The Bohemian Girl

by Frances Vernon

  ‘No,’ said Diana.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t quite know.’

  Diana found secret pleasure in her own body and she hoped that, when she married and shared a bedroom, the man would not disturb her: that was all, she thought, and she tried to dismiss the question from her mind. There was something very insecure about that deep private pleasure. Though no one had ever discovered it, or told her so, Diana knew that it was wrong, a squalid thing, which ought to make her unhappy. ‘I don’t want to have children,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Violet, who had been resting her head on her arms, lifted her face and looked at her sister. ‘Oh, I want as many as possible!’

  ‘No, I don’t want any,’ said Diana. ‘I don’t want to marry at all. I’ll be an old maid and I’ll manage perfectly well on my own.’

  The door opened, and Maud, who was twenty-two, came into the room.

  Maud had inherited Lady Blentham’s looks, but no one described her as a beauty, which was most unfair. Her sight was very weak, and thick spectacles concealed her eyes, which were not large, but very clear, framed with blonde lashes, and blue as Canterbury bells. She was far too thin, and her soft complexion was so anaemic as to look grey in a bad light. She had a true Grecian nose which ran straight down from her forehead, a pale clear-cut mouth and a fine oval face; but her defects prevented these being easily noticed. Only her hair attracted the attention it deserved, for she was the one true, rich blonde in the family. Edward was flaxen-haired like his mother, Roderick and Violet were brown, and Diana’s hair was too red in some lights and too dark in others to be called blonde except by very generous people. Mrs Mackay called it ginger.

  ‘Hello’, said Violet and Diana together. They rarely saw their elder sister.

  ‘Hello, children. I came up because I suppose you don’t know yet – that Bateman is going to be married?’

  Nurse’s name was Alice Bateman, and now that she acted as Maud’s lady’s-maid, and took care of their clothes too when the family was not in London, Violet and Diana were supposed to call her by her surname.

  ‘Queen Anne’s dead,’ said Diana, and Maud looked coldly at her.

  Violet giggled at Diana, and said: ‘But she’s been going to be married for ages, Maud. She got engaged on Didie’s eighth birthday – I remember it very well.’

  ‘I meant that she’s going to be married next month. Her uncle died and left her a legacy – enough to get married on at last, or so she told me.’ Maud smiled. ‘We must wish her happy.’

  There was a pause. ‘I don’t believe it!’ said Diana at length. She had been very upset when Nurse first announced she was going to be married; but the engagement had gone on so long she had thought the wedding would never take place.

  ‘Well, I suppose it must be true,’ said Violet. ‘So she’ll be leaving?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I came to tell you because –’ Maud hesitated – ‘because it would be very bad if either of you reproached her for going. I realise that you’re both very much attached to her, but you won’t, will you?’

  ‘She ought to have told us herself,’ said Diana. ‘And why did she tell you?’

  Maud flushed. ‘She was going to tell you. She doesn’t know that I’ve come. Diana, you mustn’t make a – a scene when Bateman does tell you! Thank goodness I did come up! There’s no reason for her to feel tied to us! She’s well over thirty – it’s time she was married – do you expect her to put you before her husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Diana.

  ‘Didie doesn’t mean that seriously,’ said Violet.

  ‘I do,’ said Diana. Tears dropped out of her eyes, and her ears were bright red as she looked down at the floor. Nurse’s betrothed was second gardener at a house in the Midlands; and Nurse had always said that he meant to set up on his own as a market-gardener as soon as he was able. Now they had a little capital, they would go to live in Worcestershire, and Diana would be lucky to see Nurse once a year. ‘There is reason for her to feel tied to us,’ she said.

  ‘There is none. She’s a servant. Do you expect to buy her – her soul with wages, as well as her labour?’ Maud said this very loudly, because in her parents’ presence she found it very difficult to express herself just as she wished.

  ‘Oh, Maud, really,’ said Violet, and added: ‘she wasn’t your nurse, but do try to understand how – Didie must feel.’

  ‘Surely you’re both too old to care in this way?’ said Maud.

  Violet went to put her arm round Diana. She cleared her throat, hugging her sister, and in order to divert herself as well as Diana from unhappiness, said: ‘Maud, before you came in, Didie and I were talking about – how babies are made. We’re neither of us quite sure. Can you possibly tell us?’

  Maud put her hand on the doorknob, and one corner of her mouth twitched. ‘The doctor brings them in his black bag, Violet. Surely you knew that!’

  ‘Maud! Here, you’re making fun of us! No, do please tell us.’

  ‘As far as I know,’ said Maud calmly, ‘that is the truth.’ She knew exactly as much as her sisters did, and her curiosity about the subject was far greater. But it seemed to her that discovering the whole truth about the matter was quite as difficult as permanently improving the condition of England’s poor. There were no books to explain, references in forbidden novels were very odd, and no one, of course, could be asked. It occurred to Maud then that she might ask Bateman, and she blushed thickly under her spectacles. ‘Remember what I said!’ she told them, and left.

  ‘Well!’ said Violet, putting her hands on her hips.

  After supper, Nurse came herself to tell the girls about her coming marriage. Violet wept pleasurably through her congratulations, whereas Diana was perfectly polite, saying that Maud had already informed them of the happy event. She did not cry at all. Nurse told them that she would always be fond of them both, and remember them; and Diana reminded herself that in any case she had seen comparatively little of Nurse, of Bateman, during the past five years. There was no reason for her to be unhappy.

  *

  Lady Blentham had an uneasy night. At first, she could not sleep at all for worrying about Charles and Home Rule and Mr Gladstone’s mental health. When she did fall asleep, she had several confused dreams, in one of which all three of her daughters ran away to Ireland in a train bound for Vienna, and Alice Bateman announced that she was a cousin of Lady Londonderry’s. Recently, Angelina had begun to suspect that, when the girls were little, Bateman had not been quite the strict well-trained nurse she had appeared in public.

  She woke very early, as usual, in a cold bedroom, and when she rang the bell her letters were brought up to her with her toast and tea. Lady Blentham was surprised to see one addressed in her son Roderick’s hand, and she tried to feel love. At present, for no particular reason, Angelina felt that all children in the world were merely a source of trouble.

  Roderick as a child had been plain, stolid, generally obedient, but obstinate sometimes. He had always been intended for the Church, and had accepted the idea until two years ago, when he had simply announced that he did not want to take orders, and would not do so. His virtue, thought Lady Blentham as she slit the envelope, was that he was sincerely fond both of her and of his little sisters. Roderick was now eighteen, and handsome in a heavy, youthful way in spite of being rather pimply.

  My dear Mater, he had written from Harrow,

  I expect you will be surprised to receive this letter from me. I know I do not write often enough; this is one of my faults which I intend to reform.

  Lady Blentham sat further up in bed and pulled her pillows into shape behind her, before returning to the letter.

  In fact, I mean to reform in every way possible. I know, Mater, that ever since I made the First XI, I have been very arrogant, especially with regard to the more serious matters in life. At school, it is sometimes very difficult to concentrate on the more serious side. Certain things in that line are just not done, but that,
of course, is very wrong.

  I can confess now that, a year ago, I actually had real doubts about the Christian faith, it was not simply that I no longer wished to go into the Church. But when one is in the Sixth, and one realises one will soon have left school, one starts to think rather, about the future. The chief thing is that now, after talking matters over with Morrison (the Head of House and a splendid chap, though rather an Evangelical – but most of the men here are simply unregenerate, heathens to a boy, absolutely as though there were no Chapel, and so I suppose he cannot be criticised too much for being Low), I know that I should like of all things to be ordained when I have taken my degree. I remember all you said to me on the subject last holidays, and although I did not appear to pay proper attention to you, Mater, I know, Morrison made me see that Church is the thing and you were right. The only thing that matters, in fact.

  All this is very difficult to write, Mater. I know of course that I am unworthy, but I mean seriously to try. I have committed a great many sins at Harrow, some very bad, especially of late, and I long in some way to make up for them.

  You will be pleased, I know, to hear that I have spent very little money this term. I still have the £5 Aunt Emmeline gave me at Christmas (bless her for her generosity) and so I require absolutely nothing in that line. I shall never be extravagant again.

  I hope that you and my father will consider me fit to take Holy Orders; I mean to make myself fit. Please give my love to Violet and little Didie, and I remain,

  Your affectionate son,

  R. H. Blentham

  P.S. Do you suppose it would be appropriate if, in view of your religious opinions, with which I entirely agree, I were to be entered at Keble rather than Magdalen as my father intended originally?

  P.P.S. Forgive so many postscripts, but I must excuse the use of the purple sealing-wax and Jennerson Major’s seal. I have most unfortunately lost my own, and it would never do to leave this about unsealed for my fag to find.

  Lady Blentham read this twice. She expected very little of a boy still at school except good-natured obedience, and Roderick’s awkward words seemed to her as full of proper feeling as a sermon by the late Dr Pusey.

  Angelina felt her faith in children restored by grace; but she was a little puzzled, for though she thought Roderick as sinful as most boys, she knew that only some great and peculiar sin could have prompted his conscience in this way, and she could not quite think what that might be.

  After a two-days’ interval for reflection, she took her son’s letter down to the library and showed it to Lord Blentham, saying that it had arrived that morning. He was pleased enough with it after a short discussion.

  ‘I hope he won’t become too – earnest, but I agree, Angelina, it’s a very proper letter and it’s a good thing to have him settled. I never thought he’d do for the Army or the Navy, and what else is there? Though the Church isn’t what it used to be. He’s not clever enough for the Bar.’

  ‘One son in the Army is quite enough,’ agreed Lady Blentham, ignoring the implication that a stupid man would do well enough for the Church. ‘But there is something which puzzles me rather, Charles.’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  She hesitated. ‘Roderick is reserved, and has never been – eloquent, shall I say. But he writes now almost as though he had done something – very wrong. I am worried, Charles.’

  Charles looked at the last postscript, and folded the letter up. ‘Oh yes, I should think he’s done something pretty wrong.’

  ‘But what possible opportunity could he have for doing something – sinful, at Harrow? A public school! A few illicit trips to London – even the occasional glass of beer – could not be considered absolutely immoral, Charles. And what worse could there be – for a boy of his age? Edward is in no way repentant of his sins!’

  Lord Blentham studied her beautiful face. His own was rather grim. ‘Don’t worry, Angelina. It’s nothing which could concern you, now he’s – repented, as you would say.’

  ‘You – guess what it is, and will not tell me?’

  ‘No, my dear. Some things – really are men’s business. I don’t mean politics, to be sure!’

  Lady Blentham told her husband that no doubt he was right, and quickly left the room, holding up her skirt on one side as though the well-polished floor were dirty. She could no more think what Roderick’s sin might be than her daughters could guess how babies were made.

  CHAPTER 3

  MISS KITTY DUPREE OF THE SAVOY THEATRE

  ‘My darling,’ said Lady Blentham, tapping her daughter’s cheek, and Diana sucked in her lips with pleasure. She was seventeen now, and her mother’s delicate hints at her beauty, her affection and encouragement, were Diana’s only compensations for being still with her governess while Violet, at nineteen, was in her second Season.

  Angelina continued, looking out into the rainy street: ‘I wonder, Diana, what Violet can want? What could any girl want more? Such a very nice young man, and so eligible in every way. Don’t you agree with me, my dear?’ She turned. ‘I’m sure you would be able to feel affection for him, if you were old enough, wouldn’t you?’

  The two women were in Diana’s little pink bedroom at the Blenthams’ house in Queen Anne’s Gate, and Lady Blentham had just made her first worried confidence to her youngest daughter, in the form of a gentle lecture.

  ‘He does seem very kind, Mamma, but if Violet doesn’t love him – you’ve told us before that it’s very wrong and vulgar to marry for money, or position, or all that.’

  ‘Of course it is! Of course. But – oh, Diana.’

  ‘If only he weren’t a Viscount, and we weren’t rather poor.’

  ‘Diana!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mamma, but I know it’s a great expense, bringing us all out, and if Violet doesn’t marry soon my – my own coming out next year will be a pretty heavy financial burden. I know we have this house now, since Grandmamma died, so there’s no rent to pay, but with two of us to dress, and hire horses for, and – it mounts up wickedly, I know.’

  ‘Don’t think that I shall put it off,’ said Lady Blentham, looking at her daughter’s golden-brown, red-flecked hair, which waved all over her face, back and shoulders.

  ‘I’m glad – I was afraid you might be thinking of it.’ Diana looked away to hide her hot relief.

  ‘Your feelings are very understandable,’ said Angelina, ‘but I hope that if it were necessary to put off your coming out another year, Diana, you would bear such a trial with Christian fortitude?’ She spoke kindly. ‘And Diana, please, in future, don’t talk quite so frankly about money – not in front of other people.’

  ‘It’s so dull, when I know I’m old enough!’ stammered Diana. ‘So dull always having to be silent when I am allowed downstairs, and having to dine alone with Mademoiselle, and go to museums and practise my Italian and my French and my wretched music! It was all right before Violet came out, but now it’s so different! Mamma, please – can’t I just put my hair up and wear proper dresses, down to the floor? Even that would be –’ She faltered at last.

  Angelina was not angry, though she said: ‘Diana, Diana, control yourself.’

  ‘Mamma, I’m so afraid my looks will go before next year!’ Thoroughly emboldened, she went on: ‘You know Maud used to be a beauty, still is in a way, but …’

  ‘Don’t be vain,’ smiled Angelina. ‘Besides, I don’t think that’s at all likely.’ She too was very much afraid of Diana’s suddenly losing her looks before it was time for her to be shown, but she knew she must comfort her daughter and not betray this. She continued: ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to put your hair up, Diana, because I didn’t let either Maud or Violet do so before she turned eighteen. You must know that I can’t grant such a privilege to you – however much I would like to.’

  Diana looked down at the bed and clasped her hands tightly. She had had no idea, when she was younger, that she could care so passionately about anything.

  ‘You will soon b
e grown-up, my darling,’ said Angelina.

  ‘Soon!’ When Diana considered that little more than a year ago she had been glad to be an inky schoolgirl, trying to write poems and enjoying muddy walks, she felt not too young for adult society but that she was a spinster as aged as Maud.

  ‘You may find,’ said her mother, noting her disbelief, ‘that being grown-up is not quite such a pleasure as you think it will be now.’

  Diana jumped off the bed and tried to laugh. ‘That’s what Violet says, more or less. Oh, of course, in her first season she did quite enjoy being a young lady, but now she’s forever saying what a bore it is, Society, and looking at me as if I don’t understand life at all, and I’m forever saying what a bore it is in the schoolroom, and hasn’t she forgotten, and she doesn’t understand. We smile cynically at each other,’ said Diana.

  ‘My dear, you’re amusing, but you ought not to talk cynically,’ said Lady Blentham, who thought all her children except Diana a little unintelligent. ‘Do you know, I find Society a bore, just as Violet does? Though not because I’m lazy, I hope! Except, in – certain circles, there are so many different amusements, so very many people whom of course one dislikes – and yet such a lack of real variety! And then, Diana – listen to me, my love – Society is constantly becoming more hollow as they say – even immoral. Which I dislike very much.’ She paused, thinking of last year’s scandals, and of how she herself seemed to be the only woman in London who truly abhorred bad behaviour.

  ‘Immoral?’ said Diana.

  ‘For example, my dear, when I was a girl, there was no question of receiving callers, or giving dinner-parties, on a Sunday. Certainly no question of jaunts to Richmond!’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Diana, thinking of the O’Shea divorce case last year, which had precipitated a quarrel between her parents about whether or not the Irish leader’s being a corespondent proved that Home Rule was intrinsically wicked. Violet had overheard something of that quarrel, the first true violent argument of the Blenthams’ married life: and when reporting it to Diana she had cried horribly over the whole affair.