“Is that the Beer baby?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, poor Mrs. Beer. I want to get over and see her one afternoon, but it’s a long way for the old pony. They sent over the eldest boy to ask for some flowers yesterday.”
Lady Lucy sat down on one of the wooden benches, and began to talk amiably to Lydia.
“Is this your first visit to Devonshire?”
“Yes. I think it’s lovely.”
“There’s no place like it,” said Lady Lucy, with the calm of conviction. “My son tells me that you work in London. Do you find that interesting?”
“Very interesting.”
Lydia gave a few details, shyly, and Lady Lucy listened with the same attentive interest that her son had shown, and which Lydia, in her, found even more surprising, remembering the scant courtesy accorded by Lady Honoret and her friends to one another’s discourse.
Finally the old lady said to Nathalie: “Have you a free afternoon next week, my dear, when you can bring Miss Raymond up for some tennis?”
“We should like to very much, Lady Lucy, thank you. Any day except — let me see, Friday is choirpractice, and on Tuesday I suppose Mrs. Damerel will have the G.F.S. girls at Quintmere?”
“So she will. What about Monday, Clement?”
“Splendid,” said her son.
“Then about four o’clock, my dear. And tell your father I’ll try and see Mrs. Beer as soon as I can get down-along to Clyst Milton Halt.”
She made use of the Devonshire idiom with the utmost naturalness. Lydia, who had thought it provincial from Nathalie and her father, was again very much surprised.
“Good-bye,” said Clement Damerel, “we shall meet again on Monday, then.”
They met again on Monday, and on several other occasions.
Lydia inwardly commended her own foresight of long ago in letting the Senthovens bully her over innumerable games of tennis. She might, and indeed did, lack practice, but she had only to say so, and thanks to Bob and Olive, she knew that her style was good.
She played as often as possible at the Rectory against Nathalie, whose game was an admit Able one, and her strokes improved every day.
It was satisfactory to write to Aunt Beryl, knowing that the information would filter through to Miss Nettleship, and thence to all the boarding-house people: “Yesterday Nathalie and I went up to Quintmere again and played tennis. The clergyman son, Mr. Clement Damerel, plays awfully well. He and I won a set against Nathalie and another man who is staying there.
Old Lady Damerel is awfully nice. She doesn’t seem to know anybody much outside Devonshire; she didn’t even know who Lady Honoret was. I like her better than her widowed daughter-in-law, who lives with her, called Mrs. Damerel. I am having a ripping time, auntie.”
Nothing could be more appreciative than Aunt Beryl’s reply. Although not apt to be eloquent in correspondence, for which she rightly said that she had no time, Aunt Beryl, prompted evidently by Aunt Evelyn and the fashion paper’s Society supplement, was quite expansive about the Damerels.
“Aunt E. was so interested in what you say about the Quintmere family,” she wrote. “A girl she had for a short time at Wimbledon was in service at young Mrs. Damerel’s home before she was married. She was the Honourable Joyce Pountney, quite a well-known old Devonshire family. So glad you’re meeting nice people and getting plenty of fun, dear. Make the most of your time — you’ll only be young once, as the books say. Aunt E. asks me«to give you her fond love and Olive’s — the latter is still very seedy, and as thin as a lath, poor girl! Aunt E. also wants me to say that the old lady is Lady Lucy Damerel, and was the daughter of some Lord Somebody or other — excuse details, as you know my poor memory. It would be considered quite a solecism to call her ‘Lady Damerel.’ Hope you don’t mind me mentioning this, dear.”
Lydia did not mind at all. Hers was never the trivial vanity that resents criticism, and she was only too pleased to find herself guarded from possible future errors. She was enjoying her visit to Devonshire more and more.
The weather was fine almost all the time, but Lydia found, to her surprise, that Nathalie went out just the same whether it rained or not.
“We couldn’t let it make any difference, you know,” the Rector’s daughter explained. “In the autumn down here it rains nearly every day — a sort of wet mist that’s just the same as rain, anyway. Only your boots aren’t very thick, Lydia.”
They were not — in fact, it was very obvious that Nathalie only spoke of the thin, patent-leather, high heeled things as “boots” by courtesy.
Lydia remembered Lady Mary Damerel’s substantial footwear, and bought a pair of thick country shoes the next time that they went into Clyst Milton.
When she had been nearly three weeks at the Rectory Clement Damerel returned to London.
“I hope I shall see you there some time,” he said to Lydia.
She felt flattered, and hoped so too, but Mr. Damerel was a slight puzzle to her.
She supposed that it was because he was a clergyman, that, although he obviously liked her society, he did not suggest taking her out to tea some Saturday afternoon, which surely he could easily do in London.
However, he had definitely given her to understand that his business with Sir Rupert Honoret was likely to be of indefinite duration, and Lydia knew that they would meet again.
She was attracted by the young clergyman, by something in him which she inwardly described to herself as “high-class,” by his good looks, of the fair, athletic type, essentially opposite to her own, and by his deferential courtesy to herself.
She thought that it was a pity he should be a parson.
Clergymen were all very well, but apparently they were unable to let themselves go quite as other young men might have done, to the pleasant cultivation of a passing attraction.
Lydia gave no thought to anything more enduring than a passing attraction, partly because the Margoliouth episode had confirmed her strongly in the belittling view of sexual adventure that was hers by temperament, and partly because, although her imagination had been slightly stirred by Damerel, her emotional capabilities were as utterly undeveloped as her strong and ambitious mentality was overmatured.
Before she went back to London the Rector spoke to her gently and kindly of her life there.
“You are very young to be living by yourself, if I may say so. Nathalie tells me that this lady, in whose house you lodge, is a friend of your aunt’s?”
“Yes. She’s very nice.”
“Yes — yes. I am sure of it. And she takes care of you — sees that you eat enough, and don’t sit up too late at night writing those clever stories?”
“She takes great care of me,” said Lydia, smiling.
The Rector was old-fashioned and particular, and she did not want him to think his daughter’s friend reckless or over independent.
“I’m glad of that — very glad. Nathalie and I must claim the privilege of being a little bit anxious about you sometimes. And what about your work, now?” Lydia had guessed what was coming, and wilfully pretended to misunderstand it.
“I’m writing another book, and the people who published my first one have already asked me about it, so I hope they’ll take it.”
“Ah, indeed. Well, no doubt they will be only too glad — I hope so, I hope so. But I meant your daily work, my child — the secretaryship.”
“I shall begin again next month — as soon as Sir Rupert and Lady Honoret come back from Scotland.”
“What are these people like, may I ask?”
“Lady Honoret writes, and knows a great many clever people, and Sir Rupert is in the City — and gives a great deal to charity.”
“Does he — does he? But now forgive me, my dear child — are these people altogether desirable — is the tone of their house quite what it should be?” Lydia, genuinely astonished, could only reply: “I think so — I don’t know — I’ve never thought about it.”
“No, indeed — how shou
ld you at your age? But your acquaintance with this lady came about very casually, I understand, and — and In short, my dear Lydia, I have lately heard one or two things which disturbed me, and led me to think it my duty to utter a word of warning. Nathalie has so much affection for you, and you have so identified yourself with our little daily round of life here, that I — I could no more let you go into danger with your eyes shut than I could my own daughter.”
The good Rector’s voice held emotion, as well as great earnestness, and Lydia said with perfect sincerity: “It’s very kind of you, Mr. Palmer, and I can’t be grateful enough. But my post is a very good one, and really and truly the work I do is almost all connected with charities — the hospitals, and institutions and things of which Sir Rupert is patron. He is a very generous man.”
“Is that so? There are many most open-handed members of the Jewish community, I know — indeed, many a professed Christian might be put to shame by them. But that brings me to another point. Should you not rather employ your capabilities — your great capabilities — in some service other than that of an alien faith?”
“But Sir Rupert gives to religious objects too,” said Lydia quickly. “At least, I mean he makes no distinction between denominations. There is a Roman Catholic hospital on his list, and he has sent money to Mr.
Clement Damerel’s Church Lads’ Brigade, I know, and several other things.”
“Yes — yes. Damerel certainly described him as a most generous man.”
But the Rector still looked thoroughly uneasy.
“I have no shadow of a right to coerce you in any way, my dear child,” he said at last. “But I do implore you to look upon me as a friend, and if at any time you should feel perplexed or doubtful, as to your position with these people, write to me quite freely. Your confidence will always be treated as sacred, and I might be able to help you. You know,” said the Rector wistfully, “there are a great many branches of work in our own Church that would be only too glad of help and brains like yours. I could easily make inquiries as to a secretarial post with the Church Army or the Y.W.C.A. in London.”
“I am obliged to think of my salary,” said Lydia, not without intention. “My aunt and uncle have done a great deal for me, and it makes a difference to them that I should be able to keep myself comfortably. I get two pounds a week from Sir Rupert Honoret, and my lunch and my tea every day.”
“That is good,” said the Rector.
And the thought crossed his mind, just as Lydia had intended that it should, and found semi-expression in his murmured words: “Yes — I don’t know that the Y.W.C.A. can afford quite that scale of pay....”
On the whole, Lydia, thinking it over afterwards, could not feel the conversation in any way to be regretted. It had established her on the footing almost of an adopted daughter, as regarded the kind old Rector, and Lydia felt that she hardly needed Nathalie’s assurance, warmly given on the night before she was to return to London: “Of course you’ll come to us again, Lydia dear, whenever you can get away, won’t you? Father does so hope you will — I’ve never seen him take such a fancy to anyone as he has to you. And you’ve been so good and dear about helping us, and joining in all our dull ways down here!” Lydia protested affectionately, and said how much she should love to come and stay with Nathalie again.
Only, of course, there was Aunt Beryl to be thought of — and Grandpapa. They must never be allowed to think that Lydia preferred to spend her holidays elsewhere... in fact, if it wasn’t that she’d been at Regency Terrace for an unexpected visit after leaving Madame Elena’s, she ought to have gone there at least for the last week of this month.
“Of course I quite understand,” said Nathalie, “and it’s very good of you, Lydia, always to think of them first. Only, you know, a long journey like the one from London here is hardly worth while unless it’s for a real, proper visit, is it now?” Aunt Beryl, oddly enough, had written very much the same, in reply to Lydia’s letter, explaining that she would have to go straight back to London when she left Clyst Milton.
So evidently no one’s feelings had been hurt, and Lydia could enjoy the Palmers and their comfortable Rectory until the last possible moment quite freely.
She went away at last, able to look back upon her Devonshire month with a delightful feeling of happiness and success. Her friendship with Nathalie was more firmly established now that they had met again, both grown up, and that Nathalie’s childish admiration for Lydia had been reinforced — as it was impossible not to know that it had — from its enthusiastic endorsement from Nathalie’s father, and from Lydia’s own triumphant adaptation of herself to her surroundings.
She had learnt a lot of new things — how one dressed in the country, and wore heavy boots, and went out in all weathers, and climbed backwards out of a dog-cart, and she had made acquaintance with Lady Lucy Damerel, which would silence Miss Forster, once and for all, with her perpetual “Sir Rupert and Lady Honoret.”
The recollection of the Honorets gave Lydia the slightest moment’s pause. After all, Lady Lucy Damerel seemed never to have heard of them, and all that Lydia had reported of the literary and theatrical society that came to Lexham Gardens, and the great publisher’s, Mr. Cassela’s constant visits there, had apparently conveyed nothing at all to the people at Quintmere.
But another thought also struck Lydia quite suddenly, and woke in her an amused mingling of resentment and gratification.
Only one person could have spoken to the old Rector of the Honorets in such a fashion as to make him wonder whether, as he had said, the tone of their house was such as to warrant Lydia’s spending her days there.
And that person was the Reverend Clement Damerel.
XIX
THE return to London seemed like a return to another life.
Even the weather changed suddenly.
No more waking to the sound of the hens clucking below the open window, to the sight of nodding ivyleaves, and to the cheerful anticipation of such novelties as a school entertainment in the village, or an all-day cricket match, with luncheon provided for both teams at Quintmere, as well as the usual Saturday afternoon tea at the pavilion.
Fogs began very early, and seemed to pervade the boarding-house, together with the perpetual smell of cabbages cooking in the basement. Omnibuses lurched and rumbled through the wet streets, and the “Elephant and Castle,” that took Lydia daily to the corner of Lexham Gardens, seemed always full of shiny mackintoshes and dripping umbrellas.
There was a change in the atmosphere of the household there that Lydia could not altogether define.
For one thing, Sir Rupert’s taciturnity seemed to have given place to a spasmodic, unpleasant sort of garrulity, when he would ask his secretary abrupt and apparently disconnected questions, that certainly did not concern her work for him.
“You been in here all day, Miss Raymond?”
“Yes. It was too wet to take my little walk after lunch, I thought.”
“Do they bring your lunch properly in here?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You didn’t go to the dining-room to-day, then?”
“No, Sir Rupert.”
A pause, while Sir Rupert gave his habitual, choked-sounding snort, as though in a useless attempt to modify the ugly nasal intonation with which he always spoke.
“I suppose her Ladyship wasn’t in for lunch, was she?” He always spoke of his wife as “her Ladyship,” And Lydia inwardly resented it.
“I don’t know.”
“She doesn’t tell you her plans, eh?”
“I haven’t seen Lady Honoret for the last day or two.”
“No, I don’t suppose you have. She’s more often out than in, by all accounts,” said Sir Rupert, with a disagreeable, meaningless laugh.
Another day, when he asked Lydia the same question, she was able to reply that Lady Honoret had invited her to luncheon in the dining-room.
“There were some people here, weren’t there?”
“Only
one or two. There was an old lady whose name I didn’t hear, and Mrs. Cohen and Mr. Cassela.”
“H’m. And I suppose they stayed on all the afternoon?”
“I don’t know,” said Lydia. “I came back here at half-past two.”
Sir Rupert gave her a very sharp look, almost as though he were wondering whether or not she was speaking the truth, and Lydia felt vexed and uncomfortable, unable to imagine any reason for these interrogations.
Still more disconcerting did she find it when Sir Rupert took to making sudden appearances in the course of the day, always at hours when he had hitherto been in the City.
“Is her Ladyship in?”
“I don’t know, Sir Rupert.”
“Just ring the bell, will you?” And Sir Rupert would sharply question the footman: “What time did her Ladyship go out?”
“I couldn’t say, Sir Rupert. I’ll inquire, Sir Rupert.”
The footman was always obliged to disappear, in order to collect the information that her Ladyship had gone off in a hansom-cab at half-past two o’clock.
“Didn’t she order the carriage?”
“I believe not, Sir Rupert.”
“Why not? What do I keep a couple of fine horses for, eating their heads off, and fellows in livery and all? Anything wrong with the horses, eh?”
“Not as I’m aware of, Sir Rupert.”
“Send her Ladyship’s maid to me. No — don’t — that’ll do. You can go.”
“Very good, Sir Rupert.”
Then the little Jewish financier turned to Lydia, pretending to be absorbed at her writing-table in the corner.
“Why don’t her Ladyship use the carriage, instead of a low, dirty cab?”
“I don’t know at all. Perhaps Lady Honoret went out in a hurry.”
Sir Rupert snorted again.
Perhaps, after all, old Mr. Palmer’s warnings had not been without reason. Lydia began to feel that she did not much like the atmosphere of the Lexham Gardens house nowadays.
Her relations with Lady Honoret were changed, too.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 169