promised to give him another chance, she’ll do it, and stick to it. The only thing that I can do now, is to do as she asked, and never go near her again.”

  “Carol — I’m so sorry.”