Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  It was an understood thing that the wife of the principal director had the right of entry throughout the College precincts, and Miss Marchrose, whatever her feelings, had no alternative but to direct the disposal of chairs next to her own rostrum.

  “You mustn’t be nervous,” Lady Rossiter said to her smilingly, in an undertone that might have answered its purpose better but for the absolute silence pervading the room. “I’ve heard these tests given before, and I always think it’s nervous work for the reader. I know I should be in terror myself of coming across quite unpronounceable words. But you probably know the book. What is it?”

  Miss Marchrose showed her the text-book in silence, and Lady Rossiter, though she smiled and nodded at it, did no more than glance at the covers.

  “This is the speed test,” Miss Marchrose announced clearly. “Are you ready?”

  Nobody answered, but the tension in the room was obvious, and the little boy in front squared his shoulders, bending his head forward until it almost touched his note-book, and grasping a short pencil in a stubby hand of which each fingernail was quite neatly and symmetrically outlined in black.

  “In the United Kingdom there are over 500 railway companies, the lines of which... are worked or leased by about forty of the principal companies.... It was in the first half of the nineteenth century that the majority of the great undertakings received parliamentary sanction....”

  Miss Marchrose’s voice was quite level and her enunciation distinct. She varied neither her intonation nor the rate at which she read from the printed page before her, already carefully subdivided into phrases.

  Most of the shorthand-writers seemed able to take down the test a shade behind the reader, however, so that their pencils were never altogether off the paper. The youths in the back of the room displayed greater facility, sometimes able to pause with the end of a sentence and relax an aching right hand. Only the little boy dashed down his dots and outlines as the words left Miss Marchrose’s lips, and sat with pencil impudently poised in the air during the regulated pause separating each phrase. Both the elder women in the class, who might have been of the less superior type of hotel-clerk or assistant manageress, came to early grief.

  One of them laid her pencil down outright after the first five-and-twenty words, shaking her head, and looking resentfully at the aggressively proficient child in front of her; and the other one, though scribbling frantically, her pencil almost piercing the paper, with a painfully flushed face and a hand that shook from strain, was quite evidently unable to keep up with the dictation, and was, moreover, scribbling down a large proportion of the words in almost illegible longhand.

  Iris Easter watched the class with very evident interest and amusement, and smiled at the precocious little boy until she had extorted from him in return a significantly triumphant grin.

  Lady Rossiter also looked at the class with that gravely observant gaze that, more often than not, denotes complete absorption in something quite else, and thought about Miss Marchrose.

  She also glanced at her once or twice, as she stood facing the room, very erect, with her eyes on the book, and with no trace of shyness or nervousness in her bearing.

  Edna, whose very decided beauty was of the type that seldom or never varies, could on this occasion look at Miss Marchrose with complete satisfaction, and even ask herself whether that woman could possibly be a day under thirty-five. Neither the strong sunlight of a frosty January morning nor the contrast with Iris Easter showed her to advantage.

  Her voice stopped.

  There was a general, inarticulate sound of relief throughout the room.

  “When you have transcribed the test into longhand,” said Miss Marchrose serenely, “please give your papers in at the desk, Classroom I, and for the benefit of those who have not done a speed test before I may add that the students must not assist one another in the transcriptions.”

  The class gathered up note-books and pencils and left the room, with much scraping of benches and shuffling of feet.

  “Oh, Miss Marchrose, I do think you’re clever,” was the remark made by Iris, rather unnecessarily, to Lady Rossiter’s way of thinking.

  “Will they all pass that awful test?”

  “Oh, no; ‘getting it back’ as they call it, is the part they seem to find most difficult. Some of the less intelligent ones seem to have absolutely no sense of the meaning of words. If the shorthand outline isn’t clear, they guess at the word and put in almost anything, whether it makes sense or not. Of course, that’s where the majority of stenographers do fail.”

  “But if they -make those little scrabbles clearly enough, then it’s all right?” said Miss Easter.

  “Yes, that’s where the younger ones score. The children nearly always learn much faster than the older ones and make the outlines more clearly, and then they can transcribe easily enough, whether they understand the meaning of what they’ve taken down or not.”

  “Oh, that awful little boy with the eyes!”

  “He’ll pass,” said Miss Marchrose, laughing. “He’s a dreadful child.”

  “Iris, dear,” said Lady Rossiter softly, “when do you have your lesson?”

  Thus obliquely recalled to the immediate duties of her state of life, Miss Marchrose conducted her pupil to a small classroom where the Remington machine awaited her, and in front of which Iris took her seat with obvious and immense satisfaction in the flashing of her engagement-ring as her small hands moved backward and forward on the keyboard.

  “If you don’t have to stay with her while she’s practising, I should like to have a look at your own office,” said Lady Rossiter very sweetly. “I so often wonder if you don’t find it cold in this weather.”

  “It is very cold indeed, but as I keep the window wide open, that’s my own fault,” Miss Marchrose answered brusquely.

  But she led the way into her room and prepared to shut the window, which was, as she had said, wide open.

  “Oh, but don’t! There can never be too much of God’s own fresh air to please me,” Lady Rossiter exclaimed, at the same time fastening the high collar of her fur coat. “Besides, I know you get so little out-of-doors you must want all the sunshine possible. Tell me, do you like your work here?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s rather wonderful of you. Mr. Easter, our agent, you know, and also my very dear friend, tells me that you work so well and conscientiously. I am sure you like working for Mr. Easter: everyone does.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so very, very glad about dear little Iris and this engagement. Quite suited to each other in every sort of way. After all, deep can only call to deep in very exceptional cases, and they are both so young and happy. Besides, it will be a great weight off her brother’s mind.”

  Miss Marchrose did not even return her former unbrilliant monosyllable, and Lady Rossiter was obliged to persevere.

  “There had been so much sadness already, there of course, he never talks of it, except to me sometimes but one has to tread, oh so lightly and delicately! It is all past now, as far as such things can be past when there are constant grievous reminders, but he and I went through it all side by side at the time shoulder to shoulder.”

  Edna paused, and looked rather resentfully at her unresponsive auditor. Evidently the warning of which she stood in such need was to be delivered without any assistance from herself.

  She looked full at the Lady Superintendent, who gazed back at her with calm hostility in her eyes.

  “You know that Mark Easter is a married man?” Lady Rossiter said slowly and very distinctly, as though determined, which indeed she was, that the fact should be made clear beyond the possibility of misunderstanding. “His wife, unfortunate woman God forbid that I should condemn her! is in a home for inebriates. But she is still alive, and may live for years.”

  Silence ensued, and Lady Rossiter considerately averted her eyes. She wondered for a moment whether she should lay her hand upon the other’s shoulder with a silent
pressure of sympathy, but decided that to do so would be a tacit assumption of facts better unrecognised.

  Then, for she was of acute perceptions, she became subtly aware that disturbance was in the air.

  Miss Marchrose had whitened quite perceptibly, and then Lady Rossiter received the odd impression that some weapon of vengeance had been seized upon by her, suspended for an instant, and tacitly rejected as unworthy.

  The impression was instantly intensified when Miss Marchrose spoke at last, although she merely said, “I have to speak to Mr. Fuller. Forgive me if I use the telephone for one moment.”

  Hastily and unwisely, Edna tested her own sudden suspicion.

  “Did you know Mark Easter’s story already?”

  Miss Marchrose looked down as though from an infinite height, her mobile face purposely supercilious.

  “Oh, yes,” said she, her voice full of deliberate scorn.

  Edna did not ask from whence the information had emanated, since she was suddenly aware, with all the certainty of intuition, that Miss Marchrose had undoubtedly derived her knowledge of Mark Easter’s affairs direct from himself.

  XI

  As Lady Rossiter proceeded on her way downstairs, leaving Iris to the completion of her lesson, she was waylaid by young Cooper.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, in the hope that you would spare me one moment, Lady Rossiter. There was a little matter about which the staff wanted me to consult you.”

  Such a reference appealed to Edna at any time, and came as balm to the present state of her spirit, at the moment so seriously discomposed that she had been obliged to repeat to herself more than once, as she went downstairs:

  “Still lovingly to bear a fool, Nor speak till wrath has time to cool, And thus live out my golden rule.”

  “I always have time for the business of the College, as you know,” she responded graciously. “What is it?”

  “Why, the staff thought the idea, as a matter of fact, originated with me, and they have all taken it up quite enthusiastically we thought that we should very much like, in view of our long connection with Mr. Mark Easter, to make a little presentation to Miss Iris Easter, in honour of her wedding. Just a small affair, you know subscribed for by the staff of the College.”

  “But how charming of you all! Only no one must be put to serious expense. I am sure Miss Easter would be dreadfully distressed if that happened.”

  Cooper looked rather offended.

  “Certainly not, Lady Rossiter. I think you may rely upon my judgment not to make excessive demands. But, of course, if you think anyone else had better collect the money, I shall resign the job into other hands with the very greatest pleasure.”

  Edna hastily uttered the necessary disclaimers.

  “It was suggested,” said Cooper, still with reserve in his voice, “that you would be so very kind as to assist at the presentation, which might perhaps be made the occasion for some small gathering such as we had last year at Christmas. I find that the members of the staff are quite anxious for it.”

  Lady Rossiter remembered, without much enthusiasm, a New Year party at which the staff of the Commercial and Technical College had entertained their directors, pupils and acquaintances, in a large classroom decorated with bunting for the occasion.

  “That is a most excellent idea” she said slowly, partly because it sounded sympathetic and partly in order to gain time. “But perhaps Miss Easter might feel rather shy in the presence of so many people who would be strange to her. What about a little informal tea-party? But, of course, all that can be settled later. What are you thinking of giving her?”

  “Nothing has been actually decided upon, though I should suggest some little thing in silver. The ladies always like silver. I remember selecting a wedding present for a lady friend,” said Cooper, looking slightly sentimental, “that proved highly acceptable. A silver serviette-ring it was, with her initials her new initials engraved upon it.”

  “I’m sure it was delightful, and Miss Easter is certain to like anything that you all choose.”

  “We all know her, and she’s been here quite a lot lately, and of course Mr. Mark Easter does a great deal for the staff, and we’re all very fond of him,” added Cooper, with a sudden outburst of naturalness.

  Edna, in common with quite a number of other people, always underwent, more or less unconsciously, a slight stirring of resentment at any spontaneous tribute to someone else’s popularity.

  It was perhaps this which moved her to a rather thin and repressive smile.

  “It will gratify Mr. Easter very much indeed, I know. And after all, it’s the thought that is of real value not the offering. Do tell the staff how very much I hope they will let me hear any further ideas.”

  “Thanks very much, Lady Rossiter,” said Cooper, rather stiffly.

  Edna, dissatisfied, reflected for a moment.

  “Couldn’t you all come out to Culmhayes and talk it over with me?” she enquired, as by an inspiration. “We might form a little committee, and go into ways and means, and perhaps I could find out some trifle that would please Miss Easter, and let you know. How would that be?”

  “It’s very kind of you. I myself always prefer to have these things on a business footing,” said Cooper, looking cheered. “I am essentially a business man.”

  “Then what about Sunday afternoon? Perhaps you and Miss Farmer and what about Mr. Fuller?”

  If young Cooper could have answered all too certainly, “what about Fuller,” he refrained from any such disastrous candour. But he gave his grateful pledge of coming to Culmhayes on the following Sunday with as many of the staff as were considered necessary to form a small committee. Cooper was insistent upon the necessity for such.

  “You notice that I like things done in order?” said he.

  “Yes, indeed,” murmured Edna. “Here is Miss Easter coming downstairs, so I suppose the lesson is over, and we must be going. Good-bye, Mr. Cooper -I shan’t forget.”

  “Let me see you down. Hark!” said Cooper, with an expression of animated interest.

  Iris and Lady Rossiter both paused.

  “Did you hear my knee-joint crack just now? That was my knee. I put it out at football, months ago, and since then it cracks, like that.”

  And with this addition to the sum total of their general information, Edna and Miss Easter drove away from the College.

  “Poor young man!” said Lady Rossiter leniently.

  “Oh, the dear College! I wish my lessons hadn’t come to an end, but of course I shan’t have time now. Miss Marchrose is going to come and stay with us, later on when “When you’re married?”

  Iris put her head on one side.

  “It is nice and generous of you to have taken a fancy to poor Miss Marchrose,” said Lady Rossiter, who seldom divested the Lady Superintendent of the adjective. “But after all, there are one or two things to be considered. Your husband may not take a very great fancy to her.”

  Edna’s warning would have tallied much more with her very real distrust of the proposed scheme had she omitted the word “not “in the last sentence.

  Iris, however, answered confidently, “Oh, but Douglas will always like my friends, and I shall always like his. We have every single thing in common, you know.”

  Leaving Iris to her delusion, that wreathed her pretty, silly little face in dreamy smiles, Lady Rossiter leant back and indulged in reflections of her own. She was more tired than was usual with her, and her habitual serenity of mind was invaded by a certain discontent of which she did not seek to analyse the cause.

  She looked at the hoar-frost, sparkling on the hedges, and at the chill blue of the sky, and perfunctorily told herself, as often before, “God’s in His Heaven all’s right with the world “; recalled, in a vague and disjointed manner, fragments of R. L, Stevenson that she had often thought to be peculiarly applicable to herself, and remembered that two of her particular friends were a humble little dressmaker and a quaint old seafarer; she humorously adjured
herself to “t’ink ob de blessings, children, t’ink ob de blessings.” But all was of no avail. She felt saddened, inexplicably depressed.

  For many years Edna Rossiter had believed that her strong suit, so to speak, was Love. She “gave out.”

  As a young girl, she had perhaps fancied, as young girls are prone to fancy, that only as the heroine of a grande passion could she fulfil herself. Her first love had disappointed her. A cheerful, beauty-loving young architect, he had failed to return adequate replies to the letters, pulsating with quotations from Laurence Hope, in which Edna had poured forth her soul during a temporary absence.

  She began to doubt, to read the verses of Arthur Symons, and to think that only by suffering could she find herself. Even the breaking-off of her engagement, however, failed immediately to terminate the quest successfully.

  “I have tried not to be bitter, “was the keynote of Edna’s twenties.

  By the time she had reached the stage of quoting:

  “How many loved your moments of glad grace And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows in your changing face” lines which the majority of women read with such a singular sense of applicability to their own needs Edna had met Sir Julian Rossiter.

  She was a great deal more beautiful at nine-and-twenty than at nineteen, and she had, moreover, learnt to smile. Tragedy, in which she really excelled, had proved strangely unprovocative of interest in anyone but herself, and she had therefore been obliged to cultivate the large, grave serenity that forgets itself in the thought of others.

  It was not this, however, which had caused Sir Julian to ask her to marry him.

  Edna disliked the memory of the scene that had led to his proposal, although time and her own industry had draped the situation with much that it had lacked at the moment. She had met him on board ship, and her mother, a slightly vulgar woman who had always rather disliked the only one of her daughters whom she had not married off in early girlhood, had speedily discovered that the owner of Culmhayes was in need of a wife. Edna, who had so long and so vainly visualised herself as the ideal Heloise to an as yet-un found Abelard, had had time to become heartily sick of such barren dreams, and was by now prepared to relinquish them in favour of mere emancipation from spinsterhood and a restricted life.