Miss Jones’s damaging revelation horrified the Hostel, no less than the crude manner of its avowal.
“Well,” said Miss Henderson, “you really are the limit, Gracie — and a bit over.”
“Poor child!” said Mrs. Bullivant kindly. “How dreadful for you! Miss Vivian’s cousin and all, too! But, still, it was better than an absolute stranger, perhaps.”
“I don’t see how you’re ever going to face him again, though — really I don’t,” giggled Tony.
“Poor man! so awful for him, too,” minced Miss Delmege. “He must have been too uncomfortable for words.”
“Not he,” Miss Marsh told her with sudden defiance. “He brought poor Gracie home, and delighted to have the chance. Come on, Gracie, let’s go to bed. You look done for.”
She had grown very fond of her room-mate, in spite of all that she regretfully looked upon as an absence of propriety in her conduct; and when they were outside the sitting-room door, she said, without troubling to lower her voice: “Don’t you mind their nonsense, dear. You couldn’t help it, and that Delmege has only got the pip because she hadn’t the chance of being brought home by Miss Vivian’s cousin herself.”
And when they got upstairs she “turned down” Gracie’s bed for her, and put her kettle on to the gas-ring, and brought her an extra hot-water bottle.
“There! Good-night, dear, and don’t you worry. I think it was splendid of you to tell the truth. Lots of girls would have fibbed, and said they’d fainted, or something highfaluting of that nature. I should myself.”
“Thank you so much. You are nice to me,” said Grace warmly. She did not look upon the affair herself as being more than a merely unfortunate incident, but she knew that Miss Marsh regarded it as an overwhelming scandal, and was proffering consolation accordingly.
Miss Marsh bent over the bed and tucked her in. “I’ll turn out the gas, and you must go straight to sleep. It’s frightfully late. And look here, Gracie, when we’re alone together up here, I’d like you to call me Dora, if you will. It’s my name, you know.”
X
“That settles it,” said Char. “If this sort of thing is going to happen, I must be there. With no definite organization, there might be a panic next time an air-raid takes place. According to Mrs. Willoughby, every one made a dash for the basement, as it was. Women are such fools when one leaves them to themselves!”
It was part of Char’s policy always to disparage her own sex. It threw into greater relief the contrast which she knew to exist between herself and the majority of women-workers.
She was speaking to Miss Bruce, but, rather to her annoyance, Lady Vivian came into the room in time to overhear her.
“Surely the basement was the most sensible place to dash for?” she inquired, never able to resist an opportunity of attacking her offspring’s arrogantly expressed opinions. “As for your being there, in my opinion, it’s a very good thing you weren’t. You’d only have drilled the poor things out of their senses, which would have taken up more valuable space in the basement.”
“I should not have been in the basement,” returned Char superbly.
“Then you might have been blown into bits, my dear, unless, as Director of the Midland Supply Depôt, all enemy aircraft has orders to respect your person?”
Joanna was jeering quite good-humouredly, as she generally did, and even Miss Bruce saw some exaggeration in the white, tense silence with which Char received these indifferent pleasantries.
“I hear the car,” said the secretary, anxious to create a diversion.
“Miss Jones. Mother, I’m going through the work with her in here this morning. There’s no fire in the morning-room.”
“Very well, Char. You won’t disturb me in the least.”
“I thought you were going to sit with father.”
“Not yet. Besides, I want to see Miss Jones.”
Char sighed patiently. At Plessing only the faithful Miss Bruce gave her work that consideration to which she had become accustomed at the office. She was finding Plessing almost intolerable. There were no interviews, the telephone-bell was not allowed to ring, no one urged her not to neglect the substantial meals which were served for her with the greatest regularity, and Miss Jones daily assured her, with perfect placidity, that the whole work at the office was progressing with complete success without her.
The Director of the Midland Supply Depôt was completely shorn of her glory.
And what was she doing, Char indignantly asked herself, while the organization which she had practically made was thus abandoned to its own resources?
Nothing.
She paid a purely perfunctory visit, morning and evening, to Sir Piers, who hardly ever heard what she said to him, and had the rest of the day at her own disposal. She had no share in the work of nursing, which was divided between Lady Vivian and the professional nurse who had come from London, and when she rather indignantly demanded of Dr. Prince whether he did not think that he had better utilize her hospital experience at Plessing, the doctor merely replied dryly: “Hospital experience, as you call it, acquired on paper only, won’t help you much here, or anybody else either. Nurse Williams can do all that’s necessary, and Sir Piers doesn’t want any one but Lady Vivian when he’s awake.”
“That’s perfectly true,” said Char sharply, “and that’s why I can’t help thinking it’s rather waste of time for an able-bodied woman with a certain amount of brains to remain here unoccupied when there is so much to be done elsewhere.”
“You can take your mother for a walk every day. She is wise enough to take an hour’s exercise every afternoon, and Miss Bruce can’t be much of a companion. Besides,” maliciously added the doctor, who had suffered considerably under the Central Depôt’s arbitrary interference with his Hospital work, “it’ll do you a lot of good to keep quiet for six months or so. You’ve been suffering from overstrain, whether you know it or not, and your work will be all the better for some relaxation. I assure you, we haven’t had a wrong enclosure sent us from the office since you left.”
Dr. Prince walked off very triumphantly after this parting gibe.
“Serve her right!” he thought to himself. “Conceited monkey! Perhaps I shall get station transport for my cases properly put through now, without her interference. Hospital experience, indeed!”
“Of course,” said Char to Miss Bruce, “a country doctor is naturally jealous of the R.A.M.C. men who’ve come to the fore. He’s never forgiven me for getting his Hospital run on a proper military basis.”
“I’m sure he really admires your splendid work, dear, as anybody must, but he’s known you ever since you were tiny, so I suppose he allows himself a certain amount of freedom.”
Char supposed so too, sombrely enough, and prepared herself to extract from Miss Jones an account of panic at the Canteen on the occasion of the air-raid which should justify her in returning to her post, even in the eyes of Dr. Prince.
Needless to say, Miss Jones was unsatisfactory.
“Oh no; there wasn’t any sort of panic at all. Captain Trevellyan was there, and asked us to go to the basement, and we just went.”
“John tells me that they were perfectly splendid, all of them, and that you set the first example,” said Joanna cordially.
“The whole thing didn’t last ten minutes,” Grace told them. “We heard all the noise, but didn’t see anything. The men did, of course. They saw the Zeppelin come down in the far distance. But by the time we came out there was nothing. It was all over.”
“What a shame!” exclaimed Joanna.
“I must institute a proper drill for air-raid alarms,” said Char, unsmiling. “That sort of haphazard sauve qui peut is most unofficial. I shall see about it directly I get back.”
Joanna put up her lorgnon and looked at her daughter.
She did not speak, but something in her expression made Char exclaim very decisively: “I can’t desert my post at a time like this. Everybody must see that unless I had any extrem
ely definite call elsewhere, my place is at the Depôt. The work is suffering horribly from this piecemeal fashion of doing things.”
She indicated Grace and her sheaf of bulging envelopes with a gesture of condemnation.
Lady Vivian glanced from her daughter’s set face to Grace Jones, whose eyes were cast down. Then she left the room without speaking.
Char looked at her secretary, and said, very slowly and stiffly: “I shall probably be back at the office tomorrow or Monday, Miss Jones. You may tell the staff. Sir Piers’s condition is not likely to alter at present, and, in any case, the work comes before any personal considerations at a time like this.”
There was silence.
“Miss Jones!” said Char sharply.
Miss Jones lifted her great grey eyes and looked straight at the Director of the Midland Supply Depôt.
She was not at all an eloquent person, but perceptions much less acute than those of Char Vivian could have felt the intense, almost violent hostility with which the atmosphere vibrated.
Then Grace dropped her eyes and said gently and coldly, in a tone as remote as it was impersonal: “Yes, Miss Vivian.”
The encounter had been a wordless one, and, indeed, Char knew that she would never have allowed it to become anything else. The relative positions of the Director of the Midland Supply Depôt and one of her staff were far too clearly defined in her mind for that. But it left in her a sort of cold, still anger, as well as an invincible determination.
That night Trevellyan dined at Plessing.
Lady Vivian did not come downstairs until dinner was over and they were in the drawing-room. Then she took out some needlework. Sir Piers had always liked to see her pretty hands working at what he generically called “embroidery.”
She sat down under the big standard lamp.
Disquiet was in the air, and Char knew that only the unperceptive Trevellyan was unaware of an impending crisis. Miss Bruce fidgeted with the fire-irons, dropped them, and apologized. As though a spell had been broken, Joanna looked up and spoke.
“Char, I don’t know if you realize that there can be no question of your returning to the office tomorrow — or at all, for the present.”
The attack had opened.
Char was glad of it, although a flare of resentment passed through her mind that her mother should have sought a cowardly protection from a possible scene in the presence of John Trevellyan.
“Why not?” she added quietly. “My father is no worse?”
“He is exactly the same. But I am not going to risk any shock or vexation to him. He asked me this afternoon if you were at home, and was glad when I said yes. You know he never liked your doing this excessive amount of work.”
“He never forbade it.”
“He is not likely to forbid it. When has he ever forbidden you anything? But he thinks that your place now is at home — which it very obviously is.”
“To do what?” asked Char, with rising bitterness, which she did not try to keep out of her voice. “Does he ever ask for me? Am I of the slightest use?”
“He sees you every day, and he might ask for you at any time. He wishes you to remain at home for the present.”
“It’s not fair, it’s not reasonable. I do nothing here. I am of no use. It’s not as though he really wanted me. It’s simply because you — and he — won’t be reminded of the war — of the ghastly horrors going on all round us — won’t think of the war, or let it be mentioned. You want to shirk it all—”
“Don’t, Char!” said John suddenly. “Don’t say things you’ll be sorry for afterwards.”
“No. I shall not be sorry for speaking the truth. You know it’s true, Johnnie.”
“True!” said Joanna. “What if it is true? Do you suppose that if I can give him one little hour’s comfort by ignoring the war, and keeping every thought of it away from him, I wouldn’t do so at any cost? The war isn’t your responsibility or mine — your father is.”
She rose, and paced rapidly up and down the length of the room. Char had never seen her mother give way to such impetuous agitation before. She eyed her coldly, but strove to speak gently.
“Mother, if it was anything else I’d give in. But I am doing work in Questerham — real, absolutely necessary work — and here — why, I’m not even justifying my existence.”
“You’re working here. You do a lot every day, going through all those letters and things with Miss Jones,” Trevellyan pointed out.
Joanna threw him a quick glance of gratitude.
“Work here, Char, as much as you like,” she exclaimed eagerly. “You can have any one you please out here — so long as they don’t make a noise,” she added hastily.
The expression was infelicitous.
“You talk as though I were a child, and wanted to have other children out here to play with me. Good heavens, mother I do you realize that my work is for the nation, neither more nor less?”
“If I don’t, it’s not for want of being told,” said her mother with sudden dryness.
“It’s easy to say that sort of thing, to accuse me of self-complacency in the tiny little part I contribute to an enormous whole.”
“It’s not that, Char!” cried Joanna hastily. “I don’t care if you have megalomania in its acutest form” — Miss Bruce bounded irrepressibly on her chair— “but I will not have your father distressed. That’s my one and only concern. Johnnie, help me to make her understand.”
“I do understand, mother,” said Char. “You would sacrifice everything to the personal question — women always do. But I can’t see it like that. The broader issue lies there, under my very eyes, and I can’t shirk it.”
“Johnnie!” said Joanna despairingly. “Tell her that she’s blinding herself.”
“Can’t you give it up, Char?” he asked her gently. “You can do work here, you know, and let some one else carry on at Questerham.”
“Yes, yes, a deputy. Some one who’ll be under your orders,” breathed Miss Bruce eagerly.
She cordially wished her contribution to the discussion unuttered, however, when it evoked from Johnnie the inspired suggestion: “Miss Jones! Make her your deputy, Char, and the whole thing will go like a house on fire.”
Joanna, still pacing the room, gave a quick, short laugh, which made Trevellyan look at her in wondering surprise, and Char in sudden anger.
“May I suggest—” Miss Bruce began timidly, and paused.
“Anything!” said Joanna brusquely.
“Couldn’t Dr. Prince tell us whether there is any reason — anything to fear — any danger,” faltered Miss Bruce, becoming terribly involved.
Trevellyan came to her rescue.
“You mean whether there is likely to be any immediate change, for worse or for better, in Sir Piers’s condition?”
“Of course I couldn’t go if my father was in immediate danger,” quoth Char impatiently. “But he’s not. We’ve already been told so. He may go on in this state for months and months. And at the end of a telephone! Why, I could be sent for and be back here within an hour.”
“I’m not discussing the question from that point of view at all,” Joanna told her. “The point is not that you should be at hand in case of any crisis, but simply that he should not be vexed. Your insensate hours of work at the Depôt vex him.”
The words sounded oddly trivial, but no one doubted that Joanna was angry, angrier than they had, any of them, ever seen her.
“Look here, Cousin Joanna, can’t we settle this later on? There can be no need to arrange it tonight,” said John. “Suppose we let the Doctor give the casting vote, as Miss Bruce suggested?”
He felt pretty sure that no vote of Dr. Prince’s would ever be exercised in favour of Char’s immediate return to the Midland Supply Depôt.
“Dr. Prince is coming here tonight,” said Lady Vivian. “He ought to be here any minute now, if it’s after nine.”
“Ten past,” said Miss Bruce, glancing at the clock.
“
Neither he nor any one else can convince me that I ought to remain in idleness when every worker in England is needed,” said Char.
“My dear Char, you can’t run any risks with Sir Piers in his present condition,” said John unexpectedly. “That’s what we want Dr. Prince to tell us — whether there is any danger to him if you persist in going against his wishes.”
Something of condemnation, such as Char had never yet heard in her easy-going cousin’s voice, silenced her. She felt bitterly that every one was against her, no one understood.
Then Miss Bruce’s hand came out timidly and patted her on the shoulder. Dear old Brucey! Char recognized her fidelity in a sudden spasm of most unwonted gratitude. Brucey at least knew that a real struggle was in progress between Char’s sense of patriotism and the pain that it naturally gave her to resist the wishes of the parents whose point of view she could not share.
For the first time since she was a child, Char felt moved to one of her rare demonstrations of affection towards the faithful Miss Bruce. She smiled at her, pain and gratitude mingling in her gaze, and let her hand lie for a moment on the little secretary’s.
Trevellyan leant against the chimney-piece, his hands in his pockets, and looked at Joanna with inarticulate, uncomprehending loyalty and admiration in his gaze.
She was pacing up and down the long room with a sort of restrained impatience, the folds of her black dress sweeping round her tall figure as she moved. In the silence, broken only by the rustling of Joanna’s gown, the approach of Dr. Prince’s small, old-fashioned motor-car was plainly audible.
Miss Bruce gave one timid look at Lady Vivian, then got up and went to the door.
They heard her speak to the servant in the hall, and then she came back again and took up her place close to Char.
“Did you ask him to come in here?”
“Yes, Lady Vivian. At least, I told them to show him in here.”
Joanna resumed her restless pacing.
Then the drawing-room door opened and closed again upon the doctor, entering with the stooping gait of a hard-worked, tired man at the end of the day.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 44