“Oh, Monica,” Cecily entreated, “do tell us if he’s proposed and you’ve refused him.”
Monica was very much tempted to reply that she had. She was practically certain that neither of the Marlowes had ever received a proposal, and she knew that if she said that she had, it would fill Frederica’s heart with envy and Cecily’s with wistful admiration.
But the risk of discovery was much too great, if she perpetrated so obvious a fraud. She contented herself with a reply implying that only her own tact and determination had averted an offer of marriage from Claude.
“I don’t think it’s fair,” said Monica grandly, “to let a man actually come to the point, if one doesn’t mean to accept him in the end.”
“Of course not,” said Frederica. But she said it without conviction, and Monica knew very well that, to Cecily and her sister, she had now become one of that mysterious and fortunate band of “girls who were attractive to men.”
What would they have said if they could have known about Christopher? At the mere thought of him, a soft glow seemed to diffuse itself all over Monica.
She could not resist talking round the subject of the ball on Friday, to which the Marlowes were not going; but they were not interested. They were scarcely interested in anything excepting themselves, their mother’s moods, and the difficulty of ever getting married.
When they got up to leave, Frederica said that it would be nice to have Monica to stay, and the girls exchanged their customary meaningless embrace. Frederica’s kiss was as limp and flaccid as her hand-shake, given with half-open mouth, like a child’s. Cecily, rigid with her distaste for physical contact, never kissed one at all, but touched one’s face with her own, forcing herself to do it because it was expected of her. Monica had often wanted to tell her not to — that it didn’t matter — but, in point of fact, she thought it did matter, because both her own mother and Cecily’s would have required an explanation, if either had perceived any omission in the conventional signs of affection.
“Good-bye, Fricky. I’m awfully looking forward to coming to stay. Shall I bring tennis things?”
“Oh yes. I should. Have you got a racquet?”
“I think I have.”
“Well, if not, we can lend you one. Good-bye, Monica.”
“Good-bye,” repeated Cecily. “I hope your house-parties will be fun.”
“I’ll write and tell you about them.”
They were gone, and Monica viewed their departure, as she did everything else, as one more landmark left behind on the way to Friday night and the roof-garden.
It came at last.
“I shan’t stay late to-night,” said Mrs. Ingram, adjusting her black velvet shoulder-straps, and then smartly tucking a lace handkerchief out of sight down the front of her décolletage.
“How late, mother?”
“Well — certainly not after one. So don’t book too many dances, my child.”
How little she knows, thought Monica sentimentally, treasuring the anticipation of the tenth dance and the two following ones, already promised to Christopher.
In the ball-room, she found that she did not know many people, and that her programme did not fill up.
Mrs. Ingram began to look anxious.
“Stand forward, Monica. No one can see you there. Get right in front of me, at once.”
Monica, feeling extremely self-conscious, stood forward, and pretended absorption in the buttoning of her long white kid gloves.
“Don’t bend your head down like that!” came, in a sharp whisper, from her mother behind her. “Be ready to catch the eye of anyone you know.”
Suddenly Monica saw Claude Ashe. He bowed, hesitated, and then came up and asked her for a dance.
“May I have number seven with you?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Monica, handing him her programme. He put down his initials.
She still had several dances left unclaimed.
Mrs. Ingram, talking to a dowager, presented Monica, and explained that her daughter was “only just out” and knew very few men in the room.
“Let me introduce one or two of my party,” said the old lady good-naturedly.
She captured two partners for Monica, and then Mr. Pelham appeared and asked her for a two-step. She thought him very dull, but accepted eagerly, anxious to escape the humiliation and tedium of having to stand out a dance.
“Show me your programme,” said her mother. “How’s it getting on? Oh, that’s better.”
Monica had left everything blank after the ninth number.
“You’d better not book any more after supper.”
Monica’s partner claimed her, and saved her from the necessity of replying.
“And how do you enjoy being grown-up?” said Mr. Pelham, exactly as he had said every time that he had had any conversation with Monica ever since their first meeting.
“I like it very much.”
“I suppose you’ve been having a very gay time?”
“Yes, I’ve had great fun. Of course, the season is really over now, isn’t it?”
Monica was speaking quite mechanically. She had caught sight of Christopher, and a delicious turmoil had invaded her. He was dancing with a girl in white — not pretty, Monica decided with relief — and in another moment or two it seemed certain that the two couples would pass one another. Mr. Pelham, gripping Monica rather too firmly, was steering her round and round in a determined, uninspiring dance.
They were close to Christopher and his partner.
“… any amount of tennis,” said the voice of Mr. Pelham, seeming very far away.
“Yes — oh, yes.”
Monica’s eyes and Christopher’s had met, had held one another’s gaze for a breath-taking instant.
“Then, if I accept Lady Marlowe’s very kind invitation for the last week-end in the month, I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you.”
“That will be delightful,” Monica replied, with only a dim understanding of what it was that would be delightful.
The dance came to an end.
“Shall we find somewhere to sit down?”
They wandered, rather vaguely, in the wake of other couples. Some men always found one a comfortable seat in an interesting sitting-out place at once — and others never did. Monica knew already that Mr. Pelham belonged to the latter category. Sure enough, every alcove, every sofa and arm-chair, was already occupied, and they were obliged to content themselves with two upright gilt chairs in a rather draughty corridor. Then Mr. Pelham, painstakingly, produced remarks about the band, the state of the floor, the number of people present, and the superiority of the country to the town in the months of July and August.
Monica offered perfunctory assents.
“The other day,” remarked Mr. Pelham, “I heard of a fellow who was sitting out a dance with a girl. They’d talked about all the usual things and didn’t seem to have anything more to say, and whatever he asked her she only seemed to answer Yes or No — so what do you think he suddenly said?”
“What?”
“He suddenly asked her: ‘Do you like string?’ Without any preliminary, you know,” said Mr. Pelham, with a joyless appreciation of his own anecdote. “Just ‘Do you like string?’ he suddenly said.”
Monica, startled into attention, laughed uncertainly.
“It was so absolutely pointless, you see,” Mr. Pelham explained. “They’d talked about all the usual things and didn’t seem to have anything more to say, and so he just asked her, quite suddenly, ‘Do you like string?’”
“What did she answer?”
“I don’t know.”
There was a silence, until Monica, afraid lest he might guess that she was bewildered rather than amused, repeated: “Do you like string?” and then laughed again, and said: “Yes, that’s rather nice.”
“I don’t know what made me think of it just now,” her partner said. “But it struck me as being rather good. So absolutely silly, you know. Do you like string?”
&n
bsp; He paid a further tribute of reflective laughter to his mot, in which Monica politely joined.
Then the interval was over, and Claude Ashe, standing in front of Monica, was saying formally:
“This is our dance, Miss Ingram, I believe.”
“Well, thank you very much,” said Mr. Pelham, and bowed as he turned away.
In the relief of finding herself with someone of her own age again, Monica sprang up, glad to let Claude take her back into the ball-room and begin dancing with her. She even spoke to him quite naturally, and without the self-consciousness usually inseparable from conversation with a man.
“I hardly know anybody here to-night and it’s the last dance I’m going to before we leave London; isn’t it a shame?’
“Yes, rather. I don’t know many people either.”
He paused, and Monica with a rush of returning self-consciousness thought with dismay that he might have interpreted her words into a hint that she had other dances to spare. How dreadful, if he should suppose that she wanted him to ask her for another dance!
Claude’s next words, however, showed him to have been thinking of something else.
“I really came to-night because I knew I should see you, and I — I wanted to ask you something.”
A pulse leapt in Monica’s throat.
Could he possibly be going to ask her to marry him?
To refuse even an entirely ineligible proposal in one’s first season would be a triumph. Mrs. Ingram would feel that her child was being a success, and would see to it that nobody who mattered remained unaware that Monica “had had a chance.”
“Did you?” she asked faintly.
“Yes. Have I — have I done anything to offend you?”
“Of course not.”
Monica’s elation left her as suddenly as it had come. She felt certain now that Claude Ashe, far from asking her to marry him, was going to demand an explanation of her ungracious avoidance of him — and she had no explanation to offer. A still more childish apprehension disturbed her. If Claude Ashe were seriously offended he might tell his sister Alice — perhaps he had done so already — and it would all come round to Monica’s mother, and she would certainly be vexed, and scold Monica. Scoldings from her mother still ranked as calamities in Monica’s estimation.
Claude Ashe, rather awkwardly, was elaborating his enquiry.
“I hope you don’t think me rude for speaking like this, but you see I really have felt most awfully worried about it. You see, I didn’t know what it was I’d done, exactly, but I felt sure that there must be something.”
“Oh no,” murmured Monica unconvincingly.
They bumped into another couple.
“I beg your pardon,” apologized Claude.
“You see, I don’t seem to have seen anything of you the last time or two we’ve met, and I was afraid you might be annoyed about something or other.”
“But why should I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
Deadlock appeared to have been reached. They continued to dance in mutual dissatisfaction.
Monica, passing her mother, received a smile and almost imperceptible nod of approval. Mrs. Ingram was talking to an elderly man with a white moustache, and evidently pointing out her daughter to him. His slight smile and appraising glance followed her for a moment. Monica could almost hear his courteous comment: “Charming, indeed! Quite charming!”
It did not very much elate her. Old gentlemen always said that kind of thing, and, anyway, old gentlemen were not interesting.
Nothing was of the least importance, excepting the fact that the moment when she was to be with Christopher was coming, however slowly, nearer and nearer.
Even Claude’s anxious attempts at establishing an understanding between them seemed to matter very little.
“You’re sure you aren’t annoyed with me about anything?” he repeated.
“Of course not.”
“I was awfully disappointed that night we went to the White City. I never saw anything of you at all.”
“I — I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know you’d mind,” faltered Monica. Out of the tail of her eye she looked for her mother. If she went down to supper now it would be much too early, and she might be back in the ball-room when Christopher came to fetch Monica. But no, it was all right — Mrs. Ingram had not moved.
And Claude’s dance had come to an end.
They secured arm-chairs under a large palm that stood behind a high screen.
“May I get you an ice or something?”
“Yes please. I’d like something to drink. Lemonade or something, please.”
She watched him go with thankfulness. She did not want the lemonade. She wanted to be alone, so that she could think about Christopher and abandon herself blissfully to the rapturous anticipations that possessed her.
Claude Ashe came back only too soon.
“I don’t think this dance is going awfully well, do you? I mean, people are leaving already. Of course I’m enjoying it tremendously myself,” he added hastily.
Monica inwardly fell into an agony.
If people were leaving, then her mother would be certain to want to go very early indeed — even earlier than she had said. And Monica could not even plead that her programme was full, for she had no dances booked between the one that had just ended and numbers ten, eleven, twelve, and thirteen — left blank on the programme, but promised to Christopher.
She was almost in despair when Claude took her back to the ball-room again.
“Shall we find Mrs. Ingram?”
“I’m going to meet my partner here,” lied Monica, taking her stand in the doorway, and hoping to remain there unobserved until her mother should have gone safely to the supper-room. She looked round for Christopher Lane but he was nowhere to be seen.
“I say, I hope we shall meet again before you go away,” said Claude Ashe, lingering.
“Yes, I do hope so.”
“Shall you be in the Park to-morrow by any chance?”
“We might be, after tea. Or perhaps in the morning. That’s no good for you though, is it?”
“I’m afraid not. But I shall try my luck round about six o’clock if I possibly can. There’s my partner looking for me, I’m afraid.”
Monica forgot him the moment after he had moved away.
If only she could see Christopher, perhaps they could slip away now, instead of waiting for Number Ten. The group of people round the door was thinning rapidly and the couples dancing were not very numerous. Claude Ashe had been right: people were leaving early.
Monica pressed herself closer against the wall. Usually she felt terribly self-conscious if she had to stand out a dance, but now she was aware of nothing at all except an anxious desire to escape her mother’s observation and to find Christopher. She began to pray frenziedly and incoherently:
“O God, let him come quickly. O do let him come now before mother sees me — please, please, God. I’ll be so good if only you’ll grant me just this one thing … please, God. Send Christopher here now, this minute. …”
God had answered her prayer!
Christopher was at her elbow.
“Aren’t you dancing this one? May I have it?”
“Yes, oh yes,” she gasped. And, true to the tradition that she must always, always appear to be in request, Monica added breathlessly:
“I expect my partner made a muddle — or I did — he hasn’t turned up — —”
She followed Christopher Lane out of the ball-room — followed him blindly and with a wildly beating heart, up and up, until they emerged into a dimly-lit coolness, a deserted square of roof-garden, tented in with an awning and furnished with wicker chairs and cushions. Christopher, seeming to tower in the low-roofed enclosure, cast a swift glance round.
“We’ve got it to ourselves, thank Heaven!”
He turned to face Monica.
She did not know exactly what it was that she expected, but Christopher Lane gave her no time to wo
nder. He caught her in his arms and kissed her mouth and eyes passionately.
Completely carried away, Monica, her arms round his neck, her body pressed against his, returned his kisses. When at last his mouth released hers, Christopher almost lifted her to a chair, and sank down beside her, one hand clasping both of hers.
“Monica — darling — I love you.”
“I love you,” she whispered.
No one came to disturb them. Even the sound of the music far below was almost inaudible.
Monica let Christopher kiss her again and again. Intoxicated, she felt that for the first time she understood and was experiencing, the real meaning of life.
Time no longer existed.
It was with a violent start she was recalled to reality, when the roof-garden was invaded by half a dozen noisy intruders.
Monica, half lying in her lover’s arms, sprang erect, and put both hands to her wildly disordered hair.
“Oh, I must go down. I don’t know what time it is — how long we’ve been here — —”
“It’s all right, sweetheart, I’m sure it is.”
He did not, however, attempt to detain her, and they went down the stairs.
Monica would have gone straight back to the ball-room, but Christopher laid a hand on her arm.
“I think you’d better slip into the ladies’ dressing-room first,” he said very low, and smiling at her. “Your hair just wants a touch.”
Blushing hotly, Monica obeyed.
The cloak-room was empty, except for a maid who looked rather strangely at Monica.
She dared not linger, but put her hair in order as quickly as possible, and powdered her burning face. Her eyes shone back at her from the glass with an extraordinary effect of size and brilliancy.
Feeling certain that Christopher had waited for her in the corridor outside, Monica turned swiftly, and almost collided with her mother in the doorway
Unaware of the instant alteration in her own expression, Monica only realized that her mother was deeply disturbed.
“Monica! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?”
“I — I — Is it late?”
“Yes. Put on your cloak directly.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 352