Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Idiots!” ejaculated Miss Vivian to herself as she went to her own room. She heard voices and laughter break out again as she went up the stairs.

  Obviously it was not possible to attempt any unofficial footing with her staff, even had she herself desired such a thing. To them she was Miss Vivian, a being in supreme authority, in whose presence naturalness became impossible and utterly undesirable.

  John knew nothing about it.

  On this summing up, Char went to bed.

  Twice she heard conversations on the stairs, in which the astounding fact that “Miss Vivian came into the sitting room, and there was Plumtree with her hair down, actually down, my dear,” was repeated, and received with incredulous ejaculations or commiserating giggles. Finally, the workers from the Canteen came in, groped their way up in the dark, and were met on the landing by the hissing, sibilant whisper peculiar to Miss Delmege.

  “H’sh, girls! Don’t make a noise. Miss Vivian has practically told me that she can hear you in the bathroom every night. It really is too bad, you know, when she simply needs every minute’s rest she can get.”

  “Well, so do we. Let me get past, dear.” Miss Marsh’s tones spoke eloquently of the tartness induced by fatigue.

  “Must you go to the bathroom tonight?”

  “Of course we must. What an idea! How am I to get my kettle boiled? I’m simply pining for a cup of tea; the work was awful tonight.”

  “Was Miss Vivian at the Canteen?”

  “Just for a bit; talking to that cousin of hers — the Staff Officer one, you know.”

  “I know. She came into the sitting-room when she got in, and what do you think? Plumtree had been washing her hair, and it was all down her back!”

  “Gracious! And Miss Vivian came in?”

  “Came in, and there was Plumtree with her hair down her back!”

  “What did she do?”

  “Nothing. There was nothing to do, you know; there she simply was, with her hair actually down her back!”

  “I say, Gracie, do you hear that? Plumtree really has no luck. Miss Vivian came into the sitting-room tonight just when she’d been washing her hair, and had it actually down her back.”

  Char listened rather curiously to hear how Miss Jones would receive this climax. Her voice came distinctly, with a little amusement in it, and the usual quality of sympathetic interest which she apparently always accorded to any one’s crisis.

  “Well, I hope she didn’t mind. She has such pretty hair.”

  “That’s hardly the point, is it?” said Miss Delmege reprovingly. “It looked rather funny, after all, for Miss Vivian coming in like that, to see her with her hair absolutely down her back.”

  “Even if it was funny,” said Grace literally, “I dare say Miss Vivian didn’t notice it. I never think she has much sense of humour. Good-night.”

  XIV

  “Good-morning, Miss Vivian.”

  “Good-morning, Miss Collins. Please take a letter to—”

  The stenographer giggled and tossed her red head: “Mrs. Baker-Bridges, if you please!”

  Char looked at her typist blankly for an instant, and then recovered herself, unsmiling.

  “Yes. This letter is to the Town Hall Hospital, and I wish you’d remember, Miss Collins, to—”

  “I haven’t got used to it meself yet,” Mrs. Baker-Bridges said coyly. “A double name, too, so I suppose it’s harder to remember.”

  “Will you make me three copies of this, please?”

  “Yes, Miss Vivian.”

  Char dictated her letter very briskly, and avoided the use of her stenographer’s name, not wishing to submit to further correction. It did not add to her complacency, during the busy days before Christmas, when her instructions were received with an affronted giggle and “Mrs. Baker-Bridges, please, Miss Vivian!”

  Char was in rooms now, with the devoted Preston in attendance and occasional visits from Miss Bruce. She was working very hard, and the Christmas festivities indulged in by the Questerham Hospitals frequently required her presence as guest of honour.

  Char still retained a vivid recollection of finding herself next to Dr. Prince on one of these occasions, both of them required to join in a rousing chorus of which the refrain was

  “All jolly comrades we!”

  And the look which the doctor, singing lustily, had turned upon her, held a humorousness that Char felt no disposition to reflect in her own gaze. She was quite aware that neither of them had forgotten the doctor’s peroration delivered on the night of her decision to leave Plessing, and the recollection of it still, almost unconsciously, coloured all her official dealings with him.

  It was therefore with surprise that she received an announcement from Miss Jones one evening: “Dr. Prince is downstairs and wants to see you for a moment.”

  “At this hour? Quite impossible! It’s nearly seven, and I have innumerable letters to sign.”

  Grace hesitated, and then said, very gently: “I think he’s just come from Plessing.”

  Char glanced at her sharply.

  “Ask him to come up, then.”

  Sudden apprehension had taken possession of her, and increased at the sight of the doctor’s kind bearded face, with its lines of fatigue and anxiety.

  “What is it, Dr. Prince?”

  “Could you spare me a few moments?”

  “Certainly. Miss Jones, will you—”

  Char, glancing round, saw with a slight feeling of annoyance that Miss Jones had not waited to be dismissed. Char did not relish being perpetually disconcerted by the independence of her junior secretary.

  “A nice girl, that,” said the doctor benevolently.

  Char looked utterly unresponsive, and supposed rather indignantly to herself that Dr. Prince had not come to the office at the end of a long day’s work merely in order to tell her that Miss Jones was a nice girl.

  Something of the supposition was so evident in her manner that the doctor added hastily: “But I mustn’t take up your time. Only I’ve just come from Plessing, and Lady Vivian asked me herself to come in here for a moment and — and tell you — ask you, you know — just suggest — only throw it out as a suggestion, since no doubt you’ve thought of it for yourself—”

  The doctor fell into a fine confusion, and looked imploringly at Char.

  “Is my father worse?”

  “No. I didn’t mean to frighten you, Miss Vivian; I’m so sorry. He’s not worse, though, as you know, he’s not gaining ground as we’d hoped, and of course he’s not getting any younger. But the fact is, that he’s set his heart on your being home for Christmas.”

  Char drew her brows together.

  “Of course, I can arrange to spend a couple of nights there if he wishes it. But my mother laid great emphasis on the fact that she did not wish there to be any going backwards and forwards between the office and Plessing, as you doubtless remember.”

  “My dear young lady, where Sir Piers’s wishes are concerned, she has no will but his. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “Of course,” said Char musingly, “he has old-fashioned ideas as to one’s spending Christmas at home.”

  “Yes,” said the doctor, “that’s it. That was our generation, though I’m twenty years younger than your father, Miss Vivian. But early Victorians I suppose you’d call us both. He can’t understand your not being at home, all together, for Christmas-time. We can’t disguise from ourselves that his mind is a little — a very little — clouded, and he doesn’t rightly understand your absence.”

  “I can’t go over that ground again,” Char told him frigidly. “I was in an exceedingly painful position, and had to choose between my home and what I conceived to be my duty. As you know, I put my country’s need before any personal question just now.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the doctor, obviously determined to stifle recollections of his Hospital in its pre-Vivian days. “I — I see your point, you know. But Sir Piers hears very little of the war nowadays, and I
don’t think he connects your absence with that now.”

  “What does he suppose, then?” Char asked sharply.

  “Miss Vivian, his mind is clouded. We can’t deny that his mind is clouded. I believe,” said the doctor pitifully, “that he just thinks you are away because Plessing is so dull and quiet. Lady Vivian promised him that you were coming back for Christmas, and it pleased him.”

  “It is most unjust to me that the facts have not been explained to him.”

  “But you remember,” the doctor reminded her gently, “that they were explained to him before he got ill. And he wanted you to stay at home, you know.”

  Char was silent.

  “Well,” said the doctor at length, “Lady Vivian suggested that I should drive you out on Christmas Eve. I shall be going to Plessing then — next Thursday.”

  “Thank you; but I’d better hire something if they can’t send the car from home. I may not get away till late. Troop-trains are pouring in, and there is a great deal to be done. There are the Hospital festivities to be considered.”

  The doctor repressed an inclination to say that he knew all about the Hospital festivities, and instead answered that he quite understood, but could arrange to call for Miss Vivian at any hour convenient to her.

  “I will let you know, if I may.”

  Char, nothing if not self-possessed, rose to her feet, and it became obvious that the interview was over.

  “Good-night, Dr. Prince.”

  The dismissed doctor hurried downstairs, muttering to himself, after his fashion when vexed and disconcerted.

  At the foot of the stairs he overtook Grace Jones with her hat and coat on. She looked up at him with her ready, pleased smile.

  “Good-night, doctor. I’m so glad you found Miss Vivian disengaged.”

  “Conceited monkey—” began Dr. Prince, almost automatically, then hastily recollected himself and said: “Yes, yes. Are you off duty now?”

  “Just. I’ve got to go down to the station and see about a case of anti-tetanic serum for one of the hospitals, which is due by the 7.50 train, but I can take it up there to-morrow. You know how precious it is, and we daren’t trust the orderlies with it since Coles had that smash.”

  “To be sure. Well, I’ll drive you down in my car to get it, if you like, and then I can take it up to the Hospital. I’ve got to go there again tonight.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  The doctor liked the pleased gratitude in Grace’s voice.

  “I want so much to know how Sir Piers Vivian is,” she said presently.

  The doctor shook his head.

  “A question of time, you know, when there’s been a stroke — at that age. He doesn’t rally very much, either. And the brain, Miss Jones, is clouded. We can’t deny that it’s clouded.”

  “Oh, poor Lady Vivian!”

  “She knows it as well as I do. Doesn’t let on, you know, but she’s never been deluded from the first. And there she is all day, in the room, you know, except just when he’s sleeping, reading to him, and talking quite cheerfully and trying to get him to take a pleasure in some little thing or other. I’ve never seen her break down, and we doctors see that sort of thing when other people don’t sometimes. But she’s been under a strain for a long while now — oh, before he got ill — and yet she carries on somehow. Ah, breeding is a wonderful thing, Miss Jones. There have been Vivians at Plessing for more generations than I can count, and she was a Trevellyan. They’re from these parts, too, though it’s a West Country name. I may be an old snob, Miss Jones, but I was brought up to reverence those whom God Almighty had set in high places, and the Vivians of Plessing have always stood to me for the highest in the land. A pity there isn’t a son there!”

  “Yes.”

  “There are cousins, of course. Sir Piers has a brother with children. But one would have liked the direct line — and for her to leave Plessing, it seems hard. If there’d only been a boy!”

  “He would be fighting now,” Grace reminded him.

  “To be sure, and so many only sons have gone. If Miss Charmian there had been a boy, though! I tell you frankly,” said the doctor, in an outburst, “that I don’t understand her. She and I have had ructions in our time, Miss Jones, and I’ve known her ever since she came into the world. And now, when it comes to a Hospital Return — !”

  The doctor nearly swerved his car into a market wagon, apologized to Grace, and said candidly: “I really hardly know what I’m at when I get on to the subject. Army Form 01864A in duplicate indeed! And as for the Nomenclature of Diseases that we hear so much about nowadays, I rather fancy that I was at home there some twenty years before Miss Charmian’s little typewritten pamphlets on the subject were issued. Telling me that conjunctivitis is a disease of the eye, and what V.D.H. stands for! War Office instructions, indeed!”

  Grace laughed discreetly, and after an instant the doctor laughed too.

  “Well, well, well, we’re all working in a great cause,” he conceded, “and I suppose she does wonders. They all tell me so. Perhaps it seems a little hard to those of us who’ve been trying to conquer pain and disease for a number of years to be put under military discipline by an impudent monk — H’m, h’m, h’m! by a young lady in a uniform striped with gold like a zebra! But she’s certainly untiring in her work; so are you all. This must be quite a new style of thing to you, Miss Jones?”

  “I was in a hospital for a little while at the beginning of the war, but I can only do clerical work.”

  “But nothing before the war, eh?”

  “Oh, no. I just helped my father at home.”

  “I thought so,” said the doctor, with an odd sound of unmistakable satisfaction in his voice. He was glad that this nice little girl who listened with such interest while he talked, and so evidently admired Sir Piers and Lady Vivian of Plessing, should have lived at home before the war and not gone dashing out in search of an independent livelihood.

  “Lady Vivian asks after you very often,” he told her. “You saw her every day for a time, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, while Miss Vivian was at Plessing. I should like to see her again. Will you give her my love?” said Grace.

  “Yes, indeed I will. She’s lonely out there, I often think, though young Trevellyan comes out when he can. Nice boy that, but they’ll be sending him out again directly, I suppose. Now, then, Miss Jones, here’s the station.”

  Grace despatched her business at the parcels office as quickly as possible, and came back with the neat wooden case carefully labelled all over.

  “Put it there; it’ll be quite safe. I wish I could take you back to Pollard Street, but they’re expecting me at the Hospital and I must get on. Shall you be all right?”

  “Oh, yes, and thank you so much. The walk will warm me, and it isn’t far. Good-night, doctor.”

  “Good-night,” responded the doctor cordially as the car started down the hill towards the Hospital.

  He wondered whether Char would accept his offer to drive her out to Plessing on Christmas Eve, and reflected rather ruefully that, if so, it would certainly be a late and cold transit. But, at all events, his mission would have succeeded.

  He triumphantly told Lady Vivian next day that Char was coming to Plessing on Christmas Eve.

  “I put the case diplomatically, you know — just used a little tact, and she never made any difficulty at all. Delighted to come, if you ask me,” said the doctor.

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Prince. I’ve told Sir Piers that she’s coming, and he’s so pleased. Don’t let her start too late; it’s so bitterly cold and the roads are very bad. I can’t send the car in for her, as you know; since the chauffeur was called up, I’ve no one to drive it. But if you’re kind enough to bring her—”

  “I’ll bring her fast enough, if she’ll let me,” said the doctor. “Anyhow, she shall come, which is the point. She said at once that she’d come.”

  “Yes,” said Joanna dryly. “You won’t expect me to be enthusiastic at such conde
scension, will you?”

  The doctor looked at her with concern evident in his shrewd, kindly gaze.

  He had known Joanna Vivian ever since she had come to Plessing as a bride, and had never heard that note of bitterness in her voice before. He told himself sadly that the long strain of Sir Piers’s illness was telling on her at last, in spite of her splendid physique. In his heart the doctor did not believe that the strain would last much longer.

  “I wish you had some one here to keep you company,” he said awkwardly. “Even Miss Bruce was better than no one.”

  “She’s only with Char for a few days. She’ll soon be back, probably tomorrow. And meanwhile I had an offer of companionship only this morning. Do you know Mrs. Willoughby?”

  “Good Lord, yes!” said the doctor, and they both laughed.

  “I should really like Char’s Miss Jones to come out to me for a few days,” said Joanna, rather wistfully. “She and I understand one another very well, and she’s such a restful person.”

  “A thoroughly nice girl, and most intelligent,” warmly remarked the doctor, reflecting how sympathetic Miss Jones had shown herself to be over the question of Medical Boards. “Why shouldn’t I bring her out with Miss Charmian on Thursday night?”

  “I only wish you would, but I don’t want to throw Char into a fit.”

  “I’ll chance that,” said the doctor grimly. “She’d only tell me that fits are a disease of the nervous system, and should be shown as N.S. on all Hospital returns.”

  He told himself that if Lady Vivian wanted to see Miss Jones it was preposterous that she should not be allowed to have her out to Plessing. Diplomacy, the doctor reflected, could arrange the whole thing.

  Believing himself to be the possessor of this attribute, Dr. Prince, on the morning before Christmas Eve, rang up the office of the Midland Supply Depôt on the telephone.

  “Can I speak to Miss Vivian, if you please?”

  “Who is it?” inquired an attenuated voice at the other end.

  “The Officer Commanding Questerham V.A. Hospital,” firmly replied the doctor.

  If Miss Vivian wanted officialness, she should have it.

  “Can I give a message for you?”