“I’m not a bit tired either,” she said brightly. “But one of my shoes is hurting like anything. I knew it would. I had it off during dinner, but I thought I was never going to get it on again in time.”
“How awful!”
“Yes, wasn’t it? Who are you dancing the last dance with, Cecily?”
“Mr. Pelham.”
How dull, thought Monica. She herself was rather disappointed that Mr. Ashe had not asked her for the last dance. He had, in fact, gone away without saying good-bye to her, although she had seen him making a polite farewell speech to her mother.
The band broke into a galop, and Monica’s partner—rather an uninteresting young man whose name she had not heard when he was introduced—claimed her.
“Straight home to bed after this, my darling,” she heard her mother murmur as she went past.
Mrs. Ingram was sitting on a gilt chair near the door, every now and then obliged to jump up in order to receive the thanks and good-nights of departing guests.
The room was nearly empty.
Cecily Marlowe, trailing, rather than dancing, drooped over Mr. Pelham’s shoulder. He was shorter by an inch or so than she was.
Frederica was standing beside her mother. Evidently no one had asked her for the last dance.
Suddenly the band broke into quick time. Monica’s partner dashed with her across the room—then down, then up again—It was exhilarating, in spite of the agony of her pinched toes.
Breathless, they stopped when the music stopped.
It was all over.
“Good-night—it’s been too delightful.”
“Good-night, dear Mrs. Ingram—thank you for such a delightful evening. My girl has loved every minute of it.”
One woman, in a black velvet dress that Monica thought much too décolletée, said to Mrs. Ingram:
“Such a success, Imogen darling! I’ve heard everyone saying how sweet your girl is.”
Monica blushed and looked away.
“Now, my pet——” Mrs. Ingram hurried her daughter
to the nearly empty cloak-room, and redeemed their wraps.
“Mother, I never said good-night to Lady Marlowe!”
“Never mind, I said it for you. She’s probably half-way home by now. I must say it’s hard on her that those two girls are so heavy in hand. They’ve had every chance—and yet look at them!”
“I think they danced most of the evening,” Monica could afford to say, with conscious superiority.
“I should hope so, at their mother’s ball! Though I saw both of them sitting out once or twice. Let it be a lesson to you, darling, never to let yourself seem bored and tired and listless. Nothing puts men off more quickly. Well, did you have a lovely time?”
“Oh, lovely, mother. I did enjoy it.”
“That’s right, darling. Now—into bed as quickly as possible. Parsons is sitting up—she can undo you first, before she comes down to me. And let her take down your hair and brush it out thorougbly, Monica. Otherwise it’ll be all tangles to-morrow.”
“I’m not really a bit sleepy, mother. Couldn’t Parsons do you first?”
“No, darling. You heard what mother said. You’re to sleep as late as you can in the morning, and ring for your breakfast to be brought up to you.”
Monica had known that there would be no escaping this. She did not argue, aware that it would be useless, and feeling also the burden of obligation laid upon her by her mother, who had taken so much trouble and spent so much money in order that Monica might have a really good start, and meet as many young men as possible.
At the foot of the stairs, just before going up to bed, she kissed her parents and made them a rather embarrassed little speech, thanking them, and saying how much she had enjoyed herself.
Her mother answered as she always did, “I don’t want any thanks, my child. Run along now.”
Her father, more graciously, said:
“That’s right, my dear little girl. I’m sure you’ll show your gratitude by being very good and obedient and cheerful.”
Monica said, “Yes, father,” and went upstairs, stopping, directly she was out of sight, to take off her tight shoes.
She was actually in bed in the dark, before she remembered, with a slight pang, that no one, after all, had proposed to her at her first ball.
Chapter IV
The Season continued.
Monica, now launched, was taken to balls, to dinner parties and theatre-parties, to Hurlingham to watch the polo on Saturdays, and to the Days of all her mother’s friends.
Twice her mother gave a girls’ luncheon-party, explaining that this was very important and necessary, since it was by making friends with other girls that Monica would receive invitations to pay country-house visits.
“A girl gets far more chances in one house-party than at a dozen London balls,” declared Mrs. Ingram.
Monica, of course, understood what her mother meant.
The luncheon-parties, with Mrs. Ingram at the head of the table—talking very brightly and carefully and not at all naturally—and herself at the foot, were not very amusing, but they led to her being asked to various tea-parties, and even to an occasional matinée.
Monica’s mother was, comparatively, liberal-minded. She allowed her child to go out to matinées with only another girl, and to walk in the streets of Belgravia—not the Pimlico end and not beyond Harvey Nicholls at the top of Sloane Street—escorted only by a maid. Monica might go in cabs, even hansoms, although not in omnibuses, and she might travel alone by train, first-class, if her mother’s maid went in the carriage with her.
Frederica and Cecily Marlowe, especially Frederica, envied Monica her emancipation.
They had no freedom at all.
Monica still saw more of the Marlowes than of anybody else, and because of the old schoolroom intimacy, felt more at home with them than with girls nearer to her own age. She was fond of Cecily, and sorry for her, although contemptuous of her supineness and of her terrified evasions of personal contacts. Frederica, Monica did not really like at all, but she had a kind of unwilling admiration for a force of character that she felt, rather than understood, whilst at the same time she experienced a definite gratification, of which she was slightly ashamed, because she knew that Frederica was unpopular with men.
It would, indeed, have been impossible not to know this, for Lady Marlowe had taken up the line of jesting about it openly. She was half-Italian, and had a reputation for caustic wit. It was generally recognized that her daughters were a disappointment to her. Like almost every woman of her generation, she had wished to have sons, and regarded the sex of her two girls as being something between a disgrace and a calamity—and it was felt that she showed at least courage and originality, even if indifferent taste, in jeering, lightly and amusingly, at their failure to attract.
“If Frederica hasn’t succeeded in finding a husband by the time she’s twenty-five, I shall give her what she’d have had if she’d married and let her go and live where she likes and do what she likes,” declared Lady Marlowe, laughing merrily. “Why not? It’s ruining any chances Cecily may have, for men to see Fricky trailing about the place, with never even a nibble.”
She had given up the fiction, once offered to her friends, that Frederica, once at least, could have married. She now shrugged her shoulders and said instead that it was very odd she should have unattractive daughters.
So indeed it was, for Lady Marlowe, already twice widowed, could very easily have married again had she chosen to do so. Men liked her, and were amused by her.
When she gave small dinner-parties, they wanted to talk to her, and listen to her—not to either of the girls. Even at balls she attracted far more attention, with her sparkle and vitality, than did her two joyless, drooping daughters, trailing silently in her wake.
“Can’t you be natural and bright?” Lady Marlowe sometimes despairingly, and yet half humorously, enquired of Frederica. But Frederica continued to be neither natural nor b
right. It was she who sometimes revolted against their mother. Cecily never did. But it was part of Cecily’s misery that Frederica’s revolts were, so often, on her behalf.
For Frederica’s warped and thwarted individuality had thrown out a strange, one-sided growth in the form of a violently protective and possessive solicitude for her sister.
“Have you got a headache?”
She could never let Cecily alone.
“Are you tired?”
“You won’t care for that book, Cecily. Have this one instead.”
She could not even bear to let Cecily read a novel that might bring her into vicarious contact with life. It might mean that she would be hurt. It might mean that she would escape, or wish to escape, from Frederica’s domination.
Frederica, at twenty-four, would manæuvre elaborately to keep the newspaper out of Cecily’s view, because she did not like her to read it. She wanted Cecily to remain a child. Cecily had once, under the pressure of Lady Marlowe’s mockery and of Frederica’s imperative cross-questionings, admitted that she did think that, really, women ought to have the vote.
“You can’t really think that. You don’t know enough about it,” Frederica declared, instantly terrified by vague and irrational previsions of Cecily wanting to join the movement, falling under strange influences, perhaps being sent to prison.
And Lady Marlowe, with her clear, unkind laugh, told Cecily not to be a silly little goose.
“These women who are making a fuss about getting a vote are simply hysterical old maids, or women who can’t get on with their husbands. They only want to make themselves conspicuous. As if any woman who knew her job couldn’t influence at least one man to vote the way she wants him to!”
Then she looked at the two dreary young faces staring back at hers—Frederica’s tense and sullen with suppressed rebellion, and Cecily’s secret and withdrawn, and shrugged her shoulders.
“I only wish you had a man to influence, my poor child. If one of you doesn’t get married soon, I really think you’d better go into a convent, both of you. Though even then, people would only say it was because you couldn’t find anyone to marry you.”
Frederica, goaded beyond endurance, suddenly exclaimed:
“I don’t want to get married. I hate men. I wouldn’t marry anyone—whoever it was.”
Lady Marlowe gazed at her in astonishment for a moment, and then laughed again.
“So you’ve got to that stage, have you?” was all she said.
Frederica, turning aside—she would not have dared to leave the room without an excuse, and was unable to speak—sank her teeth into the soft flesh of her thin wrist until tiny purple marks sprang into view.
Lady Marlowe, although she often said cruel things, was not a cruel woman, but only an almost entirely unfeeling one.
By some curious effort on the part of Nature to redress the balance, she had attracted to herself in the person of her second husband a gentle, serious-minded, and intensely sensitive man, many years older than herself, who had mistaken her liveliness for mirth, her hardness for courage, and her coarseness of fibre for a protective armour, donned to conceal a passionate spirit that should reveal itself to his tenderness. He was himself wholly vulnerable where his affections were concerned, and without the resilience of youth.
Very soon after his marriage he allowed his natural lethargy—from which the timid dawnings of a belated love had temporarily roused him—to take possession of him altogether.
Although he was a man to whom physical relations with a woman whom he no longer loved imaginatively soon became entirely repugnant, he felt sure that it was his duty to beget children. Moreover, he lacked the moral courage to risk offending his wife.
First Frederica, and then Cecily, were brought into the world, to inherit a quadrupled share of their father’s timidity, his fastidiousness, his morbid unwillingness to face unpleasant facts, his eager desire for affection, and his utter inability to compel it.
He, like his wife, felt slightly ashamed that both the children should be girls, and during their early childhood he found the physical side of their existence, so inevitably stressed in nursery days, unpleasantly obtrusive.
Just before Cecily’s sixth birthday her father fell ill with influenza. He was not very ill—nevertheless he died. He left everything to his wife—his money, the house in Belgrave Square, and the place in Yorkshire. There was no mention of his children in the will since neither was a boy.
Lady Marlowe let the place in Yorkshire and lived in the Belgrave Square house. Frederica and Cecily had a French mademoiselle, who taught them to speak and write French, and with whom they read and reread the stories of Mme. de Ségur and Mlle. Zenaide Fleuriot, because Mademoiselle said that nothing else was proper for young girls—and a children’s maid, who brushed their hair, bathed them, and dressed and undressed them, exactly as she had done in their childhood, until both were well on in their teens.
Their mother’s authority was supreme. No one in the house was allowed to question it, but Frederica and Cecily least of all. If Frederica sometimes, in what her mother referred to as “the difficult age,” made occasional clumsy and defiant attempts at self-assertion, they were met with such open ridicule that she could not persist in them. She was both too hyper-sensitive and too ill-adjusted to find any means of retaliation. Her violent and unformulated resentment of her mother’s tyranny reacted upon Cecily, who had thus a double yoke to bear: that of Lady Marlowe’s cheerful bullying, and that of Frederica’s morbid and possessive love.
Cecily was, however, the less unhappy of the two. The vitality that in Frederica was suppressed and distorted, in Cecily was reduced to a minimum, so that her life was almost entirely mental. Where Frederica yearned fiercely for normal contacts with humanity and life, Cecily longed for the education that had been almost wholly denied to her, and sought refuge from all that was unendurable in her life in abstract speculation and pathetic, surreptitious delvings into such sources of learning as she could attain to in secret.
Both girls bore an immense and unacknowledged sense of guilt always with them, since both practised continual deceptions, ranging from direct lies to subtle reservations and implications, in regard to one another and to their parent. They were never, indeed, frank with anyone—Cecily because she unconsciously sought to safeguard herself against life by avoiding personal contacts, and Frederica because bitterness so distorted her vision that she could scarcely distinguish the false from the true.
They had never been friendly with other girls, but Mrs. Ingram’s gentle insistence in forcing Monica upon them had led to a certain degree of familiarity between the three.
They talked more or less freely, in the Belgrave Square schoolroom or in the back half of Mrs. Ingram’s drawing-room, which Monica was allowed to use as a sitting-room in the mornings.
Towards the end of Monica’s first season she began, almost imperceptibly, to adopt an air of faint superiority towards Frederica. Not towards Cecily, for Cecily was too meek to provoke one to superiority. She would have taken the superiority of almost anybody for granted.
“Fancy, that Mr. Pelham that I met here, asks me to dance at every single ball I see him at. I danced with him twice on Tuesday, at the Corrys’.”
“He’s very dull though, isn’t he?” said Frederica.
“Oh, I don’t think so. Of course he’s rather old, but I don’t mind that a bit. I rather like elderly men; they’re easier to talk to, I think.”
“Mr. Pelham is supposed to have proposed to five different girls, and they all refused him. He’s dying to find a wife.”
“Is he? I should have thought he’d be miles better than no one,” said Monica, surprised. “He’s quite rich, isn’t he?”
“I think so. But deadly. I’ve practically given up dancing with him,” said Frederica, looking straight at Monica.
She, too, had been at the Corrys’ ball, and Monica had seen her, with a white, stiffening face, sitting out dance after dance.
<
br /> “Why?”
“I just don’t care about dancing, except with my particular friends. I’d really rather sit and watch.”
Monica felt something that was half-way between pity for Frederica and anger at having it supposed that she would be stupid enough to believe such nonsense.
Cecily interposed.
“Monica, did you go to Kew Gardens with the Ashes?”
“Yes, on Saturday. Alice Ashe arranged a party. It was rather fun.”
“Was Claude there?”
They always spoke of all the young men whom they knew by their Christian names, and scrupulously addressed them as Mr.
“Of course he was,” said Frederica, laughing. “Monica thinks that he arranged the whole thing for her.”
“As a matter of fact, he did. He practically said so. Considering he was the only person there I really knew—he’d introduced me and his sister, Alice, the day before, so that she could invite me.”
“I think he looks very nice,” said Cecily.
“He’s quite nice,” Monica threw out, with elaborate casualness.
“Boys are no use except to play about with, though.”
“He’s twenty-six.”
“Is he? Oh well, that’s different. I didn’t realize he was as old as that,” said Frederica, more respectfully.
“Would he be any good, Monica?” Cecily enquired wistfully.
They all knew what she meant. A man was “any good” or “no good” according to whether he could, or could not, ask one to marry him.
“I don’t know. I don’t suppose he has any money. His people don’t sound at all rich, from what Alice Ashe said about their house. They live somewhere in Wales.”
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