Felicity - Stands By

by Richmal Crompton

  She led her as she spoke by a narrow path away from the drive and towards the greenhouses.

  “I must go home, Felicity,” said Sheila, making an ineffectual effort to return to the drive.

  “No, you mustn’t,” said Felicity firmly, “not before you’ve told me what the matter is, anyway.”

  Sheila smiled down at her—a rather unsteady smile.

  “I can’t, Felicity darling . . . You’re—such a baby.”

  Felicity drew her slim young body up to its full height.

  “I’m sixteen,” she said with dignity.

  “What’s he doing here?” said Sheila, “that man, I mean.”

  “Marmaduke Percival?” said Felicity. “They’ve taken The Grange. Aunt’s awfully bucked because she was at school with the Mamma. They’re going to poison the atmosphere for about a month, I believe . . . Where did you know him before, Sheila?”

  She opened a greenhouse door. “It’s beautifully fuggy in here,” she said, “and we can sit on flower pots and watch the grapes grow and you can tell me all about it.”

  Sheila smiled, though quite obviously she didn’t feel like smiling. She looked at Felicity, who was already sitting upon a large upturned flower pot. Her eyes wandered slowly down Felicity’s figure in its workmanlike Fair Isle jumper and short tweed skirt.

  “You are nice, Felicity,” she said at last.

  “If I’m nice, tell me, then,” pleaded Felicity.

  Sheila sat down upon the flower pot next Felicity’s.

  “I will, Felicity,” she said with sudden resolve. “You’ll think me a blamed fool, but I just can’t help that. I am. I mean, I was. It was—” she turned her dark graceful head away, “that man, Felicity. He’s nice-looking in a way and I fell in love with him. It was three years ago. I was still at school. I wrote him some mad letters and—then it died away and I never thought of it again except to think what an idiot I’d been and—I came across him again this year and he tried to start it again and, of course, I wasn’t having any and—I found out quite by chance—he’s told ever so many people about—it, only he pretends it’s still lasting. He’s shown lots of men the letters I wrote him—like an idiot, I didn’t date them. Of course, father’s rather well known now and—anyway, there he is showing my letters to any cad who’ll look at them and talking as if I was still mad on him . . . Felicity, I didn’t really mind at first. I thought it was too despicable to bother about, but now—now that Ronald’s—well, now that this man’s come here and might meet Ronald any day and show him the beastly letters I—oh, I can’t bear it!”

  “Ronald wouldn’t listen,” said Felicity.

  “But I’d hate it,” said Sheila. “I’d feel too ashamed to live.”

  Felicity remembered the time when she’d tried to get back some incriminating letters that didn’t exist. She thought it rather kind of Fate to give her a chance of doing the real thing. And, of course, it wasn’t only getting the letters back . . . Marmaduke Percival must meet his deserts. It was the duty of all decent people to see that he met his deserts.

  “Sheila,” she said slowly, “don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

  When Felicity returned to the drawing-room, Lady Montague took her friend to see her pet plants in the conservatory, and Felicity was left alone with the poet. Very demure was Felicity, with shy, downcast eyes and softly-flushed cheeks. Marmaduke Percival looked at her—looked at her with interest. Never had Marmaduke Percival seen such vivid blue eyes, such black curling lashes, a mouth so like a sleeping child’s, such glorious red-gold hair.

  Felicity looked up and threw him a soft glance of admiration. Then she sighed and lowered her eyes again. Marmaduke Percival assumed his man-of-the-world manner.

  “Well, little girl?” he said.

  Felicity sighed again.

  “Are you—interested in me?” said Marmaduke Percival kindly. He was aware that this sounded slightly foolish, but somehow he did not think that this pretty child, who so evidently admired him, would find it foolish.

  Felicity’s eyes widened.

  “Interested?” she said softly. “Oh, but interested’s such a weak word . . . you’re—you’re so wonderful!”

  She blushed and sighed and dropped her eyes. Marmaduke Percival could stand a lot of this sort of thing. He moved a little nearer her.

  “Do you think so, little girl?” he said.

  “Oh—yes!” breathed Felicity. He moved nearer still and, as is not the case with all girls, the nearer he was to her the lovelier Felicity looked.

  “We’re going to be great friends, little girl,” said Marmaduke Percival.

  Felicity clasped her hands.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “Friends! . . . with you!—it seems too wonderful!”

  For a moment Felicity was afraid that she’d laid it on a bit too thick, but her mind was soon set at rest. As a matter of fact, there was nothing in this line that Marmaduke Percival couldn’t swallow. He moved yet nearer to her.

  “We’ll be very great friends, little girl,” said Marmaduke Percival softly. “I’ll teach you a lot of things,” then added softly, as the door opened and Lady Montague and Mrs. Eltham returned, “Oh, damn!”

  Lady Montague beamed upon them. “So nice for Felicity to know a real poet,” she murmured. “Perhaps he’ll be so very, very kind as to help her with her elocution. Her teacher says that she doesn’t make very good progress.”

  Felicity answered demurely, long lashes lowered upon softly-flushed cheeks, “I think he’s going to, aunt,” she said.

  People in the village never could agree afterwards as to who first suggested having a play to help the church funds. Quite a lot of people thought it was Felicity, and the people who didn’t think it was Felicity thought it was themselves. Anyway, the idea was started, and in less than a day everyone had heard of it. A committee was elected (or elected itself) and Lady Montague was asked to be President. She invited the committee to tea at the Hall for the first meeting, and she also summoned Marmaduke Percival and his mother from The Grange.

  “I’ve got the very person for a hero,” she said mysteriously to the secretary of the committee.

  The committee sat round the drawing-room of Bridgeways Hall, and with them sat the poet and his mother, and with them sat Felicity. The committee felt, as committees always felt in Lady Montague’s presence, less like a committee than a small band of children who would soon be told what to do and who, till then, ought to be seen and not heard.

  “Here’s the hero,” said Lady Montague, pointing dramatically and triumphantly to Marmaduke Percival. “Now, have you ever seen anyone more like a hero?”

  The committee stared warily at Marmaduke as if they were afraid that he was going to go off like a bomb. Mrs. Eltham whispered to her neighbour, in a piercingly audible aside, “Marmy’s always been handsome—he used to look beautiful in his little velvet suits.” Marmaduke gazed into the distance and concentrated all his energies on looking beautiful and heroic, and Felicity threw him a glance of admiration which, in spite of his preoccupation, he did not miss.

  “And now for the heroine,” said Lady Montague.

  “I propose Miss Felicity,” said Marmaduke Percival promptly.

  “Well,” said Lady Montague doubtfully, “she’s rather—young. Would you like to be the heroine, Felicity?”

  “Yes, please,” murmured Felicity demurely.

  Then Moult came in with the tea and a buzz of conversation arose. Marmaduke Percival crossed over to the empty seat near Felicity.

  “I’m—I’m so thrilled,” murmured Felicity.

  “We ought to rehearse soon,” said Marmaduke.

  Felicity raised her speedwell-blue eyes and looked at him through their heavy curling fringes.

  “Let’s rehearse to-morrow,” she said. “Come here to rehearse to-morrow afternoon at three.”

  It wasn’t till everyone had gone home that some of the more intelligent members of the committee realised that they hadn’t yet fixed on a p
lay . . .

  Marmaduke Percival arrived very promptly the next afternoon. Felicity received him alone in the drawing-room.

  “First of all,” she said, “do read me your poems!”

  Marmaduke had come not altogether unprepared for this request. He took the little book bound in white vellum from his pocket.

  “Do sit just there,” said Felicity.

  “Why just here?” said Marmaduke.

  “So that I can see you. You’re so handsome,” said Felicity, and added earnestly, “don’t you know you’re handsome?”

  Marmaduke threw a complacent glance at his reflection in a hanging mirror.

  “Well—–” he said with a self-satisfied smile, “I suppose I am.”

  “Your hair!” said Felicity.

  “Some people,” said Marmaduke, “think I curl it, but I don’t. It’s quite natural.”

  “And your eyes.”

  Felicity was growing rather reckless, but she’d realised by this time what a lot of this sort of thing Marmaduke could swallow.

  Marmaduke was still considering his own reflection with intense satisfaction.

  “I must read you a letter a girl wrote to me once,” he said. “She wrote a little poem about my eyes.”

  “Who?” said Felicity.

  “That girl Sheila, who was here the other day.” He gave a deep, deep sigh. “Poor girl! I’ll tell you, because I’m sure you’ll be sympathetic. I can’t feel for her what the poor girl feels for me . . . It’s always happening . . . That’s the most trying part of having the misfortune to be out of the ordinary in looks.’

  “Do read your poems to me,” said Felicity.

  He read in his little high-pitched voice for quite a long time. He read a poem “To a Flower Stalk,” and another “To a Blade of Grass,” and another “To a Drop of Rain,” and another “To the Universe,” and another “To a Fly Seen in Somebody’s Soup.” The last wasn’t funny. At least it was, but it wasn’t meant to be. And whenever he paused Felicity murmured “Wonderful!” or “Beautiful!” or “Marvellous!” or “Heavenly!” or simply “Oh!”

  “Will you do something for me?” she said when he’d finished. Felicity was looking very, very lovely, so Marmaduke rashly said, “Anything,” though, being a cautious man as far as regards doing services to other people, he qualified it afterwards by adding, “in reason.”

  “Write a poem for me,” said Felicity.

  He smiled.

  “That’s easily done,” said Marmaduke, smiling. “What on?”

  Felicity clasped slim brown hands.

  “On yourself . . . I want one to remember you by . . . one always to bring your face to my mind—just look in the looking-glass and write one on yourself, will you?”

  “Yes,” said Marmaduke, “as a matter of fact, I’ve already written several, but I’ll bring you one . . . anything else?”

  “Yes . . . just little ones on all of us . . . on aunt, and on grandfather, and on all the people who were here the other day . . . the committee, you know . . . just so that I can always remember that day—the day when I first met you.”

  Marmaduke smiled.

  “And bring them to me to-morrow, will you?” pleaded Felicity.

  “Yes.”

  Then he went across to her.

  “Felicity,” he murmured amorously.

  He meant to sit next to her on the settee and slip his arm round her waist. He thought he was doing it. But something went wrong somewhere. He must have slipped somehow. He found himself suddenly on the floor and Felicity right at the other end of the room, still smiling demurely, and watching him languishingly. He rose slowly to his feet.

  Just then Lady Montague entered.

  “We’re rehearsing,” said Felicity.

  “Excellent!” said Lady Montague.

  “I’m afraid I must go home now,” said Marmaduke Percival.

  He brought the poems the next day. “They’re in the style of Walt Whitman,” he said, “though I can’t help thinking that I manage the thing a little better than poor old Walt did.”

  “You’ll read them to me yourself, won’t you?” said Felicity ecstatically.

  “If you like,” said Marmaduke kindly.

  “And sit just here, just here,” said Felicity, She seemed rather urgent upon the point. “So that I can see you better,” she explained, “and read loud, please, because I’m just a little deaf to-day,” she added unblushingly.

  Clear to squeakiness, slow, distinct, came the voice of Marmaduke Percival reading aloud his poems. Felicity sat and listened with a far-away look in her eyes and a smile of satisfaction on her lips. The poems surpassed her wildest expectations . . .

  She rose when he had finished.

  “But how lovely!” she said, rising and going over to the fireplace. He went to her, slipped his arm round her waist, moved his head forward to hers and—most extraordinary—there he was on the floor again! Must have slipped on a footstool or something. And there was Felicity at the door looking back at him with a mischievous smile.

  “So sorry I have to go,” she murmured. “Aunt will give you tea . . . You won’t forget there’s a committee meeting about the play to-morrow, will you?”

  Ronald came the next day. He came in reply to an urgent letter from Felicity. He brought with him an enormous box of chocolates for Felicity. Ronald, as a brother, was very satisfactory.

  “Well, kid,” he said, smiling down at her from his six-foot-six, “what’s it all about?”

  “Come up to the schoolroom,” said Felicity, “and I’ll tell you quietly . . .”

  So they went to the schoolroom, which was now Felicity’s own domain, and he sat on the table and lit his pipe, and said:

  “Choke it up, kid. You’re in some sort of a scrape, I suppose, and want me to get you out.”

  She laughed and picked out the most exciting-looking chocolate.

  “Would you if I were?” she said, digging her firm, white teeth into it, and added, “Oh, scrummy! It’s a strawberry sort of thing!”

  “I’d do my damnedest to,” he said determinedly.

  Felicity finished the strawberry sort of thing, then she said, “You’re a dear, Ronnie, but it’s not my scrape this time.”

  She told him, watching his brow contract and his mouth tighten as she did so.

  “Now, don’t do anything rash, Ron,” she cautioned him. “He’s coming this afternoon for the meeting. You can have him after the meeting, but I want him at the meeting, please.”

  The meeting seemed doomed from the first. For one thing Sir Digby turned up, and that disconcerted everyone. Sir Digby felt well enough to get up and come downstairs, so he got up and came downstairs. And he was infuriated to find his drawing-room full of people he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Of course, he could have made it more comfortable for everyone by going to sit in the library, but he wasn’t in a mood to want to make it more comfortable for everyone. So he growled at them all as a preliminary greeting, then went to sit all by himself by the fire, reading a newspaper and growling again ferociously at intervals. An atmosphere of nervousness began to overspread the meeting. Marmaduke Percival, however, was quite unaffected by it. He divided his attention equally between his reflection in the mirror on the wall and Felicity’s face. The expression on Felicity’s face was somehow less satisfying than usual, so he concentrated on the reflection of his own, bestowing little caressing touches on his tie and his hair. The atmosphere of nervousness increased. Remarks on the weather died away, killed by Sir Digby’s subterranean growls. Conversation languished. And three or four members of the committee were still absent, so that formal proceedings could not yet begin.

  “Felicity,” said Lady Montague, with the brightness of despair, “suppose you recite to us, dear, till the others come. One of those beautiful little poems that Mrs. Graves teaches you.”

  “Well,” said Felicity, “I’ve got Mrs. Graves’ phonograph here and—and it will recite ever so much better than I could.
It will recite some real poetry to you.”

  Felicity did something to something hidden behind the palm where Marmaduke had sat the day before and immediately, to everyone’s amazement, Marmaduke Percival’s voice—high, squeaky, unmistakably Marmaduke Percival’s—filled the room. Sir Digby was so much astonished that temporarily he forgot to growl.

  “To myself,” said Marmaduke Percival’s voice.

  “I look in the mirror,

  What do I see?

  I see a face that a Greek god might envy;

  Hyacinthine locks,

  Eyes fringed with thick black lashes.

  A mouth like to a cherry or a rose,

  Teeth of the purest whiteness and regularity.

  Beautiful, beautiful ears,

  Beautiful, beautiful nose.

  A chin—no words could express the beauty of my chin. And I gaze and gaze at myself and cannot take my eyes away from myself.

  Because I am so beautiful.”

  A dull red had crept over Marmaduke’s classic countenance. His midnight-blue eyes were darting hither and thither as if in search of escape. Sir Digby, his eyes almost starting out of his head, was listening enthralled. Upon everyone’s face was blank open-mouthed amazement. Except upon Felicity’s. Felicity sat, her eyes fixed demurely upon the ground, a faint mischievous smile upon her lips.

  The instrument proceeded: “To Mrs. Harvey.”

  “When I see Mrs. Harvey, what do I think of?

  I think of a balloon so inflated that surely it must burst soon.

  I think of a great, large pale pudding.

  With currant-like eyes. . . .”

  Mrs. Harvey turned her currant-like eyes upon the poet. The eyes were more like forked-lightning than currants at the moment. Perspiration stood out upon the poet’s brow. He breathed painfully. But no one spoke. Everyone was too much amazed to speak. A spell seemed to be upon them all. The voice continued: “To Lady Montague.”

  “How can anyone look at her without laughing?

  She is pompous and overfed.

  She has dyed hair and her chins are too numerous to count.

  She is hideously ugly, and I detest ugly things.

  So I detest her.”