Alderman Bellew, looking more astounded than ever, gave a breathless nod of assent.
“And also,” said Edna, smiling a little, “he happens to be an extremely attractive person. Consequently, when a young — a fairly young woman — spends her Saturday afternoons typing at the estate office, and then has herself escorted home afterwards, and keeps all her civility, and all her smiles, and all her conversation, for one particular person well, one is inclined to wonder a little, that’s all.”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated the astonished Alderman.
Edna suddenly became grave.
“You understand that I’m not, for one single instant, hinting at any sort or kind of — of understanding or flirtation between them. I know Mark, I suppose, better than anybody else on earth knows him, and I trust him absolutely. But I needn’t tell you a man is a man.”
“Of course,” said the Alderman portentously, as one resolved to rise to the occasion, “We really know very little about her. I suppose you mean the Lady Superintendent?”
“Yes, poor Miss Marchrose. Don’t think that I would willingly say an unkind word about her, for indeed I could never cast the first stone. But I’ve been uneasy for some time, and this afternoon it gave me a little shock to see something oh, never mind what! A straw very often shows which way the wind blows.”
Having by this reticence left the simple-minded Alderman to infer the existence of a whole truss of straw at the very least, Lady Rossiter leant back and closed her eyes, as though in weary retrospect.
“It would never do to have talk of that kind going about, Lady Rossiter. Demoralise the staff in a moment, you know. I remember rather a similar case, years ago, in the big insurance office where I started life. One of the partners played the fool nothing wrong, you know, but there was a pretty typist, and he was for ever sending for her to take down letters, and the others got talking you can guess the sort of thing. The girl had to get the sack, of course.”
The matter-of-factness of this conclusion was against all Lady Rossiter’s avowed principles of championship of her sex, and consistency would not allow her to assent. But she gave a heavy sigh, and said:
“I know the sort of thing you mean, and gossip spreads so easily in a little community like ours. I can’t help knowing, either, that one or two people have already noticed the way in which Miss Marchrose behaves.”
“Oh, well, you know,” leniently remarked the old man, “it may not be altogether her doing. Easter has no business to forget he’s a married man.”
“I am afraid,” Edna answered with reserve, “that I know one or two things about Miss Marchrose which go to show that she is not exactly an inexperienced person. Besides, women have very strong instincts sometimes, and get to know a good deal by intuition. I will tell you perfectly honestly, Mr. Bellew, that I’ve never altogether trusted her, although it seems a hard thing to say.”
Perhaps the Alderman was somewhat of the same opinion.
“What does Sir Julian think?”
“He has comparatively few opportunities of judging; and besides, I haven’t really discussed the matter with him. One does dislike anything of that sort so intensely, it’s very difficult sometimes to speak of it.”
“Yes, yes, Lady Rossiter of course. But you mustn’t distress yourself, on any account. That would never do. You know, the girl can go.”
Edna was sincerely horrified at this ruthless cutting of the Gordian knot.
“Oh, but it’s her livelihood! We could hardly turn her away like that, unless there was anything definite. There should always be infinite pitifulness, to my mind. Mine is only a humble little creed, but that’s the keynote of it all. Long-suffering. Sometimes a woman can do more than a man in such cases. Much as one would dislike it, perhaps one might say a word or two.”
“Well, well, it’s very good of you, I’m sure. The poor thing may be in a false position altogether,” said the Alderman, with more compassion than Edna, in spite of her creed, thought altogether called for by the possible plight of the Lady Superintendent.
“I know I can rely on you to keep all this to yourself absolutely. Perhaps I ought hardly to have spoken, but it gave me a great shock this afternoon. However, we needn’t go into that. There is really nothing to be done, except to be very much on one’s guard as to possible gossip amongst the staff,”
“We must await developments,” said the Alderman solemnly.
On this noncommittal cliché, he thanked Lady Rossiter very much for having brought him to the steps of the Council House, and ponderously ascended them, still evidently full of thought as to her hinted revelations.
Edna, deeply reflective, was motored back to Culmhayes. The question of the presentation had almost been driven from her mind by the preoccupation engendered at the sight of Mark Easter and Miss Marchrose in their companionable solitude. Her suspicions, already stirring, were now in a lively state of activity, and her feelings divided between an unconscious satisfaction in having been proved a true prophet and a very real apprehension as to the condition of Mark Easter’s affections. She remained, however, carefully compassionate in her thoughts of the chief culprit, and was resolved that no impetuosity of Alderman Bellew’s should summarily deprive Miss Marchrose of a good post, and incidentally provide her with a grievance.
Edna’s appeal to the Alderman had been as nearly impulsive as any utterance of hers ever could be. She had chosen her words as she always did but the instinct that had moved her to speak at all was the age-old and overmastering desire of drawing attention instantly to the failure of a fellow-creature in subscribing to the recognised code.
She consecrated several grave moments of thought to the situation, which she mentally qualified as a problem, although she would have been puzzled to define the exact necessity for a solution.
In her own room, Lady Rossiter became still further conscious of the disturbed state of her spirits.
She rang for her maid.
“Shall I take your furs, m’lady?”
Edna parted with her last shred of calm, in some mysterious fashion, when the comfortable and eminently becoming weight was lifted from her shoulders.
“I am very tired, Mason,” she remarked patiently.
“Yes, m’lady? It’s rather tiring weather,” said Mason woodenly.
“I don’t know about that. But when one thinks a great deal about other people their weakness and ingratitude and folly it seems to wear one out, somehow.”
“I’ve mended the blue tea-gown, m’lady. Shall I put it out?”
“No,” said Edna, with most unwonted sharpness.
It seemed to her that Mason was a woman on whom it was extraordinarily difficult to make any impression. Edna sedulously “took an interest “in all her servants, and made a point of lending books to her own maid, but never had she met with one less responsive to her influence.
She compressed her lips slightly, and made the small, collected pause with which it was her custom to counter such rare tendencies to irritability as she ever experienced.
The instant’s recollection was followed, as always, by a flow of larger, more serene charity, enveloping successfully even the recalcitrant Mason.
“I hope you have a nice book for Sunday, Mason. I know it’s your great day for reading.”
“Yes, thank you, m’lady.”
Lady Rossiter’s thoughts dwelt tenderly on those copies of Ruskin and Stevenson, in the rather cheaper editions, which she kept for purposes of lending. She had drawn attention to several passages in them by faint scorings in pencil.
“Well, and which is it?”
Mason looked blanker than ever.
“What, m’lady?”
“Which book are you reading, Mason?”
The silence that ensued might, from Mason’s expression, have been construed as one both sulky and resentful, but Edna waited with implacable sunniness.
Finally the maid, opening the door for her mistress, replied in a vicious manner:
; “Well, m’lady, at the present, I’m reading a sweetly pretty story called ‘East Lynne.”
XV
THE activities of Lady Rossiter did not altogether cease at her conversation with Alderman Bellew.
She spoke to Miss Farmer, at the back of her mind the conviction that Miss Farmer would think it due to the other members of the College staff to ascertain whether their attention had yet been focussed upon the incipient scandal in their midst.
She made tentative beginning:
“You will reassure me, Miss Farmer, and I can’t tell you how glad I shall be. It is my fancy, isn’t it, that there is what shall I call it? — something that rather disturbs — in the atmosphere?”
“The College, do you mean, Lady Rossiter?” Miss Farmer spoke confusedly, evidently quite undecided in her mind as to Lady Rossiter’s meaning, and anxious not to commit herself until she had ascertained it.
“Ah, then you do know. I’m sorry,” spoke Edna gravely. “One condemns no one that’s understood, of course. But you, who are working there all day and every day you must know better than anyone how far it’s all gone. I mean nothing that can’t be spoken — oh, yes, you know — after all, we’re both women. But there’s the staff to think of my staff that I’m proud of, and care for. Tell me, do they talk about Miss Marchrose and this insane infatuation of hers?”
“No no, I don’t think so I hardly know...” hesitated Miss Farmer, very red, and obviously feeling her way.
“Thank God for that!” Lady Rossiter piously interjected. “You understand what I mean? It’s not that I, of all people, who know Mark Easter intimately, could ever underrate the fact that he is an unusually attractive man. But then, you see Mark is married. It’s so simple, isn’t it, to those of us who can see straight? There is just that choice right or wrong and one’s chosen one’s path long, long ago. But this poor girl in whom we’re interested, whom one longs, oh, so pitifully and tenderly to help. You see, I’m afraid that her ideals are poor, dwarfed, stunted things. She is very foolish, undignified and unwomanly, but I pray and I believe I try with all my heart to believe that it is just that because she knows no better. Only, Miss Farmer don’t let them talk at the College. I know it’s very easy a little staying on after hours, an excuse or two for going into Mr. Easter’s office, a hundred-and-one indiscretions of that kind and the mischief’s done.”
“Oh, Lady Rossiter! but really, excuse me if I say that I hardly think Edna swept on, sweeping with her the bewildered and embarrassed protests trembling on Miss Farmer’s lips.
“No one could ever fear harsh judgments from you, Miss Farmer. I know that, and that’s why I’ve spoken to you. And because I want you to try and prevent others from judging and condemning unheard.... There’ll be talk oh, I know human nature, and that it’s impossible for things to be otherwise but at least I may count upon you for stemming the tide a little, until the way is rather clearer. Believe me, there will be a crisis a solution of some sort will come. I know that the present state of tension can’t last.”
It may reasonably be conceded that Lady Rossiter had ample cause for the assertion.
She sent Miss Farmer away, muddle and incoherency on her inarticulate tongue, and in her starting eyes fears visible for all to see.
Edna thought of Mark Easter, and asked herself whether one word from her might not save Mark from endless vexation and discomfort when the inevitable debacle should come upon the impossible situation. She had for too long been accustomed to look upon herself as the only feminine element in Mark’s mutilated life, to entertain on his behalf fears of a more serious kind.
But Mark was thinking of his sister’s wedding and of her many, and essentially unreasonable, attempts to turn his small house into a scene of extensive and prolonged hospitalities for which it was eminently unfitted in every possible way.
Edna postponed the utterance of her one word.
She only offered, very gently and matter-of-factly, to enact the part of mistress of the house when and whenever her services might be acceptable. Mark Easter thanked her very warmly and thought that he could “manage.”
That the process of “managing “was not an easy one was descried shortly before the wedding by Lady Rossiter and her husband, inadvertently entering the villa and finding it a sea of frenzied preparation.
Aggressively new trunks stood in the small entrance, effectively blocking the staircase, and from the drawing-room door, propped open by a piano-stool, came the sound of voices raised in considerable agitation.
The form taken by the boule Verseinent of the five occupiers of the drawing-room appeared to consist principally in their each and all having taken a seat upon some pieces of furniture not primarily intended to be sat upon.
Iris, very dishevelled, was perched upon the piano; her fiancé bestrode a small table; Mark, looking harassed, sat on the corner of the lowest bookcase in the room; and Ruthie and Ambrose, their respective boots drumming a lively quartette against the wainscoting, disfigured either end of the writing-table. Iris turned in instant appeal to the entering visitors.
“We’re simply fearfully worried,” she declared penetratingly. “Do help me to settle. Oh, do sit down, Lady Rossiter!”
Edna smilingly selected the corner of the sofa least encumbered by cardboard boxes and crumpled tissuepaper.
“It’s old Aunt Anne. We don’t know what to do about having her at the wedding. We never, never thought she’d want to come.”
“She’s seventy-nine,” said Mark.
“And perfectly awful,” moaned Iris.
“One had hoped, and meant, to avoid a conventional gathering of relations altogether,” mournfully interjected Mr. Garrett’s deep tones. “I myself have had to be extraordinarily careful. We, who are members of the Clan, have to reckon with such immense feudal feeling and that kind of thing the sort of old-time loyalty one hardly sees on the wrong side of the Border and finally we decided to eliminate all but the very nearest. The dear old pater is going to represent the family, and the old pipers and gillies and er dependents generally.”
“I am afraid he has a long, cold journey before him, then, in this bitter weather,” said Edna civilly.
“The pater is not actually in dear old Scotland at the moment,” said Mr. Garrett, in a tone of reserve.
“But Aunt Anne!” wailed Iris. “Will you believe it, she’s written to ask if we’re expecting her here to-morrow just two days before the wedding. And, of course, we’re not. We never thought of her coming at all, did we, Mark, at her age?”
“And she’s only sent you salt-cellars, at that,” said Mark, with a rueful grin.
“We should be delighted to receive anyone at Culmhayes if it’s a question of room,” began Sir Julian, in voice wherein delight was not the most prominent emotion discernible.
“Thank you, Sir Julian, it’s most awfully good of you. But it’s not that. Douglas’ father will insist on going to the hotel, with him, so we shall have a spare bed. But Aunt Anne wants such a lot of looking after; and then she’ll be old-fashioned, and hate everything and disapprove of my frock, and I can’t bear it if she’s to come and spoil everything,” said Miss Easter, in an outburst of passionate resentment.
“My dear, what can it matter what other people think? One takes one’s own line, without hurting or vexing anyone that, never but just quietly, without wondering what others may say “But Lady Rossiter’s generalities proved of no avail in soothing Iris, although they gave Douglas an opportunity for uttering a small effective Gaelicism.
“Dinna fash yersel’, Iris, as we Kelts say at home.”
“It’s all very well, but how can I write and tell Aunt Anne not to come that we aren’t expecting her? It would look as though we didn’t want her.”
The truth of this implication appeared in such blatant obviousness to at least three of Iris’ listeners that none of them spoke a word.
At last Sir Julian said drily:
“In fact, it’s one of those disconcerting situat
ions that look exactly what they really are.”
“And one wishes they didn’t,” concluded Mark.
“The modern wedding,” said Mr. Garrett suddenly, “I look upon as the surviving relic of a barbarous age. It is iniquitous that a contract between two private parties should be made the excuse for a public display, an incontinent gathering together of incongruous multitudes, for the mere purposes of gaping and staring. To my mind, there should be no other ceremony than the verbal plighting of troth, given in the presence of two witnesses, upon the bare, open heath.”
“We haven’t any bare, open heaths round Culmouth,” interposed Julian hastily.
“I was thinking of the customs in my ain countree,” said Mr. Garrett morosely.
A rather blighted silence fell upon the room.
It was broken by the wailing voice of Ambrose, whom everyone had forgotten.
“Aren’t we ever going to have tea?”
“Good gracious, I’d forgotten all about it!” cried Iris, exaggeratedly aghast. “Ruthie darling, do go and see if Sarah can let us have tea at once. We shall be seven.”
Sir Julian made earnest attempts and Lady Rossiter polite feints, at leaving the villa on the instant.
‘You must stay,” said Iris piteously, “because everything is so awful that I know I’m going to scream presently.”
On this inducement or another, the visitors remained throughout a strange, Passover meal, in the course of which Iris leapt up and wrote and destroyed three successive telegrams alternately telling Aunt Anne that she was or was not expected on the following day, and Mr. Garrett discoursed further on the marriage laws of England, regarded by him with the extreme of disfavour, and the children took advantage of their father’s usual leniency and their aunt’s roving attention, to dispose of immense quantities of cake previously smeared with jam.
Edna, remembering the quasi-maternal role adopted by herself towards Ruthie, fixed a look of grave surprise upon the child from the other side of the table.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 139