Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Char smiled with pale decision.

  “Let me pass, Brucey. I really mean it.”

  “Lady Vivian!” wailed the secretary.

  Joanna shrugged her shoulders. She, too, looked weary.

  “Be reasonable, Char.”

  “It’s of no use, mother. I shouldn’t dream of giving in while there’s work to be done.”

  Miss Bruce gave a sort of groan of mingled admiration and despair at this heroic statement. Char slipped her arms into the fur coat that her maid was holding out for her.

  Lady Vivian stood at the top of the stairs looking at her with an air of detached consideration, and left Miss Bruce to make those hurried dispositions of foot-warmer, fur rug, and little bottles of sulphate and quinine which, the secretary resentfully felt, a more maternal woman would have taken upon herself.

  But Lady Vivian’s omissions were not destined to provide the only one, or even the most severe, of the shocks received by Miss Bruce’s sensibilities that morning.

  As Char extended her hand for the last of Miss Bruce’s offerings, a small green bottle of highly pungent smelling salts, Lady Vivian’s incisive tones came levelly from above.

  “You’d better stay the night at Questerham, Char. It will be very cold driving back after dark.”

  “Oh no, mother. Besides, I don’t know where I could go. I hate the hotel, and one can’t inflict an influenza cold on other people.”

  “You can go to your Hostel. Surely there’s a spare bed?”

  The ghost of a smile flickered upon Lady Vivian’s face, as though in mischievous anticipation of Char’s refusal.

  “It’s quite out of the question. The Hostel is for my staff, and it would be very unsuitable for me, as Director of the Midland Supply Depôt, to go there too.”

  “Bless me! are they as exclusive as all that?” exclaimed Joanna flippantly. “Well, do as you like, but if you come back here, you’re not to go near your father, with a cold like that.”

  Miss Bruce, almost before she knew it, found herself exchanging a glance of indignation with Char’s maid, but she was conscious enough of her own dignity to look away again in a great hurry.

  “You will certainly want to go straight to bed when you come in,” she said to Char, pointedly enough. “We will have everything ready and a nice fire in your room.”

  “Thank you, Brucey.”

  Char bestowed her rare smile upon the little agitated secretary, and moved across the hall.

  She felt very ill, with violent pains in her head and back, and shivered intermittently.

  Leaning back in her heavy coat, under the fur rug, Char closed her eyes. She reflected on the dismay with which Miss. Delmege would greet her, and wondered rather grimly whether any further members of her staff would have succumbed to the prevailing illness. She knew that only a will of iron could surmount such physical ills as she was herself enduring, and dreaded the moment when she must rouse herself from her present torpid discomfort to the necessity of moving and speaking.

  As she got out of the car, Char reeled and almost fell, in an intolerable spasm of giddiness, and her progress up the stairs was only made possible by the remnant of strength which allowed her to grasp the baluster and lean her full weight upon it as she dragged herself into her office.

  She was, however, met with no wail of condolence from the genteel accents of Miss Delmege.

  Grace Jones, composedly solid and healthy-looking, said placidly: “Good-morning. I’m sorry to say that Miss Delmege is in bed with influenza.”

  “In bed!”

  “She had a very restless night and has a temperature this morning.”

  “She was all right yesterday.”

  “She had a sore throat, you know,” remarked Grace, “but she didn’t at all want to give in, and is very much distressed.”

  Char raised her heavy eyes.

  “You all seem to me to collapse like a pack of cards, one after another. I think my bed would prove a bed of thorns while there’s so much work to do, and so few people to do it. In fact, I can’t imagine wanting to go there.”

  She made an infinitesimal pause, shaken by one of those violent, involuntary, shivering fits. Miss Jones gazed at her chief.

  “I think I can manage Miss Delmege’s work,” she observed gently.

  “Oh, I shall have to go through most of it myself, of course,” was the ungrateful retort of the suffering Miss Vivian.

  The day appeared to her interminable. The air was damp and raw; and although Miss Jones piled coal upon the fire, it refused to blaze up, and only smouldered in a sullen heap, with a small curling column of yellow smoke at the top. A traction-engine ground and screamed and pounded its way up and down under the window, and each time it passed directly in front of the house the floor and walls of Char’s room shook slightly, with a vibration that made her feel sick and giddy.

  There were no interviews, but letters and telephone messages poured in incessantly, and at about twelve o’clock a telegram marked “Priority” was brought her. With a sinking sense of utter dismay, Char tore it open.

  “A rest-station for a troop-train at five o’clock this afternoon. Eight hundred. Miss Jones, please let the Commissariat Department know at once. The staff should be at the station by three. I’ll make out the list at once, and you can take it round the office.”

  By four o’clock a fine cold rain was falling, and Char’s voice had nearly gone.

  As she hurried down to her car, which was to take her to the station, she heard an incautiously raised voice: “She does look so ill! Of course it’s flu, and I should think this rest-station will just about finish her off.”

  “Not she! I do believe she’d stick it out if she were dying. No lunch today, either, only a cup of Bovril, which I simply had to force her to take.”

  Char recognized the voice of Miss Henderson, who had received her order for lunch in place of Miss Delmege, and had ventured to suggest the Bovril in tones of the utmost deference.

  She smiled slightly.

  The troop-train was late.

  “Of course!” muttered Char, pacing up and down the sheltered platform with the fur collar of her motoring coat turned up, and her hands deep in its wide pockets.

  In the waiting-rooms, given over to the workers for the time being, the staff was active.

  Sandwiches were cut, and heavy trays and urns carried out in readiness, while orderlies from the hospitals put up light trestle tables at intervals along the platform.

  Char paused, turned the handle of the waiting-room door, and stood for a moment on the threshold.

  Every one was talking. Trays piled with cut and stacked sandwiches were ranged all round the room; tin mugs, again on trays, stood in groups of twelve; and the final spoonfuls of sugar were being scooped from a tin biscuit-box into the waiting bowl on each tray. Even the cake was already cut, sliced up on innumerable plates.

  They had been working hard, and had more work to come, yet they all looked gay and amused, and were talking and laughing as though they did not know the meaning of fatigue. And Char was feeling so ill that she could hardly stand.

  Suddenly some one caught sight of her, there was a sort of murmur, “Miss Vivian!” and in one moment self-consciousness invaded the room. Those who were sitting down stood up, trying to look at ease; little Miss Anthony, who had been manipulating the bread-cutting machine with great success all the afternoon, at once cut her finger with it, and some one else suddenly dropped a mug with a reverberating clatter.

  “Miss Cox!”

  She sprang forward nervously.

  “Yes, Miss Vivian?”

  “How many sandwiches have you got ready?”

  “Sixteen hundred, Miss Vivian. That’ll be two for each man, and they’re very large.”

  “Cut another hundred, for reserve.”

  “Yes, Miss Vivian.”

  They began to work again, this time speaking almost in whispers.

  Char turned away.

  Her personalit
y, as usual, had had its effect.

  Nearly twenty minutes later the station-master came up to her on the platform.

  “She’ll be in directly now, Miss Vivian. Just signalled.”

  Char wheeled smartly back to the waiting-room and gave the word of command.

  Within five minutes the urns and trays were all in place on the tables, and each worker was at her appointed stand. Char had indicated beforehand, as she always did, the exact duties of each one.

  “That’s a smart bit of work,” the station-master remarked admiringly.

  “Ah, well, you see, I’ve been at the job some time now,” said Miss Vivian, pleased. She never pretended to look upon her staff as anything but a collection of pawns, to be placed or disposed of by a master hand.

  And it was part of that strength of personality that lay at the back of all her powers of organization, which had given the majority of her staff exactly the same impression as her own of their relative positions with regard to the Director of the Midland Supply Depôt.

  VIII

  Char moved up and down the length of the train.

  She never carried any of the laden trays herself, but she saw to it that no man missed his mug of steaming tea and supply of sandwiches and cake, and she exerted all the affability and charm of which she held the secret, in talking to the soldiers. The packets of cigarettes with which she was always laden added to her popularity, and when the train steamed slowly out of the station again the men raised a cheer.

  “Three cheers for Miss Vivian!”

  Her name had passed like lightning from one carriage to another.

  “Hooray-ay.”

  They hung out of the window, waving their caps, and Char stood at the end of the platform, heedless of the rain now pouring down on her, and waved until the train was out of sight.

  “Start washing up and packing the things at once.”

  “Yes, Miss Vivian.”

  The waiting-room was already seething and full of steam from the zinc pans of boiling water into which mugs and knives were being flung with deafening clatter.

  “Here, chuck me a dry cloth! Mine’s wringing.”

  “Oh, look out, dear! You’re splashing your uniform like anything.”

  “I’ve got such a lot of work waiting for me when I get back to the office.”

  “Poor fellows, they did look bad! Did you see one chap, quite a young fellow, too, with his poor leg and all....”

  Char turned away impatiently.

  Thank Heaven, there was nothing further for her to do at the station.

  The work at the office would be heavy enough, but at least she had not to stand amongst that noisy crew of workers round the big packing-cases and wash-tubs, each one screaming so as to make herself heard above the splashing water and clattered crockery.

  It did not occur to her, as the car took her swiftly back to the office, also to be thankful that neither had she to walk back, as they had, in the streaming rain and cold of the dark evening.

  She swallowed one of Miss Bruce’s quinine tablets with her hot tea, but was unable to eat anything, and sat over her letters with throbbing temples and a temperature that she felt to be rising rapidly. She pored over each simplest sentence again and again, unable to attach any meaning to the words dancing before her aching, swimming eyes.

  Soon after half-past six Grace Jones came back from the station, her pale face glowing from the wind and rain, unabated vigour in her movements.

  “Have you only just got back?”

  “I had some tea downstairs. I’ve been in about ten minutes.”

  Char raised her eyebrows with an expression that would have caused Miss Delmege ostentatiously to refrain from tea every day for a week, had it been directed towards herself.

  But Miss Jones only said tranquilly: “Is there anything that I can do for you?”

  “No. Yes. You can answer that telephone.”

  The bell had suddenly sounded, and Char felt no strength to exert the swollen, aching muscles of her throat.

  Grace took up the receiver.

  “They want to speak to you from Plessing.”

  Char checked an exclamation of impatience. If only Brucey wouldn’t fuss so! She might know by this time that it was of no use.

  “Please say that I can’t take a private call from here. Ask if it’s on business.”

  She waited impatiently.

  “It’s not on business — it’s important. Lady Vivian is speaking.”

  Char almost snatched the receiver.

  “What is it?” she asked curtly.

  “Is that you, Char?” came over the wires.

  “Miss Vivian speaking,” returned Char officially, for the benefit of Miss Jones.

  “Your father is ill. He has had a very slight stroke, and I want you to bring out Dr. Prince in the car.”

  “How bad is he? Have you had any one?”

  “Yes. Dr. Clark came up from the village, but he suggested sending for Dr. Prince at once. He is unconscious, of course, and there isn’t any immediate danger; he may get over it altogether, but — this is the first minute I’ve had — I am going back to him now. Come as soon as you can, Char, and bring the doctor. I can’t get him on the telephone, but you must get hold of him somehow.”

  “Yes — yes. Is there anything else?”

  “Nothing now, my dear. By great good luck John is here, and most helpful. He carried your father upstairs. Only don’t delay, will you?”

  “No. I’ll come at once. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Char replaced the receiver, feeling dazed.

  Involuntarily her first sensation was one of injury that any one should be more ill than she was herself, and able to excite so much stir.

  The next moment she regained possession of herself.

  “Miss Jones, ring up the garage and tell them to send my car round immediately. Sir Piers Vivian has been taken ill, and I am going out to Plessing at once. Tell them to hurry.”

  Grace obeyed, and Char began feverishly to make order amongst the pile of papers on her table.

  “I’m leaving a lot undone,” she muttered, “but I suppose I shall be here tomorrow morning. I must be.”

  Ten minutes later the car was at the door.

  “Miss Jones, see that all these go tonight,” Char rapidly instructed her secretary. “The letters I haven’t been able to sign must be held over till tomorrow. By the way, didn’t the — er — your Hostel Superintendent say that she wanted an appointment with me this evening?”

  “Mrs. Bullivant? Yes. She was coming at eight.”

  “Then, please tell her what’s happened, and say that I will arrange to see her some time tomorrow. That’s all, I think.”

  “I hope Sir Piers Vivian will be better by the time you get back.”

  “I hope so. Thank you. Good-night, Miss Jones.”

  Char hurried downstairs, hoping that the tone of her voice had put Miss Jones into her proper place again. She did not encourage personal amenities between herself and her staff.

  It was nearly nine o’clock before she got to Plessing. It had taken a long while to find Dr. Prince, and the chauffeur drove with maddening precautions through a thick wet mist along the sodden, slippery roads.

  “A broken leg or two would delay us worse,” said the doctor philosophically.

  He was a bearded, hard-working man, with a reputation that extended beyond the Midlands.

  After finding out from Char that she knew little or nothing of her father’s state of health, he asked her with a quick look: “And yourself, Miss Charmian? You look rather washed out.”

  Char gave a short, hoarse cough, semi-involuntary, at this unflattering description.

  “I’m afraid I’m in the midst of an influenza attack. My staff have all been down with it, more or less. However, I can’t afford to give way to that sort of thing now; there’s far too much work to be done.”

  “You ought to take six months’ holiday,” said the doctor deci
dedly, and relapsed into silence.

  Char wondered if he were meditating an appeal to her. It must outrage his professional instincts to see any one looking as she did still upon her feet. The doctor, however, who had been up since two o’clock that morning, was merely trying to snatch some sleep.

  He had known Char Vivian all her life, and had no thought whatever of wasting appeals upon her.

  At Plessing, Trevellyan met them in the hall.

  “Good-evening, Char,” he greeted her. “Sir Piers is much the same. Not conscious. Will you go up, doctor? They’ll have some dinner ready by the time you come down. I’m afraid you’ve had a cold drive.”

  “Freezing,” answered Char, with a violent shiver.

  “Better go to bed,” said the doctor, without looking at her, as he went upstairs.

  Char, still in her fur coat, hung over the fire.

  “Tell me what’s happened, Johnnie.”

  “Cousin Joanna says that he was very restless and low-spirited last night — talked about the war, you know, and this last air-raid. And when he came down this morning he suddenly turned giddy and fell across the hall sofa. Luckily it wasn’t on the floor. Cousin Joanna was with him, and they got him flat on the sofa, and sent for Clark. I got here about the same time as he did, by pure chance — came over for a day’s shooting, you know — and between us we carried him upstairs. By Jove! he’s no light weight for a man of his years, either.”

  “What does Dr. Clark think?”

  “That he’ll probably recover consciousness in a day or two. But even then — don’t be frightened, Char; it’s only what generally happens in these cases — his — his words probably won’t come quite right, you know. He may speak, but not quite normally.”

  Char smiled a little at her cousin’s look of anxious solicitude for the effect of his surmises upon her.

  “I’m not without hospital experience, you know,” she said gently. “It’s the left side of the brain, then? Is his right side paralyzed?”

  “I’m afraid so — arm and hand, you know. We shall see what Prince says.”

  There was a pause, and Char said hoarsely: “I wonder if I ought to go up?”