Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “She hasn’t really been very nice to them, ever.”

  Since her engagement, Monica had found herself licensed to criticize her seniors in a hitherto unprecedented manner.

  “No, I don’t think she has,” Mrs. Ingram admitted. “But after all, one must remember that it’s a bitter disappointment for a woman to have two daughters, and no son at all.”

  There was a silence. Monica wondered whether her mother’s thoughts had taken the same direction as had her own.

  Mrs. Ingram stooped and kissed her.

  “Good-night, my darling. God bless you. I mustn’t keep you awake any longer.”

  Monica was touched at her mother’s self-restraint in not having said a word about her own loneliness when her daughter should be gone.

  She put her arms round her neck, as she had not done since childhood.

  “You won’t miss me too much, will you? I shall be quite close by, you know, and it’ll be such fun showing you the house and everything. You won’t feel too lonely?”

  “No, no. I shall be all right. Nothing in the world could make me happier than to see you safely married to a good man — and a gentleman — someone we’ve known almost all our lives, like Herbert.”

  They kissed, stirred by unusual emotions.

  Suddenly Monica felt her mother’s hot tears on her face.

  “Darling,” whispered Mrs. Ingram brokenly, “it isn’t what we once dreamed of for you — it isn’t as if —— But oh, Monica, say you’ll be happy. I couldn’t, couldn’t have borne to see you an old maid.”

  Monica could not answer.

  She pressed her mother more closely in her arms.

  At last she said, in a stifled murmur:

  “It’s all right, mother — really. I’m very happy.”

  It was true.

  Monica was happier than she had ever thought to be, since the far-off days of her unshattered, youthful confidence.

  For the first time since her foolish love-affair with Christopher Lane, Monica had regained her self-respect.

  It was Monica’s wedding-day.

  She was moving slowly up the aisle, veiled and robed in white, to the pealing of the organ, just as she had so often, waking and sleeping, dreamed of doing.

  The tightly-frock-coated form of her bridegroom stood at the chancel rails, a white flower correctly decorating his button-hole, his hand nervously smoothing the thin, dark strands that lay sparsely across the crown of his head.

  Monica did not really see him.

  She did not see her mother in the front bench, already sobbing in a quiet ecstasy, nor cousin Blanche craning anxiously forward under her huge flowered hat.

  She did not see Frederica and Cecily Marlowe, the resemblance between them now strangely accentuated until each looked merely the pale shadow of a pale shadow.

  She did not see Carol Anderson, who stood with folded arms and compressed lips, gazing at her with a fixed look of mingled reproach and fortitude.

  Monica saw nothing. She was conscious of nothing, save that the moment towards which the whole of life had been tending had come at last.

  As she knelt at the chancel steps, her heart was filled with a prayer of ardent and humble thanksgiving.

  She was to have a life of her own, after all.

  A home, a husband, a recognized position as a married woman — an occupation. At last, she would have justified her existence.

  Up to the very last moment she had been afraid, and had known that her mother was afraid, lest something should happen to prevent her marriage.

  Nothing had happened: she was safe for ever.

  There was no further need to be afraid, or ashamed, or anxious, any more.

  She prayed that she might be a good wife to Herbert, and that if ever they had a child it might be a son.

  THE PROVINCIAL LADY GOES FURTHER

  June 9th. — Life takes on entirely new aspect, owing to astonishing and unprecedented success of minute and unpretentious literary effort, published last December, and — incredibly — written by myself. Reactions of family and friends to this unforeseen state of affairs most interesting and varied.

  Dear Vicky and Robin more than appreciative although not allowed to read book, and compare me variously to Shakespeare, Dickens, author of the Dr. Dolittle books, and writer referred to by Vicky as Lambs’ Tails.

  Mademoiselle — who has read book — only says Ah, je m’en doutais bien! which makes me uneasy, although cannot exactly say why.

  Robert says very little indeed, but sits with copy of book for several evenings, and turns over a page quite often. Eventually he shuts it and says Yes. I ask what he thinks of it, and after a long silence he says that It is Funny — but does not look amused. Later he refers to financial situation — as well he may, since it has been exceedingly grave for some time past — and we agree that this ought to Make a Difference.

  Conversation is then diverted to merits or demerits of the Dole — about which Robert feels strongly, and I try to be intelligent but do not bring it off — and difficulty of obtaining satisfactory raspberries from old and inferior canes.

  June 12th. — Letter from Angela arrives, expressing rather needless astonishment at recent literary success. Also note from Aunt Gertrude, who says that she has not read my book and does not as a rule care about modern fiction, as nothing is left to the imagination. Personally, am of opinion that this, in Aunt Gertrude’s case, is fortunate — but do not, of course, write back and say so.

  Cissie Crabbe, on postcard picturing San Francisco — but bearing Norwich postmark as usual — says that a friend has lent her copy of book and she is looking forward to reading it. Most unlike dear Rose, who unhesitatingly spends seven-and-sixpence on acquiring it, in spite of free copy presented to her by myself on day of publication.

  Customary communication from Bank, drawing my attention to a state of affairs which is only too well known to me already, enables me to write back in quite unwonted strain of optimism, assuring them that large cheque from publishers is hourly expected. Follow this letter up by much less confidently worded epistle to gentleman who has recently become privileged to act as my Literary Agent, enquiring when I may expect money from publishers, and how much.

  Cook sends in a message to say that there has been a misfortune with the chops, and shall she make do with a tin of sardines? Am obliged to agree to this, as only alternative is eggs, which will be required for breakfast. (Mem.: Enquire into nature of alleged misfortune in the morning.)

  (Second, and more straightforward, Mem.: Try not to lie awake cold with apprehension at having to make this enquiry, but remind myself that it is well known that all servants despise mistresses who are afraid of them, and therefore it is better policy to be firm.)

  June 14th. — Note curious and rather disturbing tendency of everybody in the neighbourhood to suspect me of Putting Them into a Book. Our Vicar’s Wife particularly eloquent about this, and assures me that she recognised every single character in previous literary effort. She adds that she has never had time to write a book herself, but has often thought that she would like to do so. Little things, she says — one here, another there — quaint sayings such as she hears every day of her life as she pops round the parish — Cranford, she adds in conclusion. I say Yes indeed, being unable to think of anything else, and we part.

  Later on, our Vicar tells me that he, likewise, has never had time to write a book, but that if he did so, and put down some of his personal experiences, no one would ever believe them to be true. Truth, says our Vicar, is stranger than fiction.

  Very singular speculations thus given rise to, as to nature of incredible experiences undergone by our Vicar. Can he have been involved in long-ago crime passionnel, or taken part in a duel in distant student days when sent to acquire German at Heidelberg? Imagination, always so far in advance of reason, or even propriety, carries me to further lengths, and obliges me to go upstairs and count laundry in order to change current of ideas.

  Vicky
meets me on the stairs and says with no preliminary Please can she go to school. Am unable to say either Yes or No at this short notice, and merely look at her in silence. She adds a brief statement to the effect that Robin went to school when he was her age, and then continues on her way downstairs, singing something of which the words are inaudible, and the tune unrecognisable, but which I have inward conviction that I should think entirely unsuitable.

  Am much exercised regarding question of school, and feel that as convinced feminist it is my duty to take seriously into consideration argument quoted above.

  June 15th. — Cheque arrives from publishers, via Literary Agent, who says that further instalment will follow in December. Wildest hopes exceeded, and I write acknowledgment to Literary Agent in terms of hysterical gratification that I am subsequently obliged to modify, as being undignified. Robert and I spend pleasant evening discussing relative merits of Rolls-Royce, electric light, and journey to the South of Spain — this last suggestion not favoured by Robert — but eventually decide to pay bills and Do Something about the Mortgage. Robert handsomely adds that I had better spend some of the money on myself, and what about a pearl necklace? I say Yes, to show that I am touched by his thoughtfulness, but do not commit myself to pearl necklace. Should like to suggest very small flat in London, but violent and inexplicable inhibition intervenes, and find myself quite unable to utter the words. Go to bed with flat still unmentioned, but register cast-iron resolution, whilst brushing my hair, to make early appointment in London for new permanent wave.

  Also think over question of school for Vicky very seriously, and find myself coming to at least three definite conclusions, all diametrically opposed to one another.

  June 16th. — Singular letter from entire stranger enquires whether I am aware that the doors of every decent home will henceforward be shut to me? Publications such as mine, he says, are harmful to art and morality alike. Should like to have this elucidated further, but signature illegible, and address highly improbable, so nothing can be done. Have recourse to waste-paper basket in absence of fires, but afterwards feel that servants or children may decipher fragments, so remove them again and ignite small private bonfire, with great difficulty, on garden path.

  (N.B. Marked difference between real life and fiction again exemplified here. Quite massive documents, in books, invariably catch fire on slightest provocation, and are instantly reduced to ashes.)

  Question of school for Vicky recrudesces with immense violence, and Mademoiselle weeps on the sofa and says that she will neither eat nor drink until this is decided. I say that I think this resolution unreasonable, and suggest Horlick’s Malted Milk, to which Mademoiselle replies Ah, ça, jamais! and we get no further. Vicky remains unmoved throughout, and spends much time with Cook and Helen Wills. I appeal to Robert, who eventually — after long silence — says, Do as I think best.

  Write and put case before Rose, as being Vicky’s godmother and person of impartial views. Extreme tension meanwhile prevails in the house, and Mademoiselle continues to refuse food. Cook says darkly that it’s well known as foreigners have no powers of resistance, and go to pieces-like all in a moment. Mademoiselle does not, however, go to pieces, but instead writes phenomenal number of letters, all in purple ink, which runs all over the paper whenever she cries.

  I walk to the village for no other purpose than to get out of the house, which now appears to me intolerable, and am asked at the Post Office if it’s really true that Miss Vicky is to be sent away, she seems such a baby. Make evasive and unhappy reply, and buy stamps. Take the longest way home, and meet three people, one of whom asks compassionately how the foreign lady is. Both the other two content themselves with being sorry to hear that we’re losing Miss Vicky.

  Crawl indoors, enveloped in guilt, and am severely startled by seeing Vicky, whom I have been thinking of as a moribund exile, looking blooming, lying flat on her back in the hall eating peppermints. She says in a detached way that she needs a new sponge, and we separate without further conversation.

  June 17th. — Mademoiselle shows signs of recovery, and drinks cup of tea at eleven o’clock, but relapses again later, and has une crise de nerfs. I suggest bed, and escort her there. Just as I think she can safely be left, swathed in little shawls and eiderdown quilt, she recalls me and enquires feebly if I think her health would stand life in a convent? Refuse — though I hope kindly — to discuss the question, and leave the room.

  Second post brings letter from secretary of Literary Club, met once in London, informing me that I am now a member, and thoughtfully enclosing Banker’s Order in order to facilitate payment of subscription, also information concerning International Congress to be held shortly in Brussels, and which she feels certain that I shall wish to attend. Decide that I would like to attend it, but am in some doubt as to whether Robert can be persuaded that my presence is essential to welfare of Literature. Should like to embark on immediate discussion, but all is overshadowed at lunch by devastating announcement that the Ram is not Working, and there is no water in the house. Lunch immediately assumes character of a passover, and Robert refuses cheese and departs with the gardener in order to bring Ram back to its duty — which they accomplish in about two and a half hours.

  June 18th. — Dear Rose, always so definite, writes advocating school for Vicky. Co-educational, she says firmly, and Dalcroze Eurythmics. Robert, on being told this, says violently that no child of his shall be brought up amongst natives of any description. Am quite unable either to move him from this attitude, or to make him see that it is irrelevant to educational scheme at present under discussion.

  Rose sends addresses of two schools, declares that she knows all about both, and invites me to go and stay with her in London and inspect them. I explain to Robert that this can be combined with new permanent wave, but Robert evidently not in a receptive mood, and remains immersed in The Times.

  Post also brings officious communication from old Mrs. Blenkinsopp’s Cousin Maud, saying that if I’m looking for a school for my brat, she could put in a word at dear old Roedean. Shall take no notice of this whatever.

  June 20th. — Take bold step of writing to secretary of Literary Society to say that I will accompany its members to Brussels, and assist at Conference. Am so well aware that I shall regret this letter within an hour of writing it, that I send Vicky to village with instructions to post it instead of leaving it in box in hall as usual.

  (Query: Does this denote extreme strength of mind or the reverse? Answer immediately presents itself, but see no reason for committing it to paper.)

  Mademoiselle reappears in family circle, and has apparently decided that half-mourning is suitable to present crisis, as she wears black dress from which original green accessories have been removed, and fragments of mauve tulle wound round head and neck. Robert, meeting her on stairs, says kindly Mew, maln’zelle? which Mademoiselle receives with very long and involved reply, to which Robert merely returns Oh wee, and leaves her. Mademoiselle, later, tells Vicky, who repeats it to me, that it is not always education, nor even intelligence, that makes a gentleman.

  Go through the linen in the afternoon, and find entirely unaccountable deficit of face-towels, but table-napkins, on the other hand, as numerous as they ever were. Blankets, as usual, require washing, but cannot be spared for the purpose, and new sheets are urgently required. Add this item to rapidly lengthening list for London. Just as I am going downstairs again, heavily speckled with fluff off blankets and reeking of camphor, enormous motor-car draws up in perfect silence at open front-door, and completely unknown woman — wearing bran-new hat about the size of a saucer with little plume over one eye — descends from it. I go forward with graceful cordiality and say, Come in, come in, which she does, and we sit and look at one another in drawing-room for ten minutes, and talk about wireless, the neighbourhood — which she evidently doesn’t know — the situation in Germany, and old furniture. She turns out to be Mrs. Callington-Clay, recently come to live in house at
least twenty miles away.

  (Cannot imagine what can ever have induced me to call upon her, but can distinctly remember doing so, and immense relief at finding her out when I did.)

  An old friend of mine, says Mrs. Callington Clay, is a neighbour of hers. Do I remember Pamela Pringle? Am obliged to say that I do not. Then perhaps I knew her as Pamela Templer-Tate? I say No again, and repress inclination to add rather tartly that I have never heard of her in my life. Mrs. C.-C. is undefeated and brazenly suggests Pamela Stevenson — whom I once more repudiate. Then, Mrs. C.-C. declares, I must recollect Pamela Warburton. Am by this time dazed, but admit that I did once, about twenty-three years ago, meet extraordinarily pretty girl called Pamela Warburton, at a picnic on the river. Very well then, says Mrs. C.-C., there I am! Pamela Warburton married man called Stevenson, ran away from him with man called Templer-Tate, but this, says Mrs. C.-C., a failure, and divorce ensued. She is now married to Pringle — very rich. Something in the City — Templer-Tate children live with them, but not Stevenson child. Beautiful old place near Somersetshire border, and Mrs. C.-C. hopes that I will call. Am still too much stunned at extraordinary activity of my contemporary to do more than say Yes, I will, and express feeble and quite insincere hope that she is as pretty as she used to be at eighteen — which is a manifest absurdity.

  Finally, Mrs. C.-C. says that she enjoyed my book, and I say that that was very kind, and she asks if it takes long to write a book, and I reply Oh no, and then think it sounds conceited and wish that I had said Oh yes instead, and she departs.

  Look at myself in the glass, and indulge in painful, and quite involuntary, exercise of the imagination, in which I rehearse probable description of myself that Mrs. C.-C. will give her husband on her return home. Emerge from this flight of fancy in wholly devitalised condition. Should be sorry indeed to connect this in any way with singular career of Pamela Pringle, as outlined this afternoon. At the same time, cannot deny that our paths in life have evidently diverged widely since distant occasion of river-picnic. Can conceive of no circumstances in which I should part from two husbands in succession, but am curiously depressed at unescapable conviction that my opportunities for doing so have been practically non-existent.