“No,” murmured Sophie.
“My God, at your age and with your chances, I’d have had every other man in London crawling at my feet — simply.... However, I suppose you can’t help the way you’re made. I’m not blaming you, Sophie, as far as that goes. But this is what I want you to understand; you’ve got to marry. I’d much rather you had the fun of falling in love, but if you can’t do it before marriage, then you must do it after.”
“Mummie, how can I possibly get married if nobody asks me?” protested Sophie.
“Don’t be a little fool. I’m not asking you to do impossibilities. Should I be talking to you like this if there wasn’t something behind it all?”
“I suppose not.”
“It may be the merest moonshine, but I don’t usually make mistakes — about anything. This is utterly and completely private, Sophie, as you’ll see in a minute.”
Clarissa fixed her eyes upon her stepdaughter.
“It seems that Bat Clutterthorpe has been told he’s got to marry. He got himself tangled up with some woman, much older than himself — not a lady, of course — and his father has had to pay up I don’t know how much, and the condition he made was that Bat should marry, and settle down, within a year. Bat had to give in about it, and his mother told Dorothy Sampford, who told me — (that just shows you, Sophie, that it’s worth while keeping in with other women, because only a friend would have told me) — that he isn’t going to give a look-in to any girl who’s shown a sign of running after him. Well, he said there were only two girls in London who hadn’t, and you were one of them, and the other was the St. Abbott girl, who hasn’t a penny — and that puts her out of the running because he doesn’t want to be married for his money. So that, and his coming down here for a week-end, make it pretty nearly certain that you’ve got an extraordinarily good chance of getting the best parti in London.”
Sophie remained silent.
Clarissa’s point of view neither surprised nor repelled her. It had been incessantly before her throughout the past ten years, and was familiar. Viewing marriage through Clarissa’s eyes, it became simply the hall-mark of social failure or success, according to the wealth and the position that it secured. When Sophie thought of love, as between a man and a woman, it was as of something quite unconnected with marriage. She knew that she would have to marry but she felt it to be entirely problematical whether or not she would ever love and be loved. In any case, it had always been made evident to her that the majority of women had their love-affairs after marriage.
“Well?” said Clarissa’s small, clear-cut voice. “I’ve been terribly frank with you, Sophie, because it seemed best. You’re not a fool, you can see what colossal luck it is to have a chance like this. And I’ll tell you honestly, darling, that you owe it to me to make the absolute most of it. Where on earth would you have been but for me?”
Where, indeed?
A fantastic vision of small and stuffy chambres garnies, of untidy trunks dripping with worn dresses, and woollen scarves, and shreds of attenuated tissue paper, of Catiche in felt slippers, and the Princesse talking about putting her rings in pawn, came into Sophie’s mind.
She might have grown up like Alberta.
“Yes, mummie, I know,” she said sincerely. “Then, for God’s sake, Sophie, do something to prove it. It’s the most marvellous opportunity any girl ever had, and it’ll be dead easy for you with only that little fool of a Delphine here. Of course, there’ll be Leila Delmar as well, but I’ll see she’s out of the way. Lucien can take her on.”
Sophie felt a faint distaste at the suggestion. Clarissa’s eyes seemed to harden as she looked at her.
“It’ll do Lucien good,” she said deliberately, “to be taken in hand by an experienced woman like Leila. It’s time he stopped being a schoolboy, as that silly behaviour of his with Miss Bell showed. I don’t care how far he goes with Leila.”
She stood up.
“It’s up to you, Sophie. Don’t forget. Ring up, by the way, and make an appointment to get your hair shampooed and set some time to-morrow. They’ll probably do it vilely, but it’ll be better than that fool Foster. Anyhow, I can’t spare her.” Clarissa went away, but just as she was going, turned round with a final injunction.
“What I’ve told you, about Bat, is absolutely confidential. You’re not to breathe one word of it to a soul, or to know anything about it if he tells you himself. That’s definite.”
“Very well, mummie,” agreed Sophie.
She stood at the window after Clarissa had gone, and gazed rather vaguely across the park to the low range of hills upon the sky-line, seen through a faintly shimmering heat-haze.
So she might be going to marry Bat.
She already liked him very much, and felt that they would probably get on well together. And it would be nice to live at the lovely Clutterthorpe place in Kent, where she had already stayed once or twice. Bat always said that he wanted, eventually, to live in the country, and Sophie hoped that it was true.
It would be nice to have a baby too. Several babies, she hoped. Sophie felt that she would like to have a little boy just like Lucien as she first remembered him — only he would have to be much, much happier than Lucien had been.
With a queer feeling that she might want to cry if she stood there remembering Lucien as a little boy any longer, Sophie turned away from the window, and went to telephone for her appointment with the hairdresser in the county town.
The next day Bat Clutterthorpe arrived.
He was a square, stocky young man, his rather pale, clean-shaven face seeming too large for the shortness of his body. He cultivated an exaggeratedly solemn expression, and seldom allowed it to relax, for, when he intended to be amusing, he always remained serious, and when other people intended to be amusing, he did not, as a rule, find cause for smiling.
He was twenty-nine years old.
Clarissa greeted him with a hard, bright satisfaction that was chiefly displayed in conversation not addressed directly to him; but Fitzmaurice, who had been utterly bored at Mardale, was frankly enthusiastic in his welcome.
“Thank God, we shall have someone to put some life into us. Clarissa playing Lady Bountiful, and sending Lucien and Sophie round the country to carry red flannel petticoats to all the old women, has fairly turned my stomach. Have a cocktail?”
“Reggie, don’t be depraved. It’s too early,” protested his wife. “You can have whiskies-and-soda, if you must.”
“Not for me, thanks.” Clutterthorpe answered her. “Tea, as the curate said.”
Clutterthorpe’s voice was as impassive as his face. Only a tiny quiver at the corners of his long, flexible mouth betrayed him unawares, when he thought that he had scored a success.
“We’ve been too rural for words, ever since we’ve been here,” Clarissa declared. “I drink nothing but milk, and go to bed at six, and Lucien inspects the turnips daily. Sophie adores it, of course, don’t you, darling? She goes and calls on the agent’s wife, and pats the farmers’ children on the heads, and wants to go about in corduroy breeches. So she can, in the winter.”
It was not, of course, true. Corduroy breeches had only that moment occurred to Clarissa, but Sophie felt dimly that the mention of them was designed to put her in an attractive light before Clutterthorpe. Clarissa never spared herself trouble in seeking to achieve her ends, although sometimes, Sophie felt certain, her methods produced results contrary to those she had intended, especially where Lucien was concerned. Sophie instinctively looked towards Lucien now. He met her eyes with a very faint elevation of his brows and with something missing from his glance that she had unconsciously expected to find there.
Sophie felt slightly depressed, and wondered whether Clarissa’s house-party was going to be a success or not. It was years since Lucien had had one of the sulky fits that had brought him into disgrace with Clarissa in his boyhood. He did not like Bat Clutterthorpe. Perhaps, thought Sophie, he would like the Delmars. They had not been to stay at M
ardale before. Soon after five o’clock they arrived, with a tiny, yapping Pekinese, about which they talked incessantly. Both were tall, well dressed, and always ready to talk. They were valuable as guests, for they went everywhere, were related to everybody, and could fling about humorous ready-made opinions on topical questions. Leila Delmar laughed, with a sound like a horse neighing cheerfully, every time that Bat Clutterthorpe spoke. But although her laughter was ugly, and came far too frequently, she was a very pretty woman, with big brown eyes and a straight, slim figure. After tea, when they played tennis, she partnered Lucien, and proved herself to be a magnificent player.
Sophie and Bat were defeated.
“Too sad,” said Clutterthorpe, rapidly blinking his pale eyelashes at Sophie. “Meet me at six o’clock to-morrow morning and we’ll practise half volleys before breakfast.”
“I might practise sending balls over the net, too,” suggested Sophie.
“My dear, yes. You’ve got some terribly good returns, but your service is too, too awful. It’s the kind of thing that I imagine takes place in the annual tennis tournament between St. Ursula’s Private School and the students of the Shorthand Academy on the opposite side of the road.”
Everybody laughed except Lucien, who appeared to be paying no attention. Bat put his arm, with a demonstrative gesture to which he was addicted, round Sophie’s shoulders and exerted a gentle pressure that guided her away from the others.
“Let’s go and look at the peacocks. I have a depraved passion for peacocks,” he said gravely. “I feel the time has come when I must either look at peacocks or scream.”
“I’m afraid, Bat, it means screaming. There are no peacocks.”
“I shall leave to-morrow.”
He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes, and Sophie smiled faintly.
“You don’t like ragging, do you?” Bat inquired softly.
She had an odd, uneasy feeling that he was secretly rather angry, and exerted herself to smile.
“Perhaps I was feeling remorseful about not having any peacocks for you.”
“Never mind, we’ll look at something else instead, or go for a walk. Let’s go for a walk.”
“It’s too near dressing-time.”
Bat gave her a look of some astonishment, and it occurred to Sophie, with a faint sense of amusement, that the possibility of having such an invitation refused had never crossed his mind.
“Just as you like, of course,” he observed after a pause, and they strolled back to the house. Bat talked, with careful casualness, of the people staying in the house.
“Delphine Wingate has less sex-appeal than anything I’ve ever met that called itself female.
Leila, of course, is compounded of it. As for you — —” —
He turned and scrutinized her.
Sophie was accustomed, not only to the topic, but to almost incessant discussion of it. She decided that, by becoming personal, Bat intended to convey to her his interest in herself. It was flattering, and she wished that she could feel more elated.
But she could only listen, without saying very much in return, whilst Clutterthorpe told her that she had great potentialities for passion, but was completely unawakened and had no idea of her own powers.
Her own lack of responsiveness, Sophie felt guiltily, was the only reason why he presently left off talking and became silent.
Clarissa was on the steps as they approached the house. She took no notice of them beyond a quick, flashing smile, but Sophie knew that she was pleased.
That was a good thing.
The house was so much more pleasant for everybody when Clarissa was pleased.
Sophie ran up to her own room to dress for dinner.
Her frock of frilly, maize-coloured lace, with a large gold bow at the side, lay on the bed. It was a new frock, and Sophie had looked forward to wearing it. She wondered vaguely why she did not feel happier about it now. The frock was lovely. There was sure to be dancing after dinner, and there seemed to be little doubt that Bat Clutterthorpe intended to ask her to marry him. She ought to be feeling excited and triumphant and radiant instead of depressed and rather frightened. Then she remembered that Lucien was in a bad temper, and that he had almost certainly incurred Clarissa’s displeasure by his tacit refusal to be interested in Leila Delmar. If anyone were going to be interested in Leila, it was Sophie’s father. Clarissa wouldn’t like that either.
What is the matter with me, thought Sophie, astonished, trying to make the worst of everything like this? She had scarcely finished dressing before a message was brought her, to the effect that her stepmother wished to see her before she went downstairs. Sophie looked at herself in the glass, approved the appearance of the maize-coloured frills and the smooth pale gold of her hair, and tried to guess what direction Clarissa’s faultfinding would take.
Clarissa, in a slim chiffon frock that clung to the lines of her figure, was sitting before the long glass in her bedroom, while Foster fastened round her neck three ropes of enormous pearls.
“Is that you, Sophie? Hold yourself properly. Yes, that’s all right — that frock’ll do. Here, I want you to try this new lip-stick. It’s a much darker kind and absolutely new. Foster, give Miss Sophie that new Mountain Tan.”
Sophie, regardless of the fact that her lips were already a bright Vermillion, began to apply the Mountain Tan.
“Wipe your mouth first, you little fool!” screamed Clarissa. “You can’t put it on top of that other stuff.”
She wasn’t, however, angry, and when the Mountain Tan was on, she approved it highly.
“That’s all right. It suits her, doesn’t it, Foster?”
“Yes, madam, indeed it does,” said Foster warmly. “Miss Sophie is a lucky young lady to have you to think of things for her.”
Clarissa was almost always pleased by that kind of remark, Sophie reflected. In some ways Foster managed her better than anybody else could do. She had been with Clarissa for nearly four years now. No other maid had ever stayed more than four months.
“You’re not often right, Foster, but you are this time,” Clarissa declared. “Clear out, now.”
When the maid had gone, she turned to Sophie.
“We’re going to dance after dinner. Buck up, because Leila Delmar dances dam’ well. The Wingate child is a wash-out, of course.”
“Yes, mummie.”
When they got downstairs, they found Bat at the piano. He always spent every available moment there, smoking as he strummed, and occasionally singing a few lines of any popular song of the moment in a high, flat voice.
Lady Delmar and Delphine Wingate were listening to him, and Fitzmaurice was leaning on the end of the piano, presumably beating time to some inaudible rhythm that had no connection with the sounds that the piano was making.
“Let’s do it.... let’s do it.
Let’s fall in lo — o — ove,” sang Bat, his large white hands moving softly over the keys.
“Isn’t he marvellous?” said Leila Delmar. “Really and truly, he’s as good as half these revue people that one pays to go and hear.”
Bat continued his entertainment until dinner was announced.
There was dancing afterwards, as Clarissa had decreed. Sophie, in vain, reiterated to herself Clarissa’s injunction to “buck up”. She felt limp and tired, and sought in vain to galvanize her steps as she danced, mechanically and without inspiration, with Bat.
She saw Clarissa looking at her.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Clutterthorpe.
“Nothing,” said Sophie weakly.
“But, my dear, you’re dancing too abominably. Like someone out of a vicarage or something. You don’t usually put up such a poor show.
Good heavens, I’d rather dance with Delphine Wingate.”
“Then please do,” said Sophie, and stood stockstill on the instant.
Bat was not at all disconcerted.
“D’you know, I think I will,” he observed tranquilly, and went across the
hall to the large bookcase where Delphine Wingate and Fitzmaurice were unconvincingly discussing books.
What have I done? thought Sophie, and her eyes instinctively turned in search of Clarissa.
Instead of her stepmother, she saw Lucien watching her. As their glances met he came forward and put his arm round her, his movements blending almost imperceptibly into the first steps of a waltz.
“Quarrelled with Bat, Sophie?”
“I don’t think so. I’m dancing badly, that’s all. I don’t know why.”
“You couldn’t dance badly if you tried. How do you think the party’s going?”
“All right, isn’t it? Or, perhaps — I don’t know. Clarissa’s quite pleased.”
“Quite.”
They danced in silence for a few moments.
“Do you know that she’s asked your friend Carruthers to come here for a week-end next month?”
“Cliffe Montgomery? Oh Lucien, won’t he hate it?”
“He won’t come. Not even to see you.”
The music ceased abruptly.
Clarissa had switched off the wireless.
“Cold drinks, everybody,” she commanded, rather than invited. “And then we’ll have some bridge. The children can go on dancing if they like afterwards.”
“Please, I’m one of the children,” screamed Leila Delmar. “Me wants to go on dancing.”
“So do I,” declared her husband. “With you, Clarissa.”
She threw him her hard, fleeting smile.
“We’ll see. Reggie and Lucien are dying for bridge, I know.”
“I’m not,” said Clutterthorpe blandly.
There was a general laugh.
In the midst of it Bat returned to the piano and began to play again.
Delphine Wingate, too self-conscious to remain by herself, slipped her arm through Sophie’s and drew her across the room to listen.
X
RAOUL RADOW
THE Delmars had expressed a wish to see the neighbouring Abbey — such a wish as can be instantly evoked from tactful and experienced guests at the faintest indication that its fulfilment would be a convenience to their hostess.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 330