Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “I wonder she’s got any friends.”

  “Well, these Bohemians — they form clicks, you know. Simply clicks. That’s all they are.”

  “Do men like her?”

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush slightly shrugged her shoulders. She would have liked to convey the impression that Chrissie was entirely unattractive to men, but had no intention of saying so in words that might possibly be repeated.

  Coral answered her own question:

  “I suppose they do,” she said vehemently. “Anything that’s under thirty can always get hold of a man of sorts. I tell you, Gushie, the young simply don’t know how lucky they are. Once a woman’s turned forty, it’s the end. Everything’s over. It’s damnable.”

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush sighed again — not because the thought of waning sexual attraction disturbed her, since she had never been able to turn her own share of it to any profit — but because she realised that Coral was about to talk about her own grievances.

  “At any rate, dear,” she said in an affectionate tone, “you needn’t worry, I’m sure. Whatever your age may be, you don’t look a day over thirty-five. And we all know that a woman is as old as she looks.”

  “That’s all very well ...” began Mrs. Romayne.

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush settled down to think about her investments. She had a small amount of capital, and lived in constant anxiety lest it should diminish. She studied the share-market every day, and lay awake at night, sometimes, sweating with terror at the thought of the future, if she should ever lose that tiny bulwark against destitution. Supposing she were ill — unable to earn her living any longer — supposing she had to undergo an operation?

  Years ago, Ruth Wolverton-Gush had watched first her mother, and then her sister, die of cancer. A supreme fear lay always at the bottom of her soul.

  As Coral Romayne’s complaining, indignant voice went on and on, her friend from time to time made a clicking sound of sympathy with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She possessed to the full the faculty — so indispensable to those whose living depends upon the willingness of other people to employ them — of giving a surface attention to whatever was being said to her, whilst at the same time following her own train of thought.

  Without any undue effort she gathered that Coral was furious with Buckland, and it did not in the least surprise her. She had known Buckland for several years.

  “How does he get on with Patrick, dear?”

  “All right, I suppose — I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to be with him much. And now I suppose he thinks he’s going to spend his time doing nothing at all except sitting about with this Mrs. Moon. Though if you ask me, she doesn’t look like Mrs. Anybody. If ever I saw a tart, she’s one.”

  “Well, dear, the remedy’s in your own hands. You’re paying him, aren’t you, and he’s out here at your expense. You’ve nothing to do but tell him that he’s paid to do as you wish. If you’re paying him, it follows to reason that he must be at your disposal.”

  Coral, disconcertingly to Mrs. Wolverton-Gush, burst out laughing.

  “Yes, I can hear myself. Gushie, you really are a perfect scream.”

  “After all, it’s an extraordinarily good post. Look at what he’s getting out of it!” Mrs. Wolverton-Gush ejaculated bitterly. “Practically a free holiday out here, and allowed to drive the car and all the rest of it.”

  “I suppose I’m too easy-going. I suppose he thinks I’ll stand anything and everything. Well, he’s got a surprise coming, that’s all. My God, as if I couldn’t get a hundred holiday tutors, any day, if I wanted to.”

  “Well, naturally, dear.”

  “That little ass of a secretary — old Bolham’s — would give his ears for the job. He’s always trying to play at being Boys Together with Patrick. He simply loathes Buck, too. Jealous, I suppose.”

  “Is that young Waller?”

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush spoke in an intentionally significant tone.

  “Why?”

  “Quite between ourselves, I think he’s trying to make up to Miss Challoner.”

  “That little worm? She wouldn’t look at him.”

  “One never knows, does one?”

  “Gushie, what on earth d’you mean?”

  “Well, dear, I certainly shouldn’t mention it to anybody but yourself, and not even to you if she ever made any secret about that kind of thing. But she never does. She practically told me that she was attracted by him, and I’m as nearly as possible certain that she’s gone out to meet him to-night.”

  “My God, she must be pretty hard up for a man.”

  “Do you know anything about him, dear?”

  “Only that he’s afraid of the water — and of nearly everything else in the world, I should think, from the look of him. And I don’t suppose he’s got a bean.”

  “That would account for it,” said Mrs. Wolverton-Gush, really believing it. “Naturally, he’d realise that she has money, and may very easily make a lot more.”

  “But she wouldn’t be idiotic enough to marry him?”

  “I should hardly think so, dear, but one never quite knows with these so-called clever people. They do the most extraordinary things, when it comes to affairs of this kind. They’re at the mercy of their emotions, is what I always say.”

  “That’s more than you’ve ever been, Gushie,” said Mrs. Romayne. “I don’t agree with you about Waller. He’s a worm, if you like, but he isn’t an adventurer. He hasn’t got the guts, for one thing.”

  “I dare say you’re right, my dear. You’ve had more opportunity for judging than I have. All the same, I shall keep my eye on the young man. He’s perfectly capable of trying to borrow money, I should say.”

  “They all do that, give ’em half a chance, including your friend Buck. Where the devil has he got to, by the way?”

  She was getting restless, and Mrs. Wolverton-Gush suggested moving indoors.

  They found Patrick sitting at the table, his hands over his ears, reading an old volume of the Graphic. He told them that Buckland had found one of the tyres flat, and had walked to the nearest garage to get a man.

  “He couldn’t have changed it himself, I suppose,” said Mrs. Romayne. “Doesn’t that just show?”

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush nodded portentously.

  Patrick looked from one to the other in puzzled silence.

  (5)

  It was characteristic of Buckland that although he frequently drank too much, he never did so unintentionally.

  At the unsuccessful evening at the Villa Mimosa he had strictly limited himself, partly because he was always very careful when he was in charge of a car, and partly because he wished to do nothing further to annoy Coral Romayne. He was, at the same time, comfortably aware that he could probably restore her to good-humour without much difficulty, and this he intended to do.

  It wasn’t worth while risking a soft job, even for Angie Moon’s favours. Besides — Buckland grinned at the thought — it ought to be quite possible to carry on an affair with Angie without letting Coral suspect that there was more in it than a flirtation.

  His breath came faster, at the thought of Angie’s seductions, and he deliberately turned his mind away from it.

  Time enough for that later on.

  For the past ten years Buckland had contrived to live at the expense of other people, generally women, whilst binding himself to no particular type of work. He had, indeed, neither special training nor aptitude, beyond a strong interest in motor-engines, and a certain cleverness in dealing with them.

  Buckland was the illegitimate son of a nursery-governess, who had been seduced by her first employer at the age of nineteen. She had given birth to her child in terror and secrecy, and had acquiesced without question in the decree of her relations that it should be taken away from her. How, otherwise, could she have continued to earn a living?

  So the baby had been sent or smuggled into a Home, and the mother, by the united efforts of her family, had obtained another post in a distant par
t of England, where her story was not known. She never saw her baby, nor learnt what had become of it.

  The boy, a large, handsome child, was adopted at six years old by a childless couple, respectable elderly tradespeople living in Bristol. They treated him kindly, and gave him their own name, but when they died, within a month of one another, it was found that they had left no provision for him. Buckland by this time was sixteen, but looked a great deal older. An actress in a touring company, meeting him at her lodgings, where he knew the son of the landlady, took a violent fancy to him. She actually found him a small job with the company. He remained with them for nearly a year and in that time learnt that he was attractive to women, especially to those older than himself.

  On that knowledge he had practically lived ever since.

  He possessed personality, great self-confidence, and the assured manner that goes with it, and a natural fund of animal spirits that had stood him in very good stead. Nor was he devoid of the type of intelligence that is quick to see, and take, any possible advantage to its owner.

  Unlike Denis Waller, Buckland had never lost a job through sheer incompetence to hold it. Either he had deliberately thrown up a post because he had something better in view, or he had found himself kicked out by the infuriated husband of a woman to whom he had made love.

  Women were his weakest point. He was violently sensual, and practically devoid of moral sense.

  It was Buckland’s intention eventually to marry a woman with money, and settle down. He had a conviction that he could manage an estate, and he was quite prepared to do so to the best of his ability, for he was by nature energetic.

  He had even thought, vaguely, of Coral Romayne — but he was far from certain that she would agree to marriage, and in any case, he did not feel sure that she had any money of her own besides the allowance from her husband, that would naturally cease if she obtained a divorce and remarried.

  Besides, sixteen years difference in age was a bit steep ... he ought to be able to do better than that.

  There must be plenty of younger women about, like Chrissie Challoner, who were earning large incomes. Everyone said that women were making such money as there was to be made these days.

  It was a pity that Chrissie Challoner was so upstage and affected. Frigid, too, unless Buckland was very much mistaken.

  Rightly judging that an observation of this kind would be a success with Coral, Buckland made it aloud.

  Coral immediately told him in return what Gushie had said about the attraction between Chrissie and Denis Waller.

  Buckland roared with laughter.

  “It’s perfectly true, I bet you anything you like. Gushie thinks she’s meeting him to-night.”

  “She went mooning off in this direction. I suggested driving her wherever she wanted to go — I knew you wouldn’t mind, Coral — but she wasn’t having any. D’you suppose we shall find them sitting hand-in-hand on the terrace at the Hôtel d’Azur?”

  Mrs. Romayne’s answer was sufficiently ribald to make him laugh again loudly, and also to assure him that she had recovered her temper.

  Actually, as the car swung round the corner of the road, under the archway that led to the steep approach they passed Denis, walking with bent head.

  “Offer him a lift!” screamed Coral.

  Buckland put on the brakes and the car drew to a standstill.

  “Want a lift, Waller?” he shouted.

  “Thank you so much — how very kind of you — I should be most grateful, if I might — —”

  The stammered civilities of Denis were, as usual, cut short.

  “Get in, then — there’s plenty of room at the back.”

  Buckland started the car again almost before he had finished speaking. Denis made a scrambling and awkward jump, and was pulled in by Patrick.

  “Where have you come from? Solitary drinking at the beer-shop?” Buckland called out over his shoulder.

  “Just a walk,” Denis shouted back, with more assurance than usual in his tone.

  Buckland hooted with derisive laughter.

  As the Buick drew up before the steps, he quickly scanned the terrace. It was empty, save for the red point of a cigar, denoting Mr. Muller drinking charged water in solitude.

  In the hall, however, there were lights and voices. Someone was strumming on the piano.

  Buckland made a brief calculation.

  “I’ll take the car round, shall I?”

  “All right. I’m going to have a drink.”

  “I could do with one myself.”

  “I’ll order one. Get out, Pat — it’s time you went up to bed.”

  Buckland turned the car, and drove her up to the garage, three or four hundred yards from the Hotel.

  If Angie Moon had been anywhere near the open windows, she must have heard the car drive up, and Buckland’s purposely-raised voice.

  He walked very slowly back.

  She did not come out.

  Buckland strode into the hall. The concierge did not intimidate him in the least, although the man made a point of never stirring from his seat when Buckland passed in or out — for thus did the concierge denote the fine line of distinction between regular clients of the Hotel and their paid dependents.

  The person at the piano was Courteney. He was playing jazz spiritedly and without music, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Young Madame Duval sat watching him, Dulcie and Olwen Morgan were waltzing together with very serious expressions.

  “Here, Buck,” said Mrs. Romayne’s voice from a table near the window.

  He turned to join her.

  “I say,” said Denis Waller’s voice at his elbow— “who’s that?”

  “Who’s who?”

  “That fellow at the piano.”

  “Don’t you know? That’s Pops — our little girlie’s long-lost Pops.”

  “Is that Courteney?”

  At the same moment the tune came to an end, and Courteney turned round.

  He looked hard for a moment at Denis Waller, and then came up to him.

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he said pleasantly.

  Denis Waller’s reply was so long in coming that Buckland, surprised, looked at him. A greenish tinge seemed to have come over Denis’s habitually sallow face. He wore an expression of abject terror. Buckland, contemptuous rather than curious, felt inclined to laugh. He waited to hear what Denis was going to answer.

  “I — I don’t quite remember — I don’t think we have, have we?”

  Buckland saw Angie Moon coming down the stairs, and ceased to attend.

  (6)

  Denis, horrified, saw nothing but the aquiline, predatory face of Mr. Courteney gazing down into his own with an air of sinister assurance, a bland, immovable faith in his own convictions, that no denials or evasions would in the slightest degree shake.

  His mouth suddenly felt dry and his scalp began to prick.

  Courteney continued to smile. “Perhaps I’m mistaken?” he suggested politely.

  Denis’s presence of mind, which was never great, had deserted him absolutely. He felt extremely sick. “I think you must be,” he muttered feebly.

  Courteney gave him a little bow, as though assenting. “You’re out here for a holiday?” he added suavely. He looked round, as though to find someone with whom Denis might be connected. Denis, swallowing hard, began to speak.

  “I’m out here as temporary secretary to a Mr. Bolham. I — I dare say you’ve met him.”

  “My small daughter has mentioned him as having been extremely kind to her. So she has you, Mr. Waller. I’m most grateful.”

  “No — no — not at all. I’ve done nothing.”

  A waiter passed.

  “Garçon!” said Mr. Courteney. “You’ll have a drink with me, won’t you?”

  He gave the order.

  “You must forgive me for making such a stupid mistake just now. Probably a passing likeness, deceiving me for a moment.”

  Mr. Courteney’s extremely obse
rvant eyes met the terror-stricken ones of Denis in a long look.

  (7)

  At the age of twenty-three Denis Waller, without either means or a position, had secretly married a young woman two or three years older than himself, with whom he had made friends at his suburban boarding-house.

  This act of impulsive weakness had sprung from at once the best and the worst in his nature.

  He and Phyllis had fallen genuinely in love with one another in the course of a spiritual flirtation originating in Phyllis’s assertion that she was an agnostic. Denis had been earnest and sentimental, had lent her books and talked to her a great deal, and induced her to go with him once or twice to Evening Service, He had been supremely conscious of his Influence over her.

  After a little while, both of them forgot all about the question of Phyllis’s attitude towards religion, and talked of other things. She told him that she was alone in the world except for the manageress of the boarding-house, who was her aunt. Phyllis lived with her, and in return kept the books, and did typewriting, and mended the linen. She hated the life and her aunt was often unkind to her.

  Denis pitied her passionately, and all the more because he, too, hated the aunt, who despised him for being poor, and continually out of a job, and was often faintly rude to him.

  It had actually been, in part, an obscure desire to score off the aunt that had led him to suggest marriage to Phyllis. Imaginatively, he was in love with her. She was pretty in a slender, anæmic, dark-haired style that he admired, and he was just sufficiently her superior in education and intelligence to be able to feel that she looked up to him. She was, like Denis himself, affectionate and even demonstrative, without being passionate. They had shyly agreed that “all that side of things” counted for very little.

  At first, Phyllis refused to consider the question of marriage at all. She pointed out that it would spoil all chances of a career for Denis. (He had told her with great conviction that he was ambitious, and meant to go far.)

  It was Denis who had had the idea of keeping the marriage secret. It would, he explained carefully, make no difference to anybody but themselves, and it would be much easier for him to get a job, if it was supposed that he was unattached. As soon as he could afford it he would make a home for Phyllis, however humble.