There was still the ball at the Ritz. If only one had been going there with a party! But Mrs. Ingram was taking Monica on, after a reception, and would herself chaperon her daughter.
“I must write to him,” thought Monica.
The decision comforted her a little. Moreover it was now quite impossible to cry any more, and she must dress for dinner.
With some reluctance she got up from the bed, saw with a certain satisfaction that her tears had made an enormous wet patch on the pillow, and called “Come in!” to Mary with the hot water.
Careful sponging removed most of the traces of weeping from Monica’s face. She did her hair again, changed into the high-necked white frock that she wore on the evenings when the Ingrams were alone, and went downstairs.
Both her parents were already in the drawing-room. In less than five minutes Monica had realized with surprise that her mother must have been talking to her father, that both of them were feeling rather sorry for her, and were endeavouring, by extra kindliness of manner, to console her for what—she supposed bitterly—they doubtless viewed as her childish disappointment and mortification.
They talked of things that were supposed to interest her during dinner, and afterwards her father did not suggest a Bridge-lesson, but said that he would go to the Club for a rubber, and patted her on the shoulder as he kissed her good-night.
“I should read a book on the sofa, darling, if I were you,” said Mrs. Ingram. “And go up to bed early. All these late nights have made you look a little bit washed out.”
Monica obeyed, feeling grateful in a dim, exhausted way.
At half-past nine her mother sent her upstairs.
“I’ll come and tuck you up in a quarter of an hour,” said Mrs. Ingram—which meant that in a quarter of an hour Monica’s light would be extinguished, with a tacit prohibition against turning it on again that night.
She undressed, and brushed and plaited her hair as quickly as possible, then knelt to say her prayers.
A rush of confused petitions was succeeded by a kind of tangled explanation, addressed rather to Monica’s conscience than to her God, concerning the letter that she intended to write, in order that Christopher might know at once what had happened. This might, in a way, seem wrong, unmaidenly, disobedient, and even deceitful—but God must understand, and help her, and, above all, must not allow her mother to guess anything at all. Monica then added her usual nightly formula and got into bed.
“Good-night, my pet,” said her mother.
“Good-night, mother,” Monica made her voice sound as sleepy as possible.
But Mrs. Ingram lingered.
“Don’t let your little self worry over what I said to you this afternoon. It’s quite natural you should make mistakes at your age, and there’s no harm done. I dare say we shall meet some quite worthwhile people this summer and autumn, and you’ve got one or two friends already, haven’t you?”
“Yes, mother.”
“We must get Claude Ashe and Alice to come and do a theatre with us one night when we get back again after Scotland. I thought she seemed such a nice girl.”
“Yes. Thank you very much, mother.”
“Good-night then, darling. Go to sleep. God bless you.”
Mrs. Ingram kissed Monica, put out the light, and went away, softly closing the door behind her.
Monica, gritting her teeth, lay in the darkness.
Experience had taught her that it wasn’t worth while to turn the light on again. Mrs. Ingram had a tendency to hear mysterious noises in the evening, and to make frequent expeditions both upstairs and down. A bar of light showing beneath Monica’s bedroom door would attract her attention without fail, and probably bring her into the room again for an explanation.
It was not possible to cry any more—Monica had exhausted her capacity for tears earlier in the evening. She thought about Christopher Lane, recalling everything that she could of all he had said to her that afternoon, and gradually falling into a state between sleeping and waking, in which she evolved a series of fantastic situations, ending in an elopement and marriage, and her return home to break the news to her parents, wearing a wedding-ring and with Christopher beside her.
The next morning she wrote her letter.
It proved more difficult than she had expected. To begin with, she did not know what to call him. “Captain Lane” seemed unnatural to a degree, but she had never yet said “Christopher” except to herself. Finally she decided to have no formal beginning at all.
“I am in great trouble,” she wrote. “I may not have a chance of dancing with you or even speaking to you, at the Ritz on Friday, and I do so want to explain what has happened. Nothing can make any real difference to our friendship, but things are being made very difficulty for me at home. I only wish I could see you, and tell you about it all, but I suppose there’s no chance of that, unless you’re going to any of the places I’m going to?”
Here Monica gave a detailed list of such engagements as she knew had been made for the coming week, omitting those to be undertaken with her mother only.
None of them, seen from her present point of view, appeared very hopeful, excepting an appointment with the dentist at eleven o’clock on Wednesday to which she would have to be escorted by one of the maids, since Mrs. Ingram had an engagement at the same hour, in the opposite direction, with her dressmaker. It would surely be possible for Christopher to be walking up. Brook Street at five minutes to eleven on Wednesday morning….
Monica did not make this suggestion, but she prayed fervently that Christopher might make it.
On the way to church she posted her letter, sandwiched discreetly between a letter addressed to her old governess and a picture-postcard to a small cousin who collected them. Actually, her mother had long ago given up any systematic supervision of Monica’s correspondence, but occasionally, unexpectedly, she did scrutinize an envelope, or desire to be shown its contents.
Monica decided that she could not possibly get any reply from Christopher until Tuesday morning at the earliest. Nevertheless, she began to glance anxiously at the letters on the hall-table mid-day on Monday. She did not even know his handwriting by sight, but the postmark would be Woolwich.
No letter came on Monday, and she woke very early on Tuesday morning, her heart already beating quickly in anticipation.
Letters were never brought up to her room, but laid in her place at the breakfast table.
She went down early.
Nothing—excepting a note from Frederica Marlowe concerning a tea-party, and an offer of a complimentary sitting from a fashionable photographer.
Monica felt herself turning very hot and then very cold. She sat silently through breakfast, sick and numbed with disappointment. She felt, now, that no letter from Christopher would ever come at all.
Nor did it.
The realization that he had not answered her appeal caused her far greater and more real suffering than the unhappiness she had felt at being told that she was to have nothing more to do with him. That unhappiness, she knew now, had been alleviated by the consciousness of persecution, and the sense of being the heroine of a romance.
Everything that she had ever been told of the contempt in which men held a girl who “made herself cheap” came back to her, hurting and humiliating her unbearably.
On Wednesday morning it rained, and Mary the housemaid, in her neat black, escorted Miss Monica in a four wheeled cab to Brook Street.
Monica glanced forlornly up and down the street, but there was no one to be seen except a policeman, and a couple of ladies under an umbrella, far down the wet pavement.
She followed the man-servant into the waiting-room.
A tall man, sitting near the window, rose as she came in. It was Christopher Lane.
Chapter VII
Monica’s romance lasted exactly a week, from the moment that Christopher, whilst the maid was still paying the cab, suggested that she should be sent to do an errand.
“But what?”
gasped Monica.
“To buy a book—anything. Whatever sounds natural.”
It did not seem to Monica that anything could sound natural, but she remembered that she did want a new spongebag and a fine comb, and in an oddly wavering voice she suggested that Mary should “save time” by going in search of these articles.
Mary looked rather surprised, but the rain had stopped, and possibly, although this did not occur to Monica, she was not averse from a walk in the streets by herself.
She obediently went out again.
“You poor little darling,” said Christopher’s deep voice, “what have they been doing to you?”
Bliss invaded Monica’s whole being. She surrendered in that instant, without knowing that she had done so, her shallow, youthful judgment—that only owed such stability as it possessed to the careful efforts of her parents—in exchange for all the ecstasies of first love, and all the rapturous excitement of conducting an illicit emotional adventure unknown to the authorities that had hitherto governed every moment of her life.
The quarter of an hour in the waiting-room passed like a flash; but before it was over Monica had promised to try and come to the National Gallery on the following morning and meet Christopher there. It was, he said, extremely important that he should speak to her. He had something to say to her.
“Aren’t you ever allowed to go anywhere alone?” he demanded.
“No. But I think I could bring another girl who—who wouldn’t be in the way: Cecily Marlowe.”
He shook his head.
“Better not. She’d know who I was, quite well, and might easily say something that would get you into trouble afterwards. That,” said Christopher, “is the one thing that I couldn’t bear. No, bring your maid again. I could square her if necessary.”
In spite of herself, Monica was shocked, and felt the suggestion to be a vulgar one. To bribe a servant to hold her tongue!
Christopher was quick to see his mistake.
“Don’t look so scared, my pretty one, it’ll be all right. You can tell her to go and look at the pictures in the other galleries, or something. I’ll meet you in No. 1, as near twelve o’clock as you can manage it.”
He pressed her hand, and his touch, disturbing Monica in a way new and enthralling, drove everything else from her mind.
She met him in the National Gallery, exactly as he had suggested. Mary, by what Monica regarded as a piece of phenomenal good fortune, had a bad foot, and it was quite natural to tell her, as considerately as possible, to sit down on one of the seats and rest her foot, whilst Monica went and looked at the pictures.
She had wondered what it was that Christopher had to tell her—but when they were together, she forgot about it, and no special communication was ever made.
She and Christopher talked about themselves, and he told her that she was the most wonderful girl he had ever met, and that he needed an influence like hers in his life. He did not ask her to marry him, and Monica did not really know whether they were engaged or not. Somehow it hardly seemed to matter. In any case she knew now that her parents would not allow her to marry Christopher. Her mother had as good as said so. They wanted her to marry, of course, but they didn’t want her to choose for herself, she thought scornfully.
She was living in a dream, unable to see beyond the ball at the Ritz that was, so far as they could tell, to be their last opportunity of meeting before Monica went away. The ball was to be on Friday, and she was travelling down to Sussex with her father and mother on Saturday afternoon.
She had told Christopher—after resolving not to—exactly what her mother had said to her about him, and the prohibition as to dancing with him.
“People are very unjust, sometimes,” he said quietly. “I know that one or two mothers have taken up the attitude that I’m not a fit person to trust their daughters with, even for a dance.”
“But why?”
“I’ll tell you about it some day, Monica, if you’ll let me. I’d like to tell you, because I know you’ll understand. But about Friday night. …”
He told her that there was a place for sitting-out on the roof at the Ritz, a garden covered in by an awning. Would she meet him up there for the tenth dance, keeping that and two subsequent ones free? Her mother would almost certainly be in the supper-room then.
Monica promised.
It seemed to her that this was to be the culminating point of her existence. Her imagination refused to envisage anything at all beyond it.
On the day before the ball Frederica and Cecily came round to Eaton Square to say good-bye. They were going with their mother to Oxfordshire.
“Monica,” said Frederica, “what about Claude Ashe?”
Monica started before she could control herself. She had forgotten all about Claude Ashe.
“Nothing,” she said, in confusion.
“Alice Ashe says that you wouldn’t have anything to do with him, the night you went to the White City. She says he’s frightfully hurt about it.”
“It shows how much he likes you,” Cecily put in. “Perhaps he’s really in earnest, Monica.”
“He couldn’t be,” Frederica interposed quickly. “He can’t afford to marry—at least, not for years and years.”
“Oh, Monica,” Cecily entreated, “do tell us if he’s proposed and you’ve refused him.”
Monica was very much tempted to reply that she had. She was practically certain that neither of the Marlowes had ever received a proposal, and she knew that if she said that she had, it would fill Frederica’s heart with envy and Cecily’s with wistful admiration.
But the risk of discovery was much too great, if she perpetrated so obvious a fraud. She contented herself with a reply implying that only her own tact and determination had averted an offer of marriage from Claude.
“I don’t think it’s fair,” said Monica grandly, “to let a man actually come to the point, if one doesn’t mean to accept him in the end.”
“Of course not,” said Frederica. But she said it without conviction, and Monica knew very well that, to Cecily and her sister, she had now become one of that mysterious and fortunate band of “girls who were attractive to men.”
What would they have said if they could have known about Christopher? At the mere thought of him, a soft glow seemed to diffuse itself all over Monica.
She could not resist talking round the subject of the ball on Friday, to which the Marlowes were not going; but they were not interested. They were scarcely interested in anything excepting themselves, their mother’s moods, and the difficulty of ever getting married.
When they got up to leave, Frederica said that it would be nice to have Monica to stay, and the girls exchanged their customary meaningless embrace. Frederica’s kiss was as limp and flaccid as her hand-shake, given with half-open mouth, like a child’s. Cecily, rigid with her distaste for physical contact, never kissed one at all, but touched one’s face with her own, forcing herself to do it because it was expected of her. Monica had often wanted to tell her not to—that it didn’t matter—but, in point of fact, she thought it did matter, because both her own mother and Cecily’s would have required an explanation, if either had perceived any omission in the conventional signs of affection.
“Good-bye, Fricky. I’m awfully looking forward to coming to stay. Shall I bring tennis things?”
“Oh yes. I should. Have you got a racquet?”
“I think I have.”
“Well, if not, we can lend you one. Good-bye, Monica.”
“Good-bye,” repeated Cecily. “I hope your house-parties will be fun.”
“I’ll write and tell you about them.”
They were gone, and Monica viewed their departure, as she did everything else, as one more landmark left behind on the way to Friday night and the roof-garden.
It came at last.
“I shan’t stay late to-night,” said Mrs. Ingram, adjusting her black velvet shoulder-straps, and then smartly tucking a lace handkerchief out of sight down
the front of her décolletage.
“How late, mother?”
“Well—certainly not after one. So don’t book too many dances, my child.”
How little she knows, thought Monica sentimentally, treasuring the anticipation of the tenth dance and the two following ones, already promised to Christopher.
In the ball-room, she found that she did not know many people, and that her programme did not fill up.
Mrs. Ingram began to look anxious.
“Stand forward, Monica. No one can see you there. Get right in front of me, at once.”
Monica, feeling extremely self-conscious, stood forward, and pretended absorption in the buttoning of her long white kid gloves.
“Don’t bend your head down like that!” came, in a sharp whisper, from her mother behind her. “Be ready to catch the eye of anyone you know.”
Suddenly Monica saw Claude Ashe. He bowed, hesitated, and then came up and asked her for a dance.
“May I have number seven with you?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Monica, handing him her programme. He put down his initials.
She still had several dances left unclaimed.
Mrs. Ingram, talking to a dowager, presented Monica, and explained that her daughter was “only just out” and knew very few men in the room.
“Let me introduce one or two of my party,” said the old lady good-naturedly.
She captured two partners for Monica, and then Mr. Pelham appeared and asked her for a two-step. She thought him very dull, but accepted eagerly, anxious to escape the humiliation and tedium of having to stand out a dance.
“Show me your programme,” said her mother. “How’s it getting on? Oh, that’s better.”
Monica had left everything blank after the ninth number.
“You’d better not book any more after supper.”
Monica’s partner claimed her, and saved her from the necessity of replying.
“And how do you enjoy being grown-up?” said Mr. Pelham, exactly as he had said every time that he had had any conversation with Monica ever since their first meeting.
Thank Heaven Fasting Page 9
