Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Good-evening, Dr. Prince,” said Joanna abruptly. “Will you give us the benefit of your advice?”

  “On whose account?” demanded the doctor, glancing sharply from one to another of the group.

  “It’s just this,” said Char’s cool, incisive tones. “My mother wishes to persuade me that my father is not in a fit state for me to take up my work at Questerham again. That I ought to remain here, doing practically nothing, while there’s work crying out to be done.”

  “Sir Piers is in no immediate danger,” said the doctor slowly. “In fact, there is every reason to hope that he is getting better. Otherwise, I suppose, you would hardly contemplate leaving home.”

  “But she’s not suggesting leaving home!” cried Miss Bruce. “It’s only a case of going backwards and forwards every day.”

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Lady Vivian.

  “Sir Piers doesn’t wish it,” said Joanna curtly. “Surely that’s reason enough. It distressed him very much, even before he was ill, that she should go and do this office work.”

  “I see. Yes. The ideas of the present day are not very easily assimilated by our generation,” said the doctor gently.

  He had often thought himself that Miss Vivian of Plessing had better have worked with her needle or amongst the poor, as had done the great ladies of his own generation, instead of in a Questerham office. But he had also been rather ashamed of his thoughts, and would not for the world have had them guessed by his pushing, good-natured wife, who was proud to let her two daughters help at the Depôt.

  “We live in abnormal times,” Char said. “I’m not doing the work for my own pleasure, but because the need for workers is desperate. I can do the job I’ve undertaken, and so far as I can see, there is no adequate reason, unless my father gets very much worse, for me to desert it.”

  “It’s not,” said Miss Bruce judicially, “as though any one could take her place at the Depôt.”

  “For the matter of that,” Trevellyan remarked, with unexpected logic, “it’s not as though any one could take her place here.”

  “But that’s just it!” cried Char. “I don’t do anything at all here. Dr. Prince, you know perfectly well that I don’t; we spoke of it the other day. Can you conscientiously tell me that my absence during the day is going to make the slightest difference to my father’s case?”

  “No. Speaking professionally, I can’t,” said the doctor.

  Joanna stopped in her walking and looked at him, but it was evident that the doctor had not finished. He cleared his throat and faced Char.

  “But if you’re trying, which you obviously are, to bamboozle me into justifying you in taking your own way, Miss Charmian, then I’ll tell you something else. It’s not the work you want to get back to, young lady; it’s the excitement, and the official position, and the right it gives you to interfere with people who knew how to run a hospital and everything connected with it some twenty years or so before you came into the world. That’s what you want. I can’t tell you, as a matter of medical opinion, that it will bring on a second stroke, if you vex and disappoint your good father by monkeying about in a becoming uniform and a bit of gold braid on an office stool while he desires you to stay at home; but I can and I do tell you that you’re playing as heartless a trick as any I ever saw, making patriotism the excuse for bullying a lot of women who work themselves to death for you because you’re of a better class, and have more personality than themselves, and pretending to yourself that it’s the work you’re after, when it’s just because you want to get somewhere where you’ll be in the limelight all the time.”

  There was perfect silence, while the doctor took out a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  At last Joanna said dryly: “Well, I don’t know that I should have said it myself, but upon my word, Char, I believe you’ve got the case in a nutshell.”

  “No!” cried Miss Bruce. “It’s unjust!”

  Char looked at her, white and smiling.

  “Yes, it’s unjust enough,” she said slowly. “But, as my mother has just implied, it is her own opinion, apparently, as well as Dr. Prince’s.”

  “No! no!” cried Joanna quickly, moving towards her daughter. “Not altogether, Char. Only I can’t have your father vexed — indeed, I can’t.”

  “You are making it very hard for me. But my choice is made. I cannot, and will not, let a personal consideration come before the work.”

  “You mean to go back?”

  “On Monday — the day after tomorrow.”

  For a moment Char looked at them, superbly alone. Then she moved towards the door. Miss Bruce, looking half frightened and half admiring, crept after her, and Joanna made a sudden movement that caused Trevellyan to put out his hand towards her.

  “No, I’m not going to touch her. But if you go, Char, you’ll stay in Questerham. I won’t have you coming back and disturbing the house and waking him at all hours. I won’t have you here at all, unless he asks for you.”

  Char made a gesture of acquiescence, and went without a word from the room.

  “Oh!” cried Joanna, her blue eyes dark and her voice shaking, but unconquerably colloquial in the midst of her pain and anger. “Oh, why in Heaven’s name didn’t I whip Char when she was younger?”

  XI

  “Enter Edith Elizabeth Plumtree, restored to health and happiness. Loud cheers from the spectators.”

  “Hurrah! How nice to see you back, dear! You look a different girl.”

  “I feel it,” declared Miss Plumtree, exchanging vigorous handshakes with everybody.

  “What with her being in plain clothes, and having gone up about a stone in weight,” said Tony, “I simply didn’t know her at the station. Gracie and I tore down on our bicycles to meet her, and thought of commandeering two orderlies and a stretcher to bring her up from the station. Instead of which she’s so much stronger than we are that she pushed both bikes up the hill without turning a hair, while Gracie and I panted in the rear!”

  “Doesn’t she look well?” cried Grace. “I’ve never seen her look so well — and isn’t it becoming?”

  Everybody laughed. Personal remarks of any but a markedly facetious order were known by the Hostel to be indelicate; but it was generally conceded that Gracie Jones was so nice it didn’t matter what she said, since she probably couldn’t help being unlike other people.

  Miss Delmege eyed Miss Plumtree’s fair round face and plump figure with approval.

  “I like that costume,” she observed critically. “New, isn’t it, dear?”

  “No, dyed. It’s my last year’s grey.”

  “You don’t mean to say it’s turned that sweet saxe? Well, you have done well with it! I must commence seeing about my own winter costume, I suppose. I’d been thinking of mole or nigger.”

  Miss Delmege possessed an almost technical vocabulary of descriptive adjectives which she applied prodigally and exclusively to matters of wardrobe.

  She proceeded to elaborate her favourite theme, although unable to command a better audience than Grace, since every one else immediately became more absorbed than ever in Miss Plumtree.

  “Of course, blue’s my colour, you know, being fair. Not sky, I don’t mean, but royal or navy. But, then, one sees so many of those shades about, and I do like something distinctive.”

  “You should get some patterns.”

  “I have done already. You must help me to choose, Gracie. There’s a shade of elephant that I rather liked; it would look nice with my cream blouse, I thought.”

  “Yes, very,” Grace agreed cordially, and perhaps not without a hope that this would now close the discussion.

  “Then there’s the style.” Miss Delmege pursued her reflective way. “I thought of a pleat down the centre, being tall, you see; I always think one must be tall to carry things off. Unless, of course,” she added hastily, “one has a really perfect figure, like Miss Vivian.”

  Miss Plumtree turned round.

&nbs
p; “How is Miss Vivian? Didn’t some one tell me she was back at the office? I suppose her father’s better.”

  “Very much the same,” Miss Delmege told her sadly. “Of course, it’s perfectly wonderful of her to—”

  “Oh,” said Miss Marsh maliciously, “if you want news about Plessing, Greengage, you must ask Gracie. She’s been out there every day in the car, so as to go through the letters with Miss Vivian.”

  “I say! Really?”

  “Yes, rather. She had lunch with Miss Vivian’s mother nearly every day.”

  “I rather envied her the motor ride,” said Miss Delmege languidly, with the implication that no other consideration could have moved her to jealousy for a moment. “But, as a matter of fact, I couldn’t manage to go myself — laid up with this wretched flu, you know. I simply wasn’t fit to stir. Of course, Miss Vivian knew that; she was awfully sweet about it. But, then, I always say, the attractive thing about her is that she’s so desperately human, when once you get to know her.”

  “And is she back at the office?” inquired Miss Plumtree, turning a deaf ear to these descriptive touches.

  “Comes back tomorrow morning, Monday. Some one from Plessing rang up yesterday afternoon when I was on telephone duty and said so.”

  “That would be Lady Vivian’s secretary, Miss Bruce.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Delmege reflectively. “She’s been with them for years, and is perfectly devoted to Miss Vivian. She’s too sweet about her — Miss Vivian, I mean. I’ve heard her telephoning sometimes; she calls her Brucey.”

  “Frightfully human!” was Tony’s enthusiastic comment.

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  A moment’s thoughtful silence was consecrated to the consideration of Miss Vivian’s humanity, and then Miss Plumtree was escorted upstairs to take off her hat.

  “Really, that girl looks a different creature!” Mrs. Potter exclaimed.

  “Doesn’t she? She ought to be most awfully grateful to Miss Vivian. You know Miss Vivian arranged the whole thing? With all she’s got to think of, too! But that’s Miss Vivian all over. Never lets slip a chance of doing a kindness. I’ve seen her go out of her way....”

  But Miss Delmege’s anecdote was not fated to meet with attention.

  Mrs. Bullivant walked into the sitting-room looking awestruck.

  “Girls, who do you think is coming to sleep here tomorrow night?”

  “There isn’t room for any one else, is there?” mildly inquired Mrs. Potter, who slept in a bedroom which contained four beds.

  “We shall have to manage somehow. I’ve just had a note — Miss Vivian is coming here.”

  “She isn’t!”

  There was a chorus of astonishment; then Miss Delmege’s attenuated little tones contrived, as usual, to make themselves audible: “Well, I’m not altogether surprised, do you know? I’d rather suspected something of the kind. Plessing has to be kept quiet on account of Sir Piers; and she’s been ill herself, and isn’t fit to come backwards and forwards in this cold. I thought something of the kind would be arranged, and I had a very shrewd suspicion as to what it would be.”

  It need not be added that nobody made the faintest pretence of believing in this prescience.

  “Well, I’m blessed!” said Miss Henderson emphatically. “Where is she going to sleep? There isn’t a single room in the house, is there?”

  “She must have my room,” said Mrs. Bullivant simply. “I think I can make it nice and bright for her before tomorrow night. It’ll just need fresh curtains and a bit of carpet or two, and I thought you’d let me have the looking-glass out of your room, Miss Jones dear. Mine is such a cracked old thing.”

  “Yes, of course. But where are you going to sleep yourself, Mrs. Bullivant?”

  “That’s another thing, dear. Your room is absolutely the only one where there’s an inch of space for a spare bed. Would you and Miss Marsh mind very much...?”

  “No,” said Miss Marsh emphatically, “of course not. But wouldn’t it be more comfortable for you to have a bed in your own sitting-room? There’d just be room behind the door, I think.”

  “Ah, yes, dear; but, then, I must have somewhere for Miss Vivian’s meals. I can’t send her down to the basement for supper very well, can I?”

  “Hardly!” exclaimed Miss Delmege, with a slight, superior laugh at so outrageous a suggestion.

  “I’m sure I hope she’ll be fairly comfortable. It’s only for a few nights, till she’s made other arrangements.”

  “I can tell you one thing,” Miss Delmege remarked authoritatively. “The one thing Miss Vivian hates is a fuss. I happen to know that. She’ll simply want everything to go on as usual, and to be let alone.”

  “That’s all very well, but it’s easier said than done!” even the gentle Mrs. Bullivant was constrained to exclaim. “It’ll mean an upset for the whole house, with extra meals and everything. I mean, dear, one really can’t help seeing that it will. I don’t know what cook and Mrs. Smith will say, I’m sure.”

  “Considering that it’s Miss Vivian who pays them their wages, they won’t say much, unless they want to be dismissed,” Miss Delmege retorted.

  Mrs. Bullivant went away looking very much harassed.

  “Do let’s help her to turn out of her rooms!” exclaimed Grace. “It’ll be much easier for her to do it tonight, with us to help her, than tomorrow, when she’s sure to be busy all day.”

  “Good egg! Come on, girls!” cried Tony.

  Miss Marsh and Miss Plumtree responded to the summons. They helped Mrs. Bullivant to take her crumpled blouses and limp black skirts from behind the torn curtain where they were huddled against the wall; and Grace mended the curtain while Tony and Miss Plumtree put away the clothes in a big cardboard dress-box, where Mrs. Bullivant said they would do very well for the time being.

  “What about that stain on the wall where the damp came through so badly?” Miss Marsh asked doubtfully.

  “Pin up a copy of an Army Council Instruction as a delicate attention. Then she can learn it by heart while she gets up in the morning,” was Tony’s facetious suggestion.

  “Put up a map of the Midlands, with a red-ink line round every affiliated depôt.”

  “Don’t be silly, girls! You’re so foolish I can’t help laughing at you,” declared Mrs. Bullivant. “No; but I think we might put up a picture or something. Now, I wonder what we’ve got.”

  “There are Kitchener and Lord Roberts in the sitting-room,” suggested Miss Marsh. “I’ll fetch them up.”

  She ran down, and came back triumphantly with the large framed photogravures. It was found that Lord Roberts would successfully mask the stain on the wall, and Miss Plumtree and Mrs. Bullivant made themselves very dusty by clambering on to chairs and affixing a nail, hammered in with the heel of Miss Plumtree’s shoe, from which the picture was finally suspended.

  “It looks quite nice and bright, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Bullivant asked them. “Not like Plessing, perhaps — but, then, Miss Vivian won’t expect that. Now, is there anything else up here?”

  “We might put in a kettle,” Grace said. “I’m sure she won’t have one of her own.” So Grace’s own kettle, which was a pretty little brass one, was left upon the washing-stand, and Miss Marsh said that Gracie and she would share hers. They went downstairs congratulating one another upon their forethought, and upon the renovated appearance of the tiny bedroom.

  Just before supper Miss Delmege, coming upstairs with a graceful, bending gait indicative of still recent convalescence, encountered Grace.

  “You’ve made the rooms look quite sweet, dear, and Miss Vivian is sure to appreciate it. She’s one of those people who always notices little things.”

  Grace was tired, and had run up and down stairs a number of times, for the most part with her hands and arms full.

  “I wanted to help Mrs. Bullivant, that was all,” she said curtly.

  “There’s no call to get annoyed, dear!” exclaimed Miss Delmege, amazed.


  Grace looked up penitently.

  “I know there isn’t. I don’t know why I sounded so cross. I think perhaps I’m a little tired of the sound of Miss Vivian’s name, that’s all.”

  “Well! Of all the peculiar things to say! Upon my word, dear,” said Miss Delmege scathingly, “if I didn’t know you so intimately, I should sometimes consider your manner downright strange!”

  This conviction remained with Miss Delmege. She went into the sitting-room to await the supper-bell, which Mrs. Bullivant generally rang some quarter of an hour after the appointed time, and remarked in a detached voice: “Poor Grace Jones seems rather upset tonight. What I should almost call sort of on edge. I suppose she doesn’t like the idea of having to go back to the ordinary office routine tomorrow, after going in and out from Plessing in the way she has done.”

  “I didn’t notice anything wrong with her, I must say!” exclaimed Miss Marsh, who was both fond of Grace and anxious to miss no opportunity for contradicting Miss Delmege.

  “No, dear? Well, perhaps you wouldn’t. There’s none so blind as those that won’t see, and we all know that love is blind,” was the gentle response of Miss Delmege, as she sank into the chair nearest the fire.

  Miss Marsh could think of no better retort than “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that, Delmege, and I shouldn’t think you did yourself, either.”

  “There’s the bell,” said Tony.

  They trooped down to the basement, and every one said how nice it was to see old Plumtree back in her place again, and Mrs. Bullivant triumphantly announced that there would be sausages, because Miss Plumtree liked them, to celebrate her return.

  “Not two for me, really, please,” Miss Delmege protested elegantly, and manipulated the extreme ends of her knife and fork with the merest tips of her exclusively curved fingers, as a protest against the great enthusiasm displayed by several of her neighbours.

  On the same principle, when the sausages were followed by a loaf of bread and a pot of marmalade, Miss Delmege cut up her bread into small, accurately shaped dice, and said, “Pass the preserve if you will, please, dear,” between two very small sips at her cup of cocoa. She sat at the foot of the table, and the chairs on either side of her generally remained vacant. Grace came down late, and apologized. One might be, and almost inevitably was, late on week-days, owing to the exigencies of the office, but Sunday supper was something of a ritual.