Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Sophie, rallying, laughed with him at herself.

  “I don’t think it’s that exactly,” she confessed. “I was really thinking of mummie. She’ll be — well, I think I’d rather not tell her till after the house-party has broken up, Bat.”

  “Just as you like, of course. I don’t think she’ll stand in our way; do you?”

  He laughed, and again Sophie laughed with him.

  Then she stood up.

  “We’re going to be late for lunch. Let’s come along.”

  They went back to the house, Bat Clutterthorpe from time to time singing softly to himself a popular American refrain in his curiously high voice.

  Once he said:

  “I say, let’s be married quite soon, shall we?” And Sophie replied, “All right.” Otherwise, they did not speak to one another.

  They reached Mardale without having seen any sign of Lucien and Delphine Wingate.

  “Fancy if they were doing exactly what we’ve been doing — getting themselves engaged,” suggested Bat, in the demure tones of one hazarding a consciously extravagant supposition.

  Sophie, startled, made no reply.

  “So I’m engaged,” she thought, and wondered what kind of engagement-ring Bat would give her.

  She hoped not diamonds; everybody had those. Emeralds were the stones that she liked best — but, of course, Bat couldn’t be expected to know that.

  With such thoughts occupying the surface of her mind, Sophie entered the cool gloom of the hall, and found there her father, shaking cocktails.

  “Hallo, Sophia! Have you heard that we’ve got another visitor?”

  “No.”

  Sophie deduced from Fitzmaurice’s tone that he was scarcely more exhilarated by the new arrival than by that of Raoul Radow.

  “A thing that calls itself Lawrence, and seems to be the keeper of that half-baked fiddler fellow,” Fitzmaurice gloomily informed her. “At least this one speaks English.”

  “But when did he come, and how and why?”

  “Ask your mother, not me. He turned up in some sort of car about an hour ago, and he and Radow started talking French nineteen to the dozen, and your mother said he was staying to lunch. My God,” said Fitzmaurice disconsolately, “what a thing it is to be living in someone else’s house. If I had a bean of my own, Sophia, I’d go and live in a cottage — a hovel — anywhere, so long as it belonged to me, and I could run my own show as I pleased.”

  Sophie gave a slightly abstracted attention to these lamentations. She had very frequently heard them before, and it was impossible, in listening to Fitzmaurice, to escape the conviction that his grievances, such as they were, had long ago passed into the region of habits.

  “There they are,” he added, glancing out of the nearest window.

  Sophie’s gaze followed his.

  Monsieur Radow, a long lock of his black hair falling forward over his eyes, his hands waving eloquently about, was walking towards the house in earnest conversation with a short, squarely built companion with a hard collar and a grey felt hat that looked new.

  “You see,” said Fitzmaurice accusingly, as though Sophie had expressed doubt as to the existence of this most recent phenomenon.

  “Yes, I see. But who is he?”

  “Radow’s Mr. Lawrence is all I know. Some kind of agent or keeper,” Fitzmaurice repeated. “I say, Sophia, go and head them off till your mother comes down, for Heaven’s sake. Show them the pictures in the hall, or the umbrellas, or anything you like. Only don’t bring them in here till there’s somebody else. It’s bad enough me having to give that fellow a first-class drink when I know very well I ought to be poisoning him instead.”

  Sophie obediently went into the outer hall.

  Lawrence turned out to be a fair, clean-shaven man, rather past middle age, with cold, penetrating eyes of a peculiar light-green colour, and an expression of cast-iron determination.

  The mournful and emaciated Radow beside him resembled a captive animal in a circus rather than a distinguished musician.

  Sophie shook hands with Mr. Lawrence, and received a short, sharp grip that nearly caused her to cry out.

  “He is taking me away this afternoon,” said Radow, in a voice of mingled nervousness and relief.

  “But I think mummie hoped that perhaps—”

  “Thanks, no,” interrupted Mr. Lawrence. “I am taking monsieur Radow to his mother-in-law’s house by car this afternoon.”

  “Yeh,” said Radow eagerly.

  Sophie remembered that it was Clarissa who had insisted upon retaining her guest, regardless of his attempts to go. It was evident, now, that Radow intended to leave the question in the hands of his Mr. Lawrence, so much more capable, efficient and determined than himself.

  It would be interesting to see Clarissa and Mr. Lawrence join issue — the kind of thing that secretly amused Lucien and herself.

  “Have you seen my brother? Do you know if he and Miss Wingate got back from church before we did?” she asked Radow.

  “Yeh. They go round the garden. Why do you call him your brother?”

  “Why — ?”

  “Why, yeh. You have not any brother,” said Radow positively.

  He turned to Mr. Lawrence, more conversational than anybody at Mardale had seen him yet, and observed in an explanatory manner:

  “This young lady, she is the daughter of my wife. By the husband that she — that divorce her on my account. Mr. Fitzmaurice, the husband of the lady of this house.”

  “Quite,” said Mr. Lawrence imperturbably.

  “But so far as I know, my wife did not have any other child — not by Mr. Fitzmaurice, nor by me — alas — nor by anyone else — so far as I know.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Lawrence.

  “Therefore” — monsieur Radow returned to Sophie again— “you have not any brother.”

  “I suppose not. But—”

  “The name of the young man is not Fitzmaurice?”

  “Oh no. He’s Lucien Marley. Mummie was a widow before daddy married her.”

  “Widows,” said monsieur Radow, shaking his head, as it were, in parenthesis.

  “But Lucien and I have always been brother and sister since we were children.”

  “To be children is not the same as to be grownup,” said Radow uncontrovertibly.

  Sophie experienced the familiar sensation of listening to something that she had heard before, on some occasion utterly forgotten. She looked at Radow, unable to say anything.

  Lawrence broke the spell by the abrupt announcement that he wanted to send a telephone message.

  “I’ll show you where — or shall we send it for you?”

  “I’ll do it myself, thanks,” Mr. Lawrence replied, with the decisiveness that Sophie was already beginning to expect from him.

  She conducted him to the telephone, received from him a curt “Thanks” that amounted to a dismissal, and returned through the hall to find that the party was assembled for lunch.

  Her eyes immediately sought and found Lucien, and she moved towards him just as Bat, as usual at the piano, began strumming rather loudly. “What’s on this afternoon, Sophie?”

  “Nothing special. Only tennis.”

  “I suppose you couldn’t come somewhere with me? No,” as they both involuntarily glanced at Clarissa, “I suppose not. Look here, darling, dress early this evening if you possibly can — anyway as quickly as you can — and slip down to the schoolroom. I’ll wait for you there.”

  Sophie signed assent.

  There was no need to answer in words.

  An extraordinary sensation of happiness suddenly pervaded her.

  XIII

  SOPHIE FINDS HERSELF COMMITTED

  THE presence of Mr. Lawrence at Mardale complicated things rather curiously.

  It appeared that he was quite as determined to take Radow away with him that afternoon as Clarissa was that both of them should remain at Mardale. The subject was broached at lunch by Clarissa herself, with all her ha
bitual assumption of arrogantly controlling the destinies of her surroundings.

  Mr. Lawrence, his light-green eyes fixed coldly upon his hostess, and his manner entirely imperturbable, announced his intention of starting for the house of the Princesse de Candi-Laquerriere at three o’clock with monsieur Radow.

  “You can’t do that,” crisply returned Clarissa. “I’m keeping you both till to-morrow at least.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Lawrence, not at all like a person who was in the least afraid.

  “We’ll see about that. I must talk to you this afternoon.”

  “Any time before three o’clock,” said Mr. Lawrence.

  Radow’s enormous eyes were staring at his agent with a candid awe and gratitude that made Sophie want to laugh. She hoped that Clarissa would not notice him.

  “Mr. Lawrence, I’m going to be terribly frank, and if necessary terribly rude,” Clarissa said in her smallest, clearest voice. “Monsieur Radow came here entirely by chance, and, as I think you know, there were reasons which would have made quite a number of women in my position suggest that he should continue his journey then and there. I didn’t do that. I saw he wasn’t well. I knew he was a foreigner, and I said at once, this is up to me. He was brought into the house at my orders as my guest. I expect him to show’ some consideration for my wishes in return.”

  “Quite,” said Mr. Lawrence.

  “Then that’s settled.”

  “Three o’clock,” said Mr. Lawrence.

  Clarissa, her eyes glittering and her mouth set, changed the conversation abruptly.

  After lunch was over, she curtly told Sophie to get up some tennis.

  “And take Radow with you to look on or whatever you like. But I want to get him away from that intolerable agent person.”

  “Yes, mummie.”

  Sophie had some difficulty in arranging her tennis. Leila Delmar and Fitzmaurice had disappeared. Delphine Wingate, who played tennis as badly as she did everything else, pretended to have a headache and said that she wanted to lie down. And Bat Clutterthorpe professed himself unable to understand Sophie’s energy on a hot afternoon, and suggested that they should sit in the garden instead.

  “Do you really want to play tennis, Sophie?” inquired Lucien.

  “Not very much,” she admitted. “It was mummie’s idea. I think she wants to talk to Mr. Lawrence, and she’d like monsieur Radow out of the way.”

  “So should I,” murmured Bat. “Right out of the way. Dreadful person!”

  “I’ll look after him for half an hour. He can tell me about his mama in Roumania, who faints. But at a quarter to three punctually,” said Lucien, “I shall take him to his Mr. Lawrence, all ready to start. It will save time and trouble in the long run, for I’m convinced that when Mr. Lawrence decides that it’s time for Radow to move on, Radow does move on.”

  “Allowing for the fact,” asked Bat, “that if your respected mother decides otherwise, she will expect to be obeyed?”

  “Quite,” replied Lucien, taking a leaf out of Mr. Lawrence’s book. And he went off in search of monsieur Radow.

  Sophie, looking out of the window, saw them, a strangely assorted couple, walking slowly away together across the terrace, Radow’s expressive hands waving as they went. Lucien’s head was bent. She could not see his face, yet she visualized very clearly the expression of genuine interest, combined with mild amusement, that he was almost certainly wearing.

  “Sophie.”

  Bat Clutterthorpe’s voice behind her caused her to start violently.

  He laughed.

  “Yes, I’m still here. You haven’t, I take it, forgotten that we’ve just become engaged.”

  He put his arm round her waist and drew her towards him.

  Sophie — who had, in point of fact, temporarily forgotten that she and Bat Clutterthorpe had just become engaged — realized that to be reminded of the fact did not exhilarate her.

  He did not kiss her, as she had half expected him to do, but drew her down to sit on the arm of his chair, and began to talk of his intention of settling down and living at home.

  Sophie listened dreamily, giving half her attention to what he was saying, and at the same time wondering whether or not Clarissa’s determination would prevail over that of Mr. Lawrence.

  It did not.

  At a quarter to three Lucien, true to his word, reappeared with monsieur Radow acquiescently following in his steps, and went into the hall.

  Sophie, who had seen them from the window, exclaimed almost involuntarily.

  “Is this where Greek meets Greek?” said Bat. “We mustn’t miss it.”

  They, also, went into the hall.

  “Where is Lawrence?” Radow inquired, looking all round him as though expecting his agent to materialize by degrees.

  Through the arched doorway that led to the morning-room, Clarissa appeared. It was perfectly evident that she was very angry.

  Her glance fell first upon Sophie.

  “Sophie, I thought I told you to get up some tennis.”

  “Nobody wanted to play, mummie.”

  “I didn’t tell you to find out if anybody wanted to play. I told you to play. I think you’ve utterly lost your heads, all of you, just lately. Perhaps you don’t realize that this is my show, and I intend to run it my own way.”

  She wheeled round upon Radow.

  “I don’t expect you to break up my party at the bidding of a paid agent. I’ve had you here, and I’ve—”

  “Mother!” Lucien protested.

  Lawrence had just come in.

  “Paid agent nothing,” monsieur Radow remarked colloquially. “How do you think I pay Lawrence when I make nothing myself? He take a per cent, yes, when I have recitals, but more often—”

  “That’s enough, Raoul,” said Mr. Lawrence repressively. “I’ve got the car at the door.”

  He looked at Lucien.

  “You’ll want the bags brought down,” said Lucien, and he rang the bell and gave the order. Clarissa suddenly struck the table a blow with her open hand that caused the glass bowl of flowers on it to rock dangerously.

  “Very well. Have it your own way. And don’t think, for one minute, please, that it matters to Her voice was still pitched very low and quietly, but the fury in it was undisguised.

  “Good-bye, monsieur Radow. No, please don’t thank me. I think I know exactly how much gratitude I may expect from you. Sophie, I want you.”

  She went into the morning-room without a glance at Lawrence.

  Sophie held out her hand to Raoul Radow, who ceremoniously kissed it, and bowed to Lawrence.

  Then she followed her stepmother.

  Clarissa’s hysterical rages were almost periodical, and Sophie had very often witnessed them before. She sat silent, while Clarissa threw herself about on the sofa, sobbed and cried, and bit so deeply into her own wrist that the skin turned livid. All the time she went on talking, incoherently raving about Radow, Mr. Lawrence, Lucien, and Sophie herself. She repeated again and again that she spent all her money on her husband and children, and that they showed neither gratitude nor submission in return. She was, she declared, exhausting herself, wearing out her nerves, and all to no purpose. Why didn’t Sophie get married, like other girls?

  “I’m going to,” said Sophie, very low.

  “That’s all very well, you little fool, but it isn’t going to be so easy as you seem to think. Bat Clutterthorpe seems to me to have cooled off a good deal since he’s seen rather more of you. I’m not surprised either. What do you know about men? There isn’t one of you — not one of you—”

  Her sobs choked her.

  “Mummie,” said Sophie, “it’s all right. Bat has asked me to marry him. He did it this morning.”

  “Sophie! Not really?” Clarissa abruptly sat up.

  “Really, mummie.”

  “How marvellous, how utterly marvellous! No girl ever had such a piece of luck before. Darling, you owe it all to me, and I hope you realize it. B
at wouldn’t have looked at you if it wasn’t for my money and the training I’ve given you. Now, do you see how absolutely worth while it’s all been?”

  Clarissa sprang to her feet and kissed Sophie. Then she looked at herself in the glass.

  Her tears had made havoc of paint and powder, and her waved, shingled hair lay in hopeless disorder round her head.

  It was entirely characteristic of her that the return of her self-control should be as complete as it had been sudden.

  “Good God, what a sight I look! I shall have to go and tidy my face up. Sophie, you swear this is true? You haven’t made some senseless mistake or other?”

  “No, mummie, it’s quite true.”

  “Thank your stars you’ve got such a mother!” said Clarissa jocosely. “You’re not to tell anyone anything till I’ve seen Bat myself. Look here, give me half an hour upstairs and then send him to me in here.”

  “Very well, mummie.”

  “You’d better bring him in yourself — and after two minutes, clear out.”

  “Very well,” said Sophie again.

  “Just make sure there’s nobody in the hall before I make a dash for it. I can’t be seen like this.”

  Sophie went out and returned to say that the way was clear, and her stepmother went swiftly across the hall and upstairs.

  Feeling extraordinarily tired, Sophie wondered whether she could herself reach the shelter of the schoolroom without meeting anybody at all. The house was very silent. It seemed to her that everybody must surely be out of doors.

  She thought of monsieur Radow and his agent safely travelling away from the violent, relentless atmosphere of incessant strain diffused by Clarissa at Mardale to the so different atmosphere at “Anarajapurah”.

  Sophie sighed.

  Upstairs a door opened, and she heard Clarissa call impatiently: “Foster!”

  In case the next call should be for herself, Sophie turned quickly and went out of the hall door. She wondered whether Lucien was perhaps somewhere in the garden, and, thinking that if so, he would have gone wherever there was least chance of meeting any of the members of his mother’s house-party, she directed her steps towards an overgrown corner, beyond the rose-garden, where a rickety and disused summer-house was awaiting demolition.