Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Splendid!” she cried exuberantly, showing a pair of earthy palms. “I can’t shake hands — too grubby. But you’ll help me tie up these poor dear things, won’t you?”

  Ludovic adjusted his crutch-like stick, and fumbled obediently with long pieces of bass and the top-heavy overgrown dahlias.

  “Rosamund is not good at this sort of job, although she offers to help me most regularly, poor dear! But it’s not in her line at all.”

  “Why don’t you have in old Jones or someone two or three times a week?” said Ludovic with the more earnestness that his own wrestlings with the bass were strangely unsuccessful.

  “We do have him every now and then, but I love pottering about, and so does Minnie. We’ve practically made the whole of this boraer — the place was in a dreadful state when we came.”

  Ludovic looked round the small garden.

  “It has altered a good deal,” he conceded.

  His voice was expressionless.

  Bertha looked up sharply.

  “There have been no changes to hurt her,” she said quickly. “One understood — good heavens, yes! There are the two tiny plots over these under those lilac bushes, that belonged to them — Rosamund and Frances — when they were little children. Somehow I knew that by instinct — and why she always said wallflowers were her favourite flowers. This place is one mass of them in the spring.

  She’s not sentimental, you know, but little things like that that are sacred to one — afterwards. And Rosamund knows that I understand.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s curious,” Mrs. Tregaskis continued meditatively, “how quickly one ‘senses’ things, when it’s a question of a beloved child. I don’t think, though I do say it myself, that any suggestion or change of mine has jarred on Rosamund. You see, I can share in some of the associations.

  I fetched them away from here as little, children — and I was herewith them when their mother died — and now the place, in a sense, is mine as well as hers. You see it’s been a harbour of refuge for me, too, hasn’t it?”

  “You don’t regret Cornwall?”

  Bertha straightened herself slowly, and faced him.

  “No,” she replied, deliberately, but very decisively.

  “The love of a place is a great thing — and I’m Cornish through and through, as you know — but, after all, other things matter more. Little Rosamund, for instance. Oh, it’s not only that she wanted me — wanted me to mother and shield and comfort her, as only a child that’s bought its own wilful experience can want one, but there’s the need of giving in her, too. You know that. I rather fancy that you, too, understand Rosamund.”

  She looked at him rather enigmatically for a moment, but Ludovic was silent.

  “Your mother told me once that she rather wondered if the whole thing would end in Rosamund’s becoming a Roman Catholic, too. She made friends with a woman at Francie’s convent.... But it won’t. Rosamund hasn’t the religious temperament, for one thing. All she needed was to find herself. A modern phrase, isn’t it — and one that I rather avoid, as a rule, but it’s expressive enough.

  The child had to learn proportion — and it was taught her through the strongest thing she knew — her love for Frances.

  Reality is the only medium for reality, after all. Her other emotions and phases weren’t real, you know — not even a sort of love affair that she had one year. But she had to get right down to bed-rock to teach her what relative values are.”

  Ludovic felt with an absolute conviction that Mrs. Tregaskis, as she had said, understood indeed.

  He wondered deeply concerning Rosamund’s acceptance of such comprehension.

  That the acceptance was almost matter of fact in its completeness was evident, but it was only after a time that he became aware of a deeper serenity underlying her tranquil receptivities. It was not the pale serenity of resignation, either, for he was conscious of a certain strength and hopefulness in her outlook that differed oddly from the atmosphere of unrest diffused by Rosamund Grantham as he had known her a few years earlier.

  “I’m getting much happier,” she once said to him with laughing candour. “Not for any reason, you know, but just because I am.”

  “I thought you would. I’m very glad.”

  “There’s no reason for it,” repeated Rosamund thoughtfully. “I’m horrid enough to Cousin Bertie very often, as you know.”

  He had seen her lose her temper in a quick, childish outburst over a small matter that afternoon.

  - “And I always thought I must have definite work or go mad. You know I tried writing, and everything, and none of it seemed right. Yet here I am, doing nothing at all, except little tiny jobs that Cousin Bertie mostly makes for me, and sometimes wondering if I’m justifying my existence at all — yet the days go by very quickly.”

  “Work will come,” said Ludovic, voicing a conviction.

  “The jobs one takes up just to save one’s fancied self-respect never seem to me to be worth while.”

  Rosamund laughed a little.

  “I never can remember that you’re in Parliament — but I always think of you in connection with your writing,” she remarked frankly.

  “Exactly,” returned Ludovic dryly.

  They both laughed, with the sense of companionship that a shared laugh almost inevitably carries with it.

  “Aha!” said Mrs. Tregaskis, at work in the garden with Miss Blandflower, as the sounds came through the open window. “What do you think of me as a scheming old woman, Minnie? I can always enjoy a little match-making, even in my dotage.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Tregaskis, how can you talk so ridiculously?” protested Minnie. “Why, you’re the youngest woman I know. They always say a woman is only as old as she looks.”

  “Minnie, Minnie, don’t flatter! You know that spades are always spades with me. But I don’t mind telling you a little secret. I think we shall see Rosamund happy yet.”

  “Oh! Do you mean...? But I used to think — only, of course, one can never tell.”

  “You mean Morris. She won’t have him, my dear.

  He’s not the sort of man for her — he’s too young, for one thing. No, no — Ludovic Argent and the Wye Valley, for Rosamund, is what I think. I don’t mind telling you that I’ve thought so all along, Minnie. I like Morris — he and I are huge chums, as you know — but ever since that boy and girl affair at home, ages ago, I’ve always said they weren’t suited to one another.”

  “Well, we shall see what we shall see, I suppose,” was the timorous reply of Miss Blandflower, which she hazarded as though voicing the most startling of suggestions.

  “It would please Sybil very much, I fancy. Of course I know perfectly well that she wanted it to be Francie — but I suppose Rosamund is next best, even though she isn’t an R.C.”

  “But then neither is he.”

  “Exactly. But poor dear Sybil has the subject on the brain, and always fancies that her prayers will ‘convert’ him, as she calls it, one of these days. I never saw any woman so utterly gone to pieces as Sybil — sometimes I almost think she’s in her second childhood to hear her babble as she does — there’s no other word for it — simply babble.”

  “Babble, babble, little brook,” idiotically murmured Minnie, with a pair of garden scissors between her teeth, and both hands full of tangled string.

  “Here, I’ll hold that for you. No, no, not the string — the scissors. Give them to me, Minnie, you’ll break your teeth if you do that. Very well — but you’re only getting it into a muddle. What was I saying? — oh, about Sybil.

  Poor dear! One of the reasons that made me come here was the thought of having her for a neighbour. We were the greatest of friends, as girls, though there’s nearly ten years between us. There might be twenty, now. Minnie, whatever happens, I do pray and trust that I shall never die at the top first, as they say. If you see any tendency to garrulous old age, you must tell me so in good time. It’s much the truest kindness in the long run. One would so muc
h rather spend one’s last few years silently.”

  “A few more years shall roll,” was the thoughtful response of Miss Blandflower, as she gave a final pull to the string and scissors entanglement, which succeeded in blending them all inextricably together for the rest of the afternoon.

  Bertie, in spite of her strictures on the wanderings of Lady Argent’s mind, was not deterred from frequently crossing the valley in search of her. She always told Rosamund vigorously that she liked the walk.

  “So kind of you, Bertie dear,” her hostess murmured gratefully, “because you know how much I love seeing you, and the pony is so very old one can’t take him out often — especially with the bridge at the very furthest end of the village, as it is — so exceedingly inconvenient. It used to make poor dear Fergus so angry, but, of course, one knows perfectly well that this is only one house, whereas a whole village is a whole village — and was here first, besides.”

  “You ought to have a ferry.”

  “My dear, I never go down to the edge of the river without thinking of St. Christopher — you know what I mean.

  It wasn’t a ferry, of course, but it was all the same thing in the end — only of course so much better than a regular ferry. Not that I mean it would do nowadays, or for everybody My dear, what are you laughing at? Have I said something dreadfully profane? I am so terribly apt to, quite without meaning it, and Ludovic always laughs at me.”

  Mrs. Tregaskis laughed too, with kindly superiority.

  “I don’t think you’re in any imminent danger of serious profanity, Sybil, and I’m sure Ludovic doesn’t. Great cheek of me to call him Ludovic, isn’t it? and I certainly shouldn’t dare do it to his face — but I always think of you both as sort of relations, you know.”

  The observation was more in the nature of a small feeler than an accurate statement of fact, and Bertha watched for its effect narrowly.

  “So nice of you, dear,” said Lady Argent absently, without a trace of meaning in her voice or manner; “and you know I never had any sisters or brothers, so Ludovic has never had an aunt. At least, dear Fergus had one sister, but she was older than he was, a good deal, and so very Scotch. Not that I mean for a moment that her being Scotch would prevent her from being an aunt as well — in fact, I believe the Scotch think more about relationships than we do. Blood is thicker than water and all that, you know, dear, and kith and kin, whatever that may mean, which I always think sounds so very Scotch — but she really wasn’t at all like an aunt to Ludovic. Just called him ‘my brother’s child,’ you know, and sent him a little book from time to time. Very Calvinistic,” and Lady Argent, shaking her head, “and I always burnt them, even in those days, though he was far too young to read, poor darling. In fact she died before he was five years old.”

  “Well, I’m only too delighted to do aunt by proxy,” said Bertha good-humouredly. “I’ve been ‘auntie’ to a good many young people in my time, though the rising generation generally prefers ‘Cousin Bertie.’ I remember ages ago asking those two poor mites, Rosamund and Francie, what they’d like to call me. D’you remember my bringing them over here to say good-bye to you, Sybil?”

  “Yes, indeed, so good and pathetic, poor little dears,” said Lady Argent tenderly; “and both so pretty, weren’t they?”

  “Rosamund has rather lost her looks, I’m sorry to say.”

  Bertha was looking keenly at her friend, who remained serenely unconscious of her scrutiny.

  “Don’t you think so, Sybil?”

  “She’s rather too thin, and I don’t like those great shadows under her eyes, but I’m sure she’ll always be a very pretty creature. So like her mother, you know, though I always thought that Mrs. Grantham spoilt herself with those enormous earrings, especially in the country, somehow. I don’t quite know,” Lady Argent thoughtfully pursued, with an air of far greater interest than any she had bestowed on the subject of Rosamund’s looks, “why it is that I have always disliked earrings. I do so hope it isn’t prejudice, which I always think so very narrow-minded and shocking.

  But I never could bear the picture of St. Cecilia that everyone likes so much because of those great things hanging from her ears. Sitting at the organ, dear, you know.

  Though I’ve no doubt it was the fashion, and quite proper and everything in those days, and in that country.”

  “My dear Sybil! Surely Cecilia was a Roman virgin? You talk as though she’d lived in some unheard of region.”

  “Well, I never can remember quite where Tyre and Sidon and Syracuse and all those places are,” was Lady Argent’s rather surprising reply. “I know St. Paul was always going there, but then he really did travel a great deal, Bertie, even for nowadays. I never can bear to think how dreadfully inconvenient their travelling arrangements must have been then — though, of course, it made it all the more meritorious.”

  Bertha made a decided effort to turn the conversation from channels which appeared to her unnecessarily Scriptural.

  “It’s such a comfort to see Rosamund looking better every day. There’s nothing like youth, my dear, when all’s said and done. After all, in spite of the grief and trouble which seem so bitter to them, they have everything to look forward to — all like before them. It’s a wonderful thing to be young, Sybil.”

  She sighed.

  “I always think that it depends so much,” said Lady Argent cryptically, and with the diffidence which she always brought to any opinion that differed from her friend’s.

  “But, of course, when I think of Frances, poor little darling, though I can’t think why I call her poor, for she’s far better off than we are, and must have a much higher place in Heaven than one can ever hope for oneself — but there it is, Bertie, I am quite sure that she was a very privileged soul in every possible way.”

  “Now I’m going to shock you,” declared Bertha with a kind of deliberate enjoyment in her tone, “but I should have had a much higher opinion of Frances if she’d given up her own way and stayed quietly at home until she was of an age to judge for herself. Oh yes, my dear, I know it’s a dreadful thing to say now, but I’m nothing if not outspoken, as you know, and I can’t pretend — it isn’t in me.

  One looks upon Francie as a little victim, and so she was, poor child, but it was all owing to her own self-will.”

  Lady Argent flushed, looked doubtful, and then said gently and very characteristically: “So brave of you, Bertie dear, to be so unconventional and say it all out, because of course I know you loved her just as if she’d been your very own. Only you know it really was a vocation, if ever there was one, and Father Anselm was very much impressed with her, and told me so himself long before there was any question of her entering.

  Such a very holy man, Bertie, and extremely clever. Plain chant, you know, and all that kind of thing — so wonderful, I always think, though of course I’m no judge at all, since I never really like good music — only tunes I’ve known all my life, which are not plain chant at all, as you may imagine, since they’ve only revived it quite within the last few years.

  The Holy Father wishes it so much, for the Church, which of course makes one like it, though I always think otherwise, it might strike one as the least little bit dreary. So very little tune, you know.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. Sybil, do you know you’re getting very discursive?”

  “I dare say, dear,” said Lady Argent placidly, “a train of thought is such a very difficult thing to follow, I always think — I mean another persons, of course. One’s own is naturally easy enough.”

  Bertha did not look as though she shared this conviction — nor did she where the tangled skein of Lady Argent’s meditations was concerned.

  “I’ve got a little train of thought in my own head at the present moment,” she said tentatively. “I wonder if you can guess what I’m at, Sybil.”

  “No, dear, I’m sure I can’t. I never was the least bit of good at guessing anything at all. Don’t you remember when riddles were so much the fashion, and
people were always asking one why did Rider Haggard, and ridiculous questions of that sort? I never could get the answers right, even then, and there was one dreadful thing that dear Fergus was so fond of — about a ton of lead and a ton of feathers.

  I’m sure you must have heard it, Bertie.”

  “I don’t think so — a ton of lead? Are you sure you don’t mean a herring and a half?” laughed Bertha.

  “Oh, yes, though I know that one too. The question, I mean — not the answer, of course. But this was something about a ton of lead and a ton of feathers being upset out of a boat or somewhere, into the sea, and which would sink fastest. And, of course, I always answered ‘Lead.’ Because one knows perfectly well that feathers float and lead sinks. But it always turned out to be the wrong answer.”

  “My dear Sybil!” Bertie laughed helplessly.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Lady Argent, still in melancholy retrospect, “I once thought I would be very clever and surprise Fergus — so silly, my dear, because nothing ever surprised dear Fergus, not even when one of the mares had twin foals — he said he’d always expected it all along, which one knows was quite impossible, but so very Scotch of him, wasn’t it? Anyhow, one day I thought I’d get that dreadful riddle answered once and for all, so instead of saying as one naturally would, and as I’m bound to say I’d said quite a dozen times before, that of course the lead would sink soonest, I suddenly said: The feathers. And I dare say it served me quite right, because I certainly didn’t in the least see how it could be the right answer, and was only pretending, which I suppose was rather hypocritical of me — but Fergus simply roared with laughter, and told everybody what I’d said for weeks and weeks afterwards.”

  “Sybil, Sybil, you’ll be the death of me.” Bertha was absolutely mopping her eyes, streaming from her unaffected merriment.