Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Yes,” said Kate, wondering how Cousin Edith knew.

  “Well, I’m very sorry for you. Jealousy’s the hardest thing to bear there is, pretty well. I’ve seen a dog lie down and die of jealousy before now. And the things that people tell you, about wanting the other person to be happy and so on, are all right in theory but not so easy when it comes to feeling. By the by, is it Lucy you mind about so much, or your friend Rosalie?”

  “It’s both,” said Kate desperately.

  “I see. That makes it worse for you.”

  “I know it’s wrong. That’s what’s so dreadful. I know it’s wicked of me and I can’t help it. I want to be first with both of them, and now I never shall be with either.”

  “No, you won’t.” Kate felt sick when she heard the words, although she had so many times said them to herself.

  “But, Kate, it isn’t any use making up your mind that you must be first with someone. Some day, very likely you will be — but it won’t be because you’ve made up your mind that you must be. We can all take a horse to the water but we can’t make him drink, and the more we try, very often, the less likely he is to do it.”

  “I can’t go on minding like this. I can’t possibly bear it,” said Kate.

  Cousin Edith sighed.

  “I know you can’t,” she said.” But you see, it isn’t much good my saying to you solemnly that you’ll get over it in time. It’s true, and you might know it was true, but you wouldn’t be able to feel it. What you want, is for all this misery and wretchedness of yours to leave off, like magic, straight away.”

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t do that, child. No one and nothing can make it do that — not even Almighty God Himself. He doesn’t go against the natural law, and it’s natural law that strong, undisciplined feelings have got to work themselves out, and take time over the job.”

  “But what shall I do?” wailed Kate. “I can’t go on like this. I’m making everybody hate me, and Mama is ashamed of me, and I know I’m wrong and wicked.”

  “You can’t do anything much, Kate, except live one minute at a time and try and do the best you can with that one minute. Don’t look ahead, because then you’ll feel you can’t bear it. Don’t look back either. One gets to pitying oneself, looking back. Just go on from minute to minute.”

  “I can’t. Mama said I’d made Lucy angry and that I was trying to spoil things for Rosalie. She said, luckily it didn’t matter to either of them — as if they didn’t care about me at all.”

  “When people are in love, they don’t really care particularly for anybody except themselves. But that doesn’t last for ever. Later on they come back to real life again, and want their friends and relations just the same as before.”

  “I don’t feel now as if things would ever come right again, Cousin Edith.”

  “That’s because you can only see one way in which they could come right — by putting back the hands of the clock, as though Lucy and Rosalie had never met one another, and you’d never felt jealous, and none of this had ever happened. It can’t come right that way, child, and it won’t. But it can come right in some other way that you don’t know about yet.”

  “What sort of way?”

  “I don’t know, any more than you do. I only know that, mostly, things do come right, after one fashion or another. Try and believe it.”

  “I do want to believe it. I’ll try to,” sobbed Kate.

  “Good girl. I mean it, too. Don’t let’s have any more of this nonsense about your being so wicked and bad. People who’ve got strong feelings, like yours, are the ones who do best in the long run — only they’ve got to learn first how to manage themselves and their feelings.”

  Cousin Edith stood up. She hesitated over Kate for a moment, and then patted her head with an awkward gesture.

  “I’m going to find Mama and ask her to let you come and stay with me for a bit. It’ll be easier for you to be away, won’t it, and I’ll find plenty for you to do. That’s a help, too.”

  Then she walked out of the room.

  Chapter IV

  1

  Kate went to stay with the Newtons.

  Cecilia gave her a long talking-to before she went. She told her that her friendship for Rosalie was silly and sentimental, and was not, in fact, friendship at all. It was schoolgirl infatuation. Fortunately Rosalie, being a nice, sensible girl, had not been disgusted and annoyed, as she well might have been, but merely amused.

  “But,” said Kate, “I was her friend too. She said so.”

  Cecilia did not readily brook argument, and least of all from her daughter.

  “Don’t talk in that foolish way, Kate. You’re too old to behave like a child of twelve. If Rosalie didn’t happen to be a thoroughly kind-hearted girl, she’d have told you long ago not to make such a little nuisance of yourself.”

  Kate stared and stared at her mother, not arguing any more. She was trying to make herself realize that Rosalie hadn’t really wanted her for a friend after all. She’d just been, as Mama said, very, very kind.

  Even to Cousin Edith, who had been so unexpectedly sorry for one and not a bit angry or contemptuous, one would never say anything about that. Kate’s self-respect, in that one half-hour with her mother, received a wound that would never, however long she might live, be altogether healed.

  She had been so confident, so unquestioning and so happy. Now she knew that, even if Rosalie hadn’t fallen in love with Lucy, their friendship wasn’t the splendid, important thing she had believed it to be.

  “Kate, are you attending?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “I’m not going to say anything about your ridiculous jealousy on Lucy’s account,” Cecilia told her — and then proceeded to say it.

  Kate learnt that her brother was thoroughly disgusted with her. He’d spoilt her as a child, and now that he was going to be married and had naturally expected sympathy and pleasure from his brother and sisters, what had he got from Kate? Nothing but sulks and tears, and in fact a regular exhibition of morbid temper and jealousy, enough to infuriate any man.

  “By far the best thing you can do is to go and stay with Cousin Edith since she’s kind enough to have you. And I shall expect you to come back looking and behaving very differently, let me tell you. The wedding is going to be on the sixteenth of September, and you’ve got every chance before that of making us all forget the way you’ve been disgracing yourself, so make the most of it.”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Kate, the formula rising to her lips automatically.

  Through all the complicated double strand of dark jealousy that seemed to be twisting her heart with misery, Kate somehow knew that she could not accept everything Cecilia had told her without attempting to find comfort somewhere.

  It was difficult to talk either to Lucy or Rosalie alone now, for they were always together, but on the night before she was to go to the Newtons, Kate went to Rosalie’s room at bedtime. With the new feeling of uncertainty that was so strange and sickening, she knocked and went in.

  “Hallo, darling!” said Rosalie, just as she always had. She turned round, smiling, from her seat before the dressing-table.

  Her gold hair was streaming over her white muslin dressing-jacket, and she was brushing it out in deep, springing waves. The ring of five enormous emeralds that Lucy had given her glowed on her slim hand, catching the light from the wax candles.

  As her eyes met Kate’s the smile faded from Rosalie’s face and she looked troubled and compassionate.

  She put down the brush and held out her hand.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she murmured. “I wanted you to.”

  Kate knelt down on the floor beside her, dumb with misery.

  “Kate, don’t be so unhappy. What is it? Is it because of Lucy? You’ll always be his little sister — and his favourite sister too. He told me so. And soon you’re going to be my sister as well.”

  “You don’t care for me any more,” muttered Kate childishly.
<
br />   “Yes, I do. Have I been selfish and horrid lately? I haven’t meant to be.”

  Rosalie’s voice was gentle and loving, and her blue-green eyes were bent on Kate with the old, earnest look of affection.

  Kate began to cry.

  “I know I’m jealous and behaving badly,” she sobbed. “Mama said so. And she said that if — if you hadn’t been very kind, you’d have been disgusted with me, and angry. But I don’t want you to be kind, Rosalie. I want us to be friends — like I thought we were.”

  “We are,” said Rosalie. “Truly, darling. If we haven’t been so much together just lately, it’s because — well, because of Lucy, I suppose. But I do care for you, just the same.”

  Kate felt incredulous relief pouring over her.

  Did Rosalie really mean it?

  “I’ve been dreadfully worried about you,” Rosalie said speaking rapidly as though anxious to reassure Kate as quickly as possible. “I knew there was something the matter, but I thought it was about Lucy.”

  “It was about him too,” whispered Kate, deeply ashamed.

  “Poor little thing!”

  “Do you despise me dreadfully?”

  “Of course I don’t. But it’ll be all right, darling. Only don’t be jealous. Please.”

  Rosalie stroked Kate’s hair and Kate leant against her. Somewhere at the back of her exhausted young mind she knew well enough that Rosalie had provided no solution to her problem, and that pain still crouched in waiting, ready to spring, but for the moment there was a deep and blessed relief in Rosalie’s tenderness, and in her utter absence of condemnation.

  Presently Rosalie said: “I wish you weren’t going away.”

  “I’m going to-morrow.”

  “I know. You must talk to Lucy before you go, darling. Like you used to, when he first came home.”

  “He won’t want me to.”

  “Yes, he will,” said Rosalie confidently. “And you’ll see, it’ll make everything much easier and better. Please try, darling Kate.”

  Kate was ready enough to try.

  She almost believed Rosalie.

  She believed her wholly when Rosalie soothed and petted her, told her that nothing would really be changed between them, and that soon they would be sisters as well as friends.

  “Why, that’s one of the things that makes me so happy,” cried Rosalie.

  “Are you very happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad,” said Kate. “Really and truly I am. I never knew before that one could be glad with part of one, and mind most dreadfully with another part.”

  “Poor little thing,” said Rosalie again.

  She seemed gentle, and sorry, and not at all as Kate’s mother had described her.

  The comfort to Kate was unutterable.

  “Listen, darling,” Rosalie said at last, “you must go to bed now. But I’m so glad you came. And you’ve promised me to talk to Lucy to-morrow. What time are you going?

  “Cousin Joe is fetching me at about five, on his way back from Monmouth.”

  “Lucy and I are going out riding after lunch. We’ll be back long before five — in plenty of time. I wish he could have driven you over. Never mind, I expect he’ll come and fetch you home when your visit’s over.”

  Kate went to bed more comforted than she would have thought possible. It seemed to her that Rosalie still cared about their friendship, and had thought about Kate, even though she’d seemed not to. One would never come first with her any more — that had been too good to be true — but one had to get used to that. Cousin Edith had said so.

  And perhaps the thought of Lucy wouldn’t hurt so dreadfully, presently, and he would say something that would help one to bear it.

  “Please, God,” prayed Kate, “let it come a little bit right. If it can’t ever come quite right, at least make me not mind so terribly when I come back, and not show it so as to spoil things for them.”

  The pang of returning consciousness that now always stabbed her when she woke was there the next morning, but it was followed by a gleam of the comfort derived from Rosalie.

  And she would see Lucy before she went away, and try and make up for having been so hateful when he had told her about his engagement and expected her to be glad.

  Lucy, as usual, had failed to appear by the time that everybody else was at breakfast.

  “You’ll have to teach him punctuality, Rosalie,” suggested her mother, who was staying in the house.

  “If you can,” said Cecilia. “But no Lemprière is ever punctual. Ah!”

  At her exclamation everyone looked up.

  Her eyes were fixed on the window and up the drive they all saw the small telegraph-boy trudging with the orange envelope in his hand.

  “It must be from Fred, to say he’s in London,” cried his mother.

  Her still fine eyes were brilliant with excitement and she half rose from her chair as the boy disappeared round the corner of the house in the direction of the back door.

  “Shall you go up to London to meet him?” suggested Mrs. Meredith, anxious to be sympathetic — but Cecilia appeared not even to hear her.

  She sat, the finger of one hand imperiously tapping on the table, waiting.

  Rosalie, smiling at Kate, said something about a letter from Fanny, giving an anecdote of little Cecil, and Kate replied — but they both spoke instinctively in lowered voices as though something was happening that must not be interrupted.

  It was the intensity of Cecilia’s waiting that would tolerate no interruption.

  “Why doesn’t the fool bring in that telegram?” she asked, of no one, within a few seconds of its arrival.

  The silence that followed remained unbroken until a servant entered, carrying the message on a salver, and handed it to Cecilia.

  She tore it open, read it and exclaimed triumphantly: “It is! The ship docked last night and Fred will be in London to-day.”

  Her glance swept round the table, as though to make certain that everyone present shared her elation. Then, recovering herself, she relaxed her bearing and — still grasping the telegram — leant back in her chair.

  2

  Lucy and Rosalie had gone out for their ride. They were to be back early, before Kate left.

  Lucy, looking at his sister as if he really saw her again, said: “Come for a walk, Kay, before you proceed to elope with old Joe. I haven’t seen you for days.”

  “Yes, please, Lucy. If you’re back from riding in time.”

  “Of course I’ll be back in time,” said Lucy.

  Kate thought that they would go to the place in the orchard where he used to swing her.

  Long before three o’clock Kate was ready. A housemaid had packed for her, and her hat and gloves and light coat were lying on the bed.

  There was nothing left to do except wait, wandering from the terrace to the front door and back again.

  The fine weather had become grey and sultry and a bank of clouds was piling up in the west.

  The air was very still, and Kate heard three o’clock strike from the stable clock, then the quarter-past. She felt restless and wondered how soon the riders would be back, although they had not started until after two.

  “Kate!” called her mother from the morning-room window.

  Kate would willingly have pretended not to hear but that she knew it would be useless.

  Reluctantly she turned, moving slowly forwards.

  “Come in, dear, it’s going to rain, and Cousin Joe won’t be here till after tea.”

  Cecilia’s tone was amiable and indulgent. She was radiant because Fred had come back. She was going to London next day to meet him.

  “Oh!” cried Kate abruptly.

  “What is the matter?”

  “I shall miss Fred if I go away!”

  “My dear child, don’t be so silly. You’re only going away for a week or two, and Fred will ride over to see Cousin Edith, of course. And you. I only hope you’ll have a nice, bright face for him and remembe
r that he’s only got a few months at home, and certainly won’t want to see a sulky schoolgirl slouching about the place.”

  Cecilia’s curt, slashing phrases were always delivered without malice. She never thought at all of their possible effect on the recipient, only of how to express most trenchantly what she was herself feeling. Partly for this reason, and partly from sheer habit, both Fanny and Kate had become hardened to her insulting manner and phraseology.

  Kate, now, barely took in what her mother had just said. She only felt a dull, unemotional sense of annoyance.

  “You’ve got nothing to do,” said Cecilia. “Sit down here and sort out my embroidery skeins for me. They’re in a terrible tangle.”

  Kate obeyed. She was not thinking in the least what she was doing, and twice upset the box containing the numerous twists of silk and sent two reels of thread rolling away across the floor.

  Cecilia did not scold her.

  She only remarked, with an apologetic laugh to Rosalie’s mother, that Kate was at the awkward age and she supposed all girls were the same. Mrs. Meredith politely supposed so too, but after a moment added reflectively that she did not, as a matter of fact, think that Rosalie had ever at any stage been awkward.

  “I’m sure she never could have been,” Cecilia graciously agreed. “She’s so delightfully graceful and natural always. I only wish Kate was more like her.”

  Kate paid no attention. She was listening for the sound of the horses returning. But by four o’clock they had not come.

  Cousin Joe was always punctual. He’d said he would come at five, and at five he’d come. She wouldn’t have any time with Lucy at all.

  He didn’t mind about breaking his promise to her.

  Or perhaps — riding with Rosalie — he’d forgotten all about it.

  When half-past four came and afternoon tea was brought in and placed before Cecilia, Kate knew they’d forgotten. Perhaps they wouldn’t even be there in time for her to say goodbye to them before she went away.

  “Our young lovers have forgotten the time, I suppose,” remarked Cecilia with an indulgent laugh. “Take this cup, Kate, and the bread-and-butter — carefully, darling. Look what you’re doing.”