Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “My dear, she is odd,” said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans decidedly. “Her mother has always spoilt her, and made a great deal of fuss about her; and the result is that Alison thinks herself quite wonderful, and puts on airs and affectations which have made her thoroughly unpopular. You must have seen for yourself how very bad her manners are.”

  “I thought her rather good-looking,” observed Zella.

  “No, darling,” said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans firmly. “I don’t say she mightn’t be nice-looking if she were simple and unaffected, and like other girls; but she is not, and it quite spoils any looks she might ever have had.”

  The logic of this conclusion might not be irrefutable, but Mrs. Lloyd-Evans’s tone of conviction was final.

  “I am afraid poor Lady St. Craye has been very weak and foolish,” she added compassionately; “but she is one of those women who do not feel things at all deeply, so I dare say Alison is not as much of a disappointment as she would have been to a different mother. Lady St. Craye is very shallow and frivolous, though goodnatured, in her way.”

  Zella had been rather disposed to gather the same impression from her brief interview with Lady St. Craye, but she instinctively began to believe herself mistaken at these evidences that Mrs. Lloyd-Evans’s penetration had taken the same direction.

  “Is Lady St. Craye at all clever?” I “No, dear, not in the least. She may talk a good deal about music and pictures in rather an affected way, but that is only a pose. She is one of those women whom I call,” said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans with an air of originality, “a butterfly.”

  “I’m sure the girl isn’t,” said Zella, with a recollection of the most unbutterfly-like ponderousness of Miss St. Craye’s manner.

  “Alison is by way of being clever; and she certainly had a great deal of money spent on her education, but I do not fancy there is much in it. A showy smattering of languages and being able to play the ‘cello a little is not real cleverness, dear, as you will find out when you are older. But she pretends, rather artfully, to be very intellectual. I do not fancy you will have anything in common with her.”

  Zella considered inwardly that, if the atmosphere was to be intellectual, artful or otherwise, she would, on the contrary, find herself far more at home there than in the society to which Mrs. Lloyd-Evans had introduced her. But she, naturally, did not make this observation aloud.

  “Very likely Lady St. Craye asked you to stay there because she likes having another girl in the house, and hopes it may be good for Alison. That girl is not at all popular, and very likely the girls whom she meets in London would not care to go and stay there and be patronized in Alison’s aggravating manner. It was really rather artful of her to ask you, who are very young and inexperienced, and naturally do not know anyone in London yet.”

  This flattering explanation of her invitation was not shared by Zella, who preferred to think that the discerning eye of Miss St. Craye had noted an intellectual affinity between them.

  Zella was quite aware that she and the average nice simple, unaffected girls eulogized by Mrs. Lloyd-Evans had nothing in common; and although theoretically Zella might look upon this as a mark of her own superiority, each practical example of it humiliated and made her feel inferior. But she was conscious now of a subtle anticipation that in Alison St. Craye’s surroundings she might at least find herself acclaimed and recognized by kindred spirits.

  She entered the drawing-room of the St. Crayes’ house that afternoon with a firm conviction that here at last would be found the right atmosphere, that one with which she should find herself in perfect harmony, and which she had always sought, and as invariably missed, in all the varying surroundings of her short life.

  The first indication of standards other than conventional ones was vouchsafed to her even on the threshold of the drawing-room.

  Alison St. Craye, unsuitably dressed in a winter tweed skirt and loose holland blouse, was vigorously pushing furniture across the parquet flooring, and clearing a space in the middle of the large, beautiful room.

  Lady St. Craye, looking helpless and exquisite in an elaborate lace frock, was propelling a little velvet music stool rather aimlessly across the floor. At the sight of Zella she abandoned the music-stool with every appearance of relief, and trailed towards her.

  “I am so very glad you have come, my dear,” she said, kissing her. “How nice to see you, and what a pretty frock!”

  Zella surmised that Lady St. Craye would have found some such heartfelt exclamation to welcome a youthful guest had she been clothed in sackcloth, but she was none the less pleased by the little compliment.

  Alison said: “So you have come. Good! Now, I want you to be quite candid. Are you one of those who are content to live as ornamental adjuncts — which you certainly are qualified to be — or can you work, as I work, with heart, head, and hands? If so, I warn you that I shall request your help in moving the sofa instantly, so beware that you reply with due circumspection.”

  In spite of her species of polysyllabic playfulness, there was a compelling earnestness about Alison St. Craye’s speech that caused Zella, who hated exertion, and, moreover, was conscious of having on her prettiest frock, to reply with an eagerness that yet sounded even to her own ears curiously unconvincing:

  “Oh, I would far rather help you. I love work.”

  Alison ejaculated her favourite “Good!” and Lady St. Craye said plaintively:

  “But surely Longdon and one of the footmen could move the sofa, darling. I am sure we cannot manage it ourselves.”

  “We are all three able-bodied women,” said Alison coldly. “You know, I think it degrading, to both parties alike, that one human being should pay another to wait upon him hand and foot.”

  “You are a Socialist?” asked Zella, anxious to show Alison by the matter-of-factness of her tone that no advanced views could surprise or startle her.

  “Not in the vulgar canting sense of the word,” said Alison gravely. “I believe in the universal Brotherhood of Creation. My creed is a very simple one, and yet all the religions in the world, worthy of the name, have tried to attain to it — and failed. I do not believe in narrow sects, churches, and dogmas. I believe in the beautiful world all round us; I believe in fresh air, sunshine, friendship, and kindness to everyone; above all, in the universal Brotherhood that binds us all.”

  It sounded very simple and beautiful.

  Zella, already more dominated than she knew by the stronger personality, wondered whether Truth did not perhaps lie in that broad, simple creed, so earnestly enunciated.

  “Dear,” said Lady St. Craye gently, “if you want the debate to begin at five o’clock, I am afraid people will soon be arriving. It’s after four, and you know we haven’t put the chairs out yet.”

  Alison looked at Zella, cast up her eyes with a humorously despairing expression, and said with good-natured tolerance:

  “Yes, yes, my dear mother. You prefer the concrete question of gilt chairs. Well, produce your gilt chairs, by all means.”

  Lady St. Craye looked helpless.

  “They are in the morning-room, you know, dear.”

  “Let us track them to their lair,” responded Alison humorously.

  Proceeding downstairs, Lady St. Craye said to Zella: “Alison has a Debating Society, you know, and they meet once a week, at one another’s houses. At least, they really meet here, oftener than anywhere, because, of course, it is not always possible for the others to get possession of a suitable room; and Alison is so keen about it, she doesn’t mind any amount of trouble. It is really very interesting to hear them sometimes.”

  “What do they debate about?” asked Zella with some curiosity.

  “All sorts of things, my dear. This evening I know the subject will be ‘Is the Theory of Reincarnation Compatible with Orthodox Christianity?” because Alison is proposing it. And then somebody else will oppose her, and they will all say what they think. It is sometimes very interesting to listen to them all,” repeated Lady St. Craye, rather in the
voice of a dutiful child repeating an oft-taught lesson.

  In the morning-room, evidently a disused apartment of the big house, gilt chairs were stacked in couples, one upon another. They each seized two and crossed the hall again in slow procession.

  The neatly-garbed black figure of a lady’s-maid suddenly shot swiftly across their path, and, addressing a reproachful “Oh, milady!” to Lady St. Craye, relieved her of her burden.

  “Mais non, mais non — laissez, ma bonne Antoinette,” said Alison patronizingly.

  “Je pense — je pense “faltered Lady St. Craye, looking reluctantly at the chairs in Antoinette’s capable grasp.

  “De grace, miladi! et votre dentelle! Et avec ca que vous serez morte ce soir!”

  “My mother is ruled by her maid, as are most women who submit to the infliction,” laughed Alison over her shoulder.

  “I think Antoinette might help to carry the chairs, Alison,” said Lady St. Craye wistfully, “and you know how cross she gets if she thinks I am tiring myself.”

  “As you will,” replied Alison indifferently.

  The remaining chairs were brought in by Antoinette, and arranged in a semicircle facing the window, where stood a small table and a larger chair.

  “Let me see: five — ten — twelve. We shall want more than that. The outside number is fifteen, and perhaps they will all come. Anyhow, we must be prepared.”

  “Il en faudra quinze, Antoinette,” said Alison, contemplating them with her head on one side.

  “You will need three more,” observed Zella, for the sake of saying something.

  Lady St. Craye looked at the chairs helplessly.

  “Ten — eleven — twelve,” she murmured. “If there are to be fifteen, we must have at least three more.”

  “Miladi desire quinze chaises?”

  “Trois. Il en faut encore trois.”

  “Dix — onze — douze: tiens, oui, c’est vrai. II faudra trois autres chaises.”

  “Have we got three or four more of those chairs? we shall need them,” reiterated Lady St. Craye.

  They looked helplessly at the chairs, as if expecting them to multiply themselves.

  Then Alison said with a short laugh:

  “This becomes farcical. I cannot go on discussing these chairs any longer. Let us away.” She laid her hand upon Zella’s shoulder. “You must come and see your room. A fig for the three chairs!”

  She snapped her fingers in mock dramatic style, and turned on her heel, meekly followed by Zella.

  Twenty minutes later, when Alison had donned a heavy shot satin dress that looked too old for her, Zella returned with her to the drawing-room, and, surreptitiously counting the gilt chairs, found that Lady St. Craye and Antoinette had somehow supplied the deficiency.

  The debate proved tedious.

  A nervous-looking girl in black was voted into the chair, and made a preliminary speech which began and ended with a stammering sentence to the effect that everyone must agree, whatever their individual view of the matter, that the subject of Reincarnation was a very interesting one.

  “Hear! hear!”

  Alison’s speech was a lengthy one. Her delivery was slow and over-emphatic; she spoke kindly of Christianity and its doctrines.

  Most of the speakers had some personal example, that bore more or less upon the subject, to relate. One or two adduced strange phenomena experienced by themselves, and a young married woman recounted at some length vivid recollections of ancient Carthage that obsessed her.

  Alison shook her head slowly from side to side, with contemptuous disapproval, or nodded it slowly up and down with contemptuous approval. Lady St. Craye looked interested, and gently clapped each speaker.

  Zella thought that she could have made a far more striking and original speech than any of them, but knew herself well enough to be aware that, if she were suddenly called upon to speak, her self-confidence would leave her, and leave her helpless.

  After the debate was over, there was a little desultory talking, and the Debating Society melted away.

  Antoinette appeared unexpectedly, with two footmen in tow, whom she peremptorily waved towards the disordered chairs.

  Lady St. Craye looked rather guiltily at Alison.

  “I am afraid Antoinette did not like my carrying the chairs,” she murmured deprecatingly. It is foolish of her, I know, dear. But, indeed, I do not think John and William will mind doing it. They look very strong, and they have not much to do.”

  Zella almost wondered if the speech could have been made in earnest, but Lady St. Craye’s face was serious and rather flushed, like that of a timid child.

  “My dear mother, do not for a moment imagine that I object,” said Alison rather impatiently. “It is merely the principle of the thing that is all wrong.”

  But she did not, as Zella had half feared she might, propose that they should halve the labours of John and William.

  “My mother is one of those women whose great fear in life is that they may hurt someone,” Alison informed Zella that evening; “whereas in point of fact she is like a flower — harmless, charming. A Christmas rose, perhaps, that imagines itself to possess the deadly qualities of nightshade; whereas it is the most scentless and innocent of decorations. Yes,” said Alison, thoughtfully weighing her own simile with some complacency, “that describes my mother — a harmless, decorative piece of still-life.”

  Zella felt annoyed with herself because she knew that she was inwardly shocked at Alison’s impersonal dissecting of her mother.

  “She is very devoted to you,” was the nearest she could compass to an equally dispassionate comment.

  Alison shrugged her shoulders with an exaggeratedly foreign gesture.

  “No doubt. It is part of the conventional widow’s equipment to adore her only child, and my mother is conventional to the tips of her exceedingly pretty fingers. She does not know me, but she remains serenely unconscious of that.”

  “She does not understand you?”

  “How should she? I am of another mould — a feminine, a thing of ready smiles and tears and blushes — all surface.”

  “Ah,” said Zella, deeply anxious not to stem the tide of what she regarded as flattering confidences, but utterly unable to think of any rejoinder adequate to the occasion.

  “I have evolved myself spiritually and mentally,” pursued Alison thoughtfully, and with that deep absorption which is accorded only to the topic of self-evolution.

  “My religion, my character, everything, I have had to make for myself.”

  “What is your religion?” asked Zella, convinced that, whatever it was, it would be nothing orthodox.

  “I am a Theosophist, in so far as I am anything. Not that Theosophy is a creed; it has merely taken the heart out of all the creeds, and welded the whole into that glorious law which your Prophet set forth so admirably: ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’”

  Zella felt a sudden shock, as though Alison had worded her theory most irreverently.

  “Simply Love,” repeated the Theosophist dreamily. “It is very easy, and ah, Zella! life becomes almost beautiful in spite of its pain, and it would be wholly so if only everyone could see as we do. So many of us fail to recognize the Divine lurking in every human soul, in every bird and insect, in every blade of grass!”

  She is the exquisite eternal Zella thought wistfully that a certainty of the all pervadingness of the Divine must indeed alter the values of life; but Alison’s words had nevertheless failed to carry any real conviction, or any but the most superficial of thrills.

  “I myself have thought a good deal about Catholicism,” she began shyly.

  Alison looked at her kindly, but lost her expression of rapt intensity.

  “Ah,” she said lightly, “many of us go through that stage, and the symbolism of Rome has its poetical attraction. But at present, my dear Zella, it is time to go and dress for dinner.”

  XXII

  “Isn’t there anyone whom you would like to ask to din
ner here before you go, Zella dear? We might make up a little theatre-party,” said Lady St. Craye.

  Zella could not think of anyone whom she knew well enough or wished to ask to dinner, but thought it would sound childish and countrified to say so, so she exclaimed gratefully, “Oh, thank you so much. How very kind of you to think of it!” in order to gain time.

  “Thursday night would do,” said Lady St. Craye kindly.

  Zella had an inspiration.

  “I should rather like to ask my cousin, James Lloyd-Evans,” she said shyly.

  “Yes, do, dear, that will be very nice. I think he is rather a friend of Alison’s.”

  “James Lloyd-Evans is a youth of parts,” conceded Alison graciously, “and he certainly understands music.”

  “He is a great admirer of Alison’s ‘cello-playing,” said Lady St. Craye innocently.

  Zella was rather amused, but looked forward to impressing James by her friendship with the gifted Miss St. Craye.

  Impressiveness, however, was not destined to be the keynote of the evening.

  Zella was ready before her ever-unpunctual hostess, and before Alison, who had walked upstairs ten minutes before dinner, remarking that her body should never be the master of her soul.

  Zella accordingly received James alone.

  The sense of intimacy conferred by the near relationship was pleasant to both of them, and James took instant advantage of it by inquiring:

  “Well, what do you think of Miss St. Craye?”

  Zella hesitated for a moment, then decided that James would expect admiration, but leavened by impartial criticism.

  “She is rather — wonderful,” she observed slowly, and quite unconsciously borrowing from Alison’s own vocabulary.

  Very,” said James with an odd emphasis.

  “Utterly unlike other people, of course, and I dare say her very unconventionally causes her to be misunderstood by ordinary minds,” said Zella, remembering her Aunt Marianne’s strictures. “But she has a splendid brain, of course, and knows how to use it. There is nothing she hasn’t read, I believe.”