They were to have dinner at the Exhibition.
“Let me see — —”
Lady Margaret — kind, short-sighted, and incurably matchmaking —— was peering at her youthful friends, only anxious to please them all, and to make sure that those who wanted to be together should be together.
“Mary, supposing you and Joan” — Joan was Lady Margaret’s unmarried daughter—” go with David and — let me see — Ronald in his car. And, Captain Lane, will you take care of my daughter Dorothy, if you don’t mind a taxi-cab? Now, what about you, Monica? Will you and Mr. Ashe go in the carriage with Peter and Rachel? I dare say it’ll get there just as soon as they will, in their machines.”
It was quite certain that it would do nothing of the kind, and everyone laughed politely at Lady Margaret’s little joke. Everyone also agreed — naturally — to her suggestions.
Monica looked at the other girls.
Rachel Modbury’s engagement to Peter Miller had just been announced, and Monica gazed at her eagerly. She was not pretty, but had a fresh, cheerful face, with a slightly open mouth, no chin, and candid-looking hazel eyes. Every time that Peter spoke to her she giggled. On the fourth finger of her left hand was an enormous emerald. Monica did not care for her dress — a fussy affair of pink tulle, with a broad pink scarf, matching the pink bandeau that was bound round her fuzzy fair hair.
Joan Miller, who was much prettier, wasn’t engaged to anybody, and she must be older than the Rachel girl. Monica wondered whether she minded.
The girl who had been introduced as Mary Collier, Monica had never seen before. She was very tall and dark, with a slightly underhung jaw, and straight black eyebrows over a pair of deep grey eyes. She wore a very plain satin dress, of an unusual shade of green, and her thick black hair was parted in the middle, and had not been fluffed out at all. Monica decided that she certainly wasn’t pretty, although she might be called interesting-looking.
It really did seem, although one hardly liked even to think such a thing, as if she herself were the prettiest girl there. Monica could not help wondering if anybody else thought so too.
She had on a new frock, that her mother had said was exactly right for this kind of occasion. Not too much of an evening-dress, yet with a charming little V-neck, of very palest blue satin, covered with blue net, and with a little bunch of forget-me-nots at the waist.
Did Claude Ashe think her pretty? However many times Monica reminded herself, and was reminded, of her mother’s axiom, that prettiness was not the thing that counted most, she still wanted Claude Ashe to think her pretty. She felt self-conscious whenever she caught his eye, and looked resolutely away from him and at the other men.
Peter Miller was not in the least interesting since he was now engaged to be married; but David Collier might be nice — tall and dark, like his sister, but younger-looking. The remaining man (Lady Margaret’s son-in-law — like Peter — did not count) was Captain Lane, and Monica had neither met him nor heard of him before.
She was, without quite knowing it, at once prepared to like him because he was very big — a tall young man, heavily built, and with fair hair already receding from his temples at twenty-nine — and had a deep, loud, masculine voice, and a habit of staring down into the eyes of any woman with whom he shook hands.
The drive was most amusing. It was the first time that Monica had been allowed to go anywhere, unchaperoned, with young men and girls of her own age, all of whom knew one another and one another’s world, and in whose freemasonry she felt herself to be immediately included. She found herself talking and laughing quite naturally even with Claude Ashe — presently, indeed, it was especially with Claude Ashe.
Although he was so quiet he could say amusing things, gently and unexpectedly, and Monica noticed with a thrill of pleasure that it was her eyes that he sought with his own, when they all laughed together.
The party had arranged to meet at the entrance and to have dinner on arrival. Monica wondered if Claude Ashe would take the chair next to hers at dinner. Surely, surely, if he did, that would almost amount to a proof.
“Ladies and gentlemen, sort yourselves, as the parson said at the double wedding,” cried Dorothy humorously, and they all laughed again.
“May I come here?” said Claude, and he put his hand on the chair next to Monica’s.
She felt more and more excited and happy as the gay, noisy dinner went on. Dorothy’s husband had ordered champagne, and although Monica, who still hated the unaccustomed taste, only sipped at hers, she felt that her face was becoming flushed, and her voice and her laughter much readier than usual.
On her other side sat Captain Lane, and presently he was rallying her about her bunch of forget-me-nots, as though they had known one another for years.
“When are you going to stop talking to that fellow, and talk to me instead?” Claude murmured jealously.
Monica was intoxicated with success.
After dinner, they all wandered about together for a little while, then gradually drifted to the Amusements.
“Let’s go on the switchback.”
“The water-chute is ripping.”
“Oh yes, do let’s go on the water-chute!”
It was Claude who helped Monica into the boat, and sat next to her. She was aware of his presence, even in the tense excitement of approaching the steep slope down which the boat was to dash….
“Oh — oh — I’m terrified. … Is it safe?”
“It’s all right!”
They all screamed as the boat shot over the edge.
Monica, clutching the edge of the boat as it rocked madly into smoothness again, felt what a mercy it was that she had retained presence of mind enough not to grasp at her neighbour, which would have been embarrassing.
“Did you like it?”
“Oh, it was glorious!”
“Come on; let’s go down again! They say it’s more fun when you’re used to it.”
“Well, I shan’t. I think it’s simply awful,” declared Joan Miller. “I’m going on the switchback. I’m sure it’s a much more painless death.”
Laughing with and at one another, they formed into small, separate parties. Monica, with Claude Ashe, Captain Lane, and Mary Collier, prepared to enjoy again the thrill of the water-chute.
This time she shared her small seat in the boat with Captain Lane. He took up a great deal more room than Claude Ashe had done, she could not help noticing.
A number of people had crowded in front of them — they were in the last seat of all, and Mary Collier and Claude Ashe, unable to get places at all, stood laughing and making signs that they would get into the next boat.
“We’re off!”
“Hold tight!”
‘Ow-ow!” The girl in front of Monica was screaming.
Monica did not scream. She caught her breath, and, half jubilant and half alarmed, turned to Captain Lane.
He smiled down at her — an attractive smile, revealing admirable teeth; and at the same instant the boatman called out a warning: “Off she goes!”
Monica gasped involuntarily.
At almost the same instant she felt Lane’s arm round her waist, and, as the boat shot over the waterfall, he caught her closely to him.
Sensations as unfamiliar as they were exciting rushed upon Monica.
In one bewildering moment she felt profoundly shocked and unspeakably elated.
The boat rocked…. Lane relaxed his hold, shifted his arm slightly, and, holding Monica by the shoulder, gently forced her to look round at him.
“Wasn’t that wonderful?”
Monica had not the least idea what she ought to say. Instinctively, she referred everything, as she had been taught to do from babyhood, to the bar of her mother’s judgment, and she knew, of course, that her mother would say that Captain Lane was behaving like a cad, and that Monica must instantly make it clear to him that she was Not that Kind of Girl.
Monica, did not, however, know how to do this.
Wor
se still, she did not want to do it.
“Did you enjoy it?”
She pretended to think that he meant the waterfall.
“I wasn’t as frightened as I was the first time.”
He laughed.
“Where are the others?” said Monica hurriedly.
“I don’t know — and, what’s more, I don’t think I very much care. Neither do you.”
“But I do!” Monica said without conviction.
She could not resist looking up at him as she spoke, and he looked down into her eyes and laughed.
“I’m not going to let Ashe monopolize you as he did at dinner. It’s my turn now — I’ve been waiting for it all the evening. Mind that step!”
He put his hand beneath her elbow, steadying her as she got out of the boat, and again that unfamiliar thrill went all through her.
“Have you been on the switchback yet?”
“No.”
“Come on, then. We’ll go.”
He was being masterful, exactly like the people in books! Monica found it entrancing. She had never felt in the least like this with Claude Ashe, who was not masterful at all, and indeed, in a few minutes she had forgotten the very existence of Claude Ashe.
Christopher Lane was saying things in his deep, booming voice.
“I didn’t think I was going to meet anyone like you this evening. Joan asked me, and she said the Colliers were coming and a Miss Ingram who was only just out, and I wasn’t a bit interested. I don’t like girls who are only just out.”
“Never?”
“Well, hardly ever,” Lane laughed.
Monica thought the repartee brilliant.
“I’m always frightened of people who are older than I am.”
“Always?”
“Well, nearly always.”
They laughed together. It was wonderful.
On the switchback Lane asked if she was nervous.
“Terrified,” said Monica, not certain of what the answer might lead to, but knowing that was what he meant her to say.
“I’ll hold your hand,” he promptly declared.
His clasp was gentle, and yet strong and protective. Again, the feeling of being at once shocked and delighted went all through her, but this time pleasure and wild excitement predominated over every other sensation.
Down, and up again, flew the little trolley — Lane’s large hand tightened upon Monica’s and instinctively her fingers returned the pressure.
The car negotiated a sharp curve, and Monica, unresisting, was swung against his shoulder. When the end of the brief, nerve-racking transit was reached she was almost lying in his arms.
He released her instantly as the motion ceased, but kept her hand in his.
“Would you have liked that better with Ashe?”
Monica shook her head.
“Let’s do it again, shall we?”
“I — I don’t think so.”
Christopher Lane immediately bought two more tickets for the next journey, for which the trolleys were already filling up again.
“Are you angry with me?”
Monica, feeling sure she ought to say Yes, but afraid that if she did he might believe her, and not like her any more, said nothing.
“You’re not really, are you?”
His voice sounded dreadfully anxious.
She still remained silent, not looking at him.
“If you are,” said Captain Christopher Lane — and his voice now was grave, and rather cold— “of course, I’ll take you back to the others at once. Please do tell me, if you’d rather I did.”
She had vexed him!
In a panic at the thought of such a thing, Monica looked up at him.
“But I wouldn’t!”
“You — darling!”
She couldn’t be certain of the word. It was lost in the noise going on all around them. But there was no mistaking the expression on his face.
“Stand back, please — cars all full up now —— !”
They were off.
Monica longed ardently to feel her hand in his again. He made no movement. Incredibly — and surely involuntarily? — she looked round, although without moving. Instantly, as though at a signal, his hand closed over hers.
Bliss invaded her.
This, surely, was love — the most wonderful thing in life. Monica forgot to think about her mother, and what her mother would have thought and said of Captain Lane — forgot about the rest of the party — forgot about time itself.
After the switchback, they wandered about in the semidarkness, still holding hands and talking. Christopher was no longer laughing and teasing her. He was talking to her quite seriously about himself, and telling her how much he wished that he could have met someone like her earlier in his life.
“We can be friends now, though,” Monica assured him, earnestly and diffidently.
“Will you really?”
“If you really want me to.”
“You know I do.”
“Then I will. Of course I will. I — I’d love to.”
“You’re the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met! May I call you Monica?”
“Oh!”
She was thinking how shocked the Millers would be, who knew that she had met him for the first time that evening. They would probably speak of it to Lady Margaret, who in her turn might tell Monica’s mother.
As though he had guessed her sudden panic, Christopher added: “Only when we’re by ourselves — Monica. Because I want to see a great deal of you.”
“Oh,” she cried, “I wish we weren’t going away! But we shall be leaving London next week, I’m afraid.”
“Then we must meet as often as possible before you go. What are you doing to-morrow?”
“Hurlingham, in the afternoon.”
“Good; that’s easy.”
“Shall you be there?” gasped Monica, hardly able to believe in such good fortune.
“Of course. If there’s a chance of seeing you.”
“I shall be with mother.”
“Anybody else?”
“No one else is coming with us, but I expect we shall meet people we know.”
“One person you know, anyhow,” he said, looking into her eyes and smiling; and at the tingling sensation that ran through her veins like fire Monica forgot that for one anxious instant she had waited to hear him ask for an introduction to Mrs. Ingram.
“I’m horribly afraid that I ought to take you back to the others now — wherever they may be. It’s getting rather late.”
Monica was horrified that this reminder of the time should have come from him rather than from herself.
“I was just going to say that we ought to look for them,” she lied hurriedly.
Christopher put his hand on her arm, drawing her further away from the lights.
“I want to say good-night to you first,” he told her softly.
Although she did not exactly know what to expect, Monica’s heart began to beat violently.
“Oughtn’t we to hurry?”
“Not for a minute. I think you’re perfectly sweet, Monica. The loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh!”
“Do you like me a tiny bit?”
“You know I do,” she whispered, nearly suffocated by the throbbing in her breast.
Could he be going to ask her to marry him?
Christopher put his hand under her chin, and gently tilted her face upwards.
“Good-night, you little darling.”
He bent his head. Obeying a blind instinct, Monica turned her face sideways, so that his kiss alighted on the middle of her cheek.
For a moment the world stood still round her….
“There they are!”
It was Joan Miller’s voice.
“Is that you, Lane?”
“Where on earth have you been?” calmly enquired Christopher Lane. “We’ve been looking for you.”
“And we’ve been looking for you. Is Mr. Ashe with you?”
“Oh, well, I expect we shall pick him up at the gate. We said we’d all meet there about eleven o’clock, if we got separated. Rachel wants to get home. Her mother said she wasn’t to be late.”
Scarcely knowing what she did, Monica walked on with the others. They were all there, excepting Claude Ashe.
Christopher Lane was no longer beside her. She could hear him talking to Joan.
“Hasn’t it been fun?” said Rachel Modbury, in her flat, unenthusiastic voice that always had the same faintly pleasant inflections.
“Yes, perfectly glorious.”
At the entrance they found a tall form standing rather aimlessly.
“Oh, there’s Mr. Ashe. Good!” The young chaperon was evidently relieved at having collected all her party again.
“Now, how are we going home? The same way that we came?”
“No, Dorothy,” said her sister. “We’d better divide up according to the directions we’re going in — you know what I mean.”
Discussion, and a certain amount of giggling, ensued. Rachel’s mother had sent a car for her, and Peter insisted that he must see her safely home.
“Monica, you’re Eaton Square, and the Colliers are Eaton Place — hadn’t you better all go together?”
“We’re taking a taxi,” said Mary Collier. “Can’t we give you a lift, Miss Ingram?”
“May I ask for one in the same direction?” Christopher enquired.
“Certainly.”
“What about you, Mr. Ashe? Can we —— ?”
“I shall go by the District Railway,” replied Mr. Ashe sepulchrally.
He was standing next to Monica.
“Good-night, and thank you most awfully for — for suggesting that I should come to-night.”
Monica shook hands with him mechanically. His hand seemed extraordinarily limp as it held hers loosely for an instant and then let it drop. She returned the long look that he gave her quite unseeingly; and he turned away and said good-bye to the others without another word to Monica.
The drive back through the comparatively empty streets was a swift and rather silent one. Monica leaned back in her corner next to Mary Collier, feeling all at once more tired than ever in her life before.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 349