A reversion to type

by E. M. Delafield

IV

Maurice Lucian was entirely right in supposing that there were no such things as “rows” at Squires, but the absence of them was not accepted as a matter of course by Rose Aviolet.

A great deal of her intercourse with her dead mother had consisted in descriptions—perhaps vehement rather than accurate—on Mrs. Smith’s part of “a real old hullabaloo between her and me, and I gave it her straight, I can tell you, with her silly old letter about putting it into the hands of her solicitors if I didn’t pay up then and there,” and on Rose’s part of “Well, Mother, I wasn’t going to stand that from a girl like Esther Moses, needless to say, and I said, Mother, I just said, ‘Yes, you may be very good at arithmetic,’ I said, ‘and good reason why,’ I said, ‘Jewess!’”

Rose and her mother, however indignant, had always rather enjoyed their scenes at the moment of occurrence, and still more in the retrospect.

Scenes with Jim, later on, Rose had enjoyed less, but she had entirely accepted them as part of everyday life, although her pride had not allowed her the satisfaction of retailing them afterwards. At Squires, for the first time in her life, she was in an atmosphere in which scenes could not exist.

To her perceptions, nothing vital could exist at Squires at all, except her own vehement emotions, and these were deprived of the only outlet that she knew—unrestrained speech.

The weeks and even the months slid by in a deadly monotony.

“I’m afraid it’s dull for you, Rose,” said her mother-in-law, after the first anniversary of Rose’s widowhood had passed, and she had discarded as much as she dared of her conventional mourning.

“Well, it is, in a way. Of course there was always a lot going on in Ceylon.”

“I believe these Indian hill-stations are very gay,” Lady Aviolet assented. Nothing had ever succeeded in making her remember that “India” could not cover the whole of the East.

“Ceylon isn’t India,” said Rose bluntly.

She thought Lady Aviolet a fool, and her tone said as much.

“Gaieties are naturally out of the question, but we thought of asking one or two people here for the shooting. I don’t think you’ve met Diana Grierson-Amberly, a young cousin of mine. Her father has a nice old place on the far side of the county. She generally pays us a visit in the autumn.”

Rose, utterly inexperienced in the catch-words used in polite society, could think of no reply, and therefore said blankly: “Oh!”

Lady Aviolet sighed, and went on knitting. Rose’s hands lay idle in her lap. She knew how to make her own underclothes, and how to darn stockings, but considered the practice of either art unfitted to the Squires’ drawing-room. She did not knit, because she did not know what to make, and had often speculated as to the destination of Lady Aviolet’s innumerable woolly garments.

“Diana is wonderfully musical, and plays the violin a great deal.”

“Oh, does she?”

“She was always a great friend of the boys, although she is a good many years younger. She is so good at games.”

“Oh, is she?”

“She has been brought up with her brothers, and has even been allowed to go out with the guns. I believe she is an excellent shot.”

“What does she shoot?” Rose enquired with the first spark of interest that Miss Grierson-Amberly had succeeded in rousing within her.

Lady Aviolet looked rather astonished. “Just what they all do, my dear—rabbits, or partridges, or pheasants, as the case may be. No big-game shooting, or anything like that, of course. She is only about your own age.”

“Oh,” said Rose.

“Is there any one whom you would care to ask here for a day or two’s shooting, perhaps?”

Lady Aviolet’s tone held not the slightest hint that she had debated the propriety of this rather rash invitation for several days before giving it, and had finally done so against the advice of her husband.

Rose was astonished and grateful.

“Thank you very much. It’s very kind of you. But there isn’t anybody. I don’t know anybody, you see. My uncle couldn’t leave his business, and besides, I don’t suppose he can shoot. Besides, him and me had rather a row before I left England, and I haven’t seen him since, although we’ve sort of made it up by letter.”

“Perhaps he will come another time, when the guns are not busy,” said Lady Aviolet impassively.

She was completely unaware that Rose was surprised, and rather disappointed, at not being asked for details of the “row.”

“We are hoping to secure a friend of Ford’s, Lord Charlesbury, and one or two other men. Lord Charlesbury is a widower, poor fellow, and has a boy rather older than Cecil. He lost his wife when the boy was born, and has never married since.”

“Poor little boy, without a mother!” said Rose. “What do they do with him?”

“Oh, of course, he’s at school now, very happy indeed. In fact, Ford thought you and he might talk about a good preparatory school for little Cecil with Lord Charlesbury, who has been into it all so recently.”

“I see,” said Rose.

The question of school had been in abeyance lately.

A nursery governess was installed at Squires, and Rose, to the surprise of her mother-in-law, had submitted to having Cecil less with her, and had refrained from interference on the few occasions when he fell into disgrace, and was punished, very mildly, by little Miss Wade.

“We thought of asking him for the First,” Lady Aviolet said.

“The first what?”

“The First of September, my dear.”

And Rose, no wiser than before, for the fifth time could think of no more brilliant rejoinder than “Oh!”

She was, however, pleased at the thought of a party, and went to London and bought two new dresses and a new hat, wishing regretfully that she dared buy coloured things instead of black ones.

On the last day of August Diana Grierson-Amberly arrived. Rose, at first sight of her, sweepingly decided that she was neither smart nor pretty, and, even more rashly, that in the absence of either of these attributes, she could not be very interesting. She willingly conceded, however, that Diana was “nice” when she heard her speak pleasantly to little Cecil, who was allowed to have tea in the hall with his governess.

The attraction that Miss Grierson-Amberly possessed for a small proportion of her fellow-countrymen, although unappreciated by Rose Aviolet, was very far from being non-existent.

Tall and fair, with a typically English face and figure, she looked exactly what Lady Aviolet had said that she was—very good at games. Her chest was as flat as her back, her feet and hands rather large, her face pleasantly vacant, with a beautiful fresh complexion, blue eyes, and a soft mouth that was always slightly open. Rose envied her the perfect self-possession with which she answered Lady Aviolet’s questions, patting and fondling Pug—but not feeding him from the table, a practice that invariably annoyed Sir Thomas when surreptitiously attempted by Cecil’s governess—and returning Ford’s greeting with pleasant, cousinly calm.

“How d’ye do, Diana.”

“How are you, Ford.”

They shook hands, with a momentary exchange of smiles.

“Are you coming out with us to-morrow?”

“Oh, no. I’m not allowed to go out with a gun, really, except with father and the boys.”

“I hear you do great execution, Diana,” said Sir Thomas. “What do you shoot with?”

“A twenty-bore. I couldn’t carry a twelve-bore all day long, I’m sure.”

She turned good-naturedly to Rose, who was staring at her with enormous brown eyes.

“Do you shoot, Mrs. Aviolet?”

“Gracious, no.”

The expletive, savouring rather of Rose’s early surroundings than of her present ones, fell strangely across the atmosphere of the hall at Squires.

“You didn’t get any big-game shooting in the East, then. That’s what made me ask——” Diana said, as though feeling that an apology was perhaps required for the suggestion that had called forth so energetic a declaimer.

“Oh, Lord, no,” said Rose.

Ford coughed very gently.

“You’ve brought your fiddle, Diana, I hope,” said Lady Aviolet.

“I have. I’m afraid I’m dreadfully out of practice, though. One gets so little time.”

“We must have some music after dinner to-night. I know Rose is fond of music, though we do not often hear her play.” Lady Aviolet glanced amiably at her daughter-in-law.

“I can play to-night, if you like,” said Rose abruptly, impelled by an unrecognized instinct of self-assertion, born of her own consciousness that she was out of place amongst these people.

“I can play her accompaniments.” She nodded at Diana, not knowing whether or not she was expected to use the girl’s Christian name.

“How nice of you,” said Diana lightly. “I’ve heaps of music and we’re sure to find something you know.”

The conversation drifted on easily enough. Cecil and Miss Wade went away into the garden, and Rose looked after them with longing eyes, wishing that she could go and play with the little boy, and yet staunch to her resolution that “they” should have their own way in all the things that didn’t matter.

She thought that politeness required her to remain at the tea-table, leaning back in an uncomfortable upright chair, but it did not occur to her to simulate any interest in a conversation which bored her profoundly, and she was as nearly as possible unconscious that every now and then she stifled a half-checked yawn with the back of her hand.

“I hear you have some new neighbours at Bolestone, Diana.”

“Yes, Cousin Catherine. The Frederick Ollertons—such nice people.”

“Let me see, who was she?”

“Wasn’t she a Trevor?” said Ford.

“No, no. You’re thinking of the Arthur Ollertons, in Surrey. He married a Trevor.”

“Ah, that’s it,” Sir Thomas agreed.

“Then who was Mrs. Fred Ollerton? A Bannister?”

“No, that wasn’t it.” Diana’s open brow was corrugated. “No, not a Bannister, though there’s some connection—I think the present Lord Bannister is her uncle.”

“Then she must have been a Saunderson,” Lady Aviolet decided.

“Yes, she was.” Diana’s face relaxed as she agreed almost with enthusiasm. “She was, Cousin Catherine. How stupid of me to forget! Her sister was with them last Christmas—Miss Saunderson.”

“That must have been Connie Saunderson, then—she’s the only unmarried one. The eldest one married Lord Everleach, Connie is unmarried, and Mrs. Frederick Ollerton must be the youngest of them. So disappointing for the Saundersons that there should have been no son in that family.”

“It all goes to a nephew, I believe,” Sir Thomas said.

“Young Verulam, yes. Have you met him, Diana?” Ford enquired.

“I’ve danced with him. He was at the Hunt Ball this year.” She turned amiably to Rose. “Do you know him?”

Rose, startled from the vacancy of thought into which she had drifted in her complete inattention to a conversation that she considered futile, replied brusquely “No,” and there was a sudden silence.

Then Diana, with the super-evident tact of the kind-hearted, remarked rather lamely, “Oh, of course, you’ve been abroad, haven’t you? I forgot that.”

Ford rose, smiling gently after his wont, his mouth curving slightly, his narrow eyes opaque and sombre.

“I hear the carriage, Mother. I hope that’s Charlesbury.”

Diana said, “Oh, good,” in a placid way and Rose straightened herself in her chair, and from long habit, fluffed up a straight end of hair on her temple between her first and second fingers.

Lord Charlesbury was tall, with a kind, thin, sunburnt face, rather good-looking in spite of approaching baldness, and wearing an eyeglass to which Rose, inwardly, after her usual trenchant fashion, immediately applied the epithet of “la-di-dah.”

He greeted Diana Grierson-Amberly by her Christian name, and appeared to be on intimate terms with his hosts.

“How’s the boy, Laurence?”

“Going strong, thanks. He’s as happy as the day is long at Hurst, and they tell me he’s going to be a cricketer.”

“Oh, good,” said Diana again, this time with rather more enthusiasm in her tone.

“He can bowl a very good overarm ball already, and funnily enough he’s a natural left-hand bowler. Don’t know where he gets it from.”

“Very disconcerting thing, to stand up to a left-hand bowler, I always think,” said Sir Thomas.

“Has your boy begun cricket yet?” Lord Charlesbury asked Rose, to her surprise.

She was astonished, but gratified and pleased at any friendly allusion to Cecil.

“How did you know I’d got a little boy?” she asked naïvely.

Lady Aviolet looked disturbed, but Charlesbury laughed low and pleasantly.

“Of course I knew. He and my little fellow must be much about the same age. We must arrange a meeting these holidays.”

“He would like another boy to play with. He’s never had anybody.”

“Ah, well, school will put that right. Hugh is an only child, too. But he’s found his level all right. Hurst is a good place.”

“Is that his school?”

“Preparatory school—yes. I’ve got his name down for Eton and Winchester, at present.”

Rose wondered why any one’s name should be down for two different places, but the subject was not one that she wanted to pursue.

“Cecil’s not quite eight, yet, and he’s backward too, from being brought up in Ceylon.”

“You’ve not been back from the East so very long, have you?”

“It seems ages.”

Charlesbury was looking at her with such evident interest and admiration that Rose rapidly felt at her ease with him, and began to talk in the manner—and also at the pitch—natural to her.

“Heaps of people at home seem to think that Ceylon is the same as India, but it isn’t, in the least,” she told him. “Ceylon is an island that has nothing to do with India, really. It’s not half a bad place, especially up in the hills. We were in a place called Newara Eliya most of the time, and it was as cool as anything. Colombo is sweltering, of course, and as damp as can be. It’s on the sea, you know.”

“Rose,” said Ford’s very quiet and distinct voice at her elbow, “as Lord Charlesbury happens to be a distinguished member of the Geographical Society and the author of several books about the East may I suggest that you are, in the vulgar phrase, importing coals to Newcastle?”

Rose flushed scarlet, rather from anger than from confusion, but before she could speak Charlesbury had interposed quickly and courteously:

“Indeed, I cannot claim anything like Mrs. Aviolet’s acquaintance with Ceylon. I have never had a stay of more than twenty-four hours there, much as I should have liked it. Like the wretched traveller of the song ‘From place to place they hurry me—and think that I forget,’ which is only too true. It takes years in a place to retain any real impression of it. Now you, Mrs. Aviolet, are young, and I am sure have a most excellent memory. Your description of life in the East would have the true, authentic ring about it, whereas mine could only be an imperfect hash of muddled recollections.”

His speech gave Rose time to collect herself. But it was her vivid recognition of the kindliness that had prompted it, which made her conscious of an ardent rush of intense gratitude at the restoration of her self-esteem.

With candid rudeness, she deliberately moved her chair round so that her back was turned to Ford.

No flicker of expression betrayed whether or not Lord Charlesbury took note of this unusual form of social repartee.

He continued to talk in his low, cultivated tones, every now and then appealing to Rose’s judgment and always listening, interested and deferential, to her replies.

She found him delightful, and was entirely undisturbed by any realization of the fact that she was monopolizing the principal guest present.

Her inexperience did not even perceive that it was he who presently contrived to include their hostess in the conversation.

She went up to her room to dress for dinner with the pleasant consciousness, strange to her since she had come to Squires, of having been a success.

“It’s only Ford that always tries to make a fool of me,” was her self-consolatory résumé of the unfortunate moment when she had been abruptly arrested in her description of Ceylon.

As soon as she was dressed, Rose went upstairs, two steps at a time as she always did, to wish Cecil good-night.

“Mummie, Miss Wade says there’s a gentleman staying here who has a little boy the same age as me, and he’s at school and can play cricket.”

“He’s not the same age as you, he’s older,” said Rose sharply.

“When am I going to school?”

“I don’t know. Don’t you like doing lessons with Miss Wade?”

“No. I want to go to school and play cricket. Grandpapa says all boys play cricket.”

“Well, you can play cricket here.”

“Who with?” Cecil not unnaturally demanded.

“We’ll see. Now say your prayers.”

Cecil knelt up in bed, folding his hands and closing his eyes, and repeated rapidly:

“Pray God bless Mummie, an’ Grandpapa an’ Grandmama an’ everybody an’ make me a good boy for Chrissakeamen. An’ let me go to school and play cricket best of all the boys.”

At the last unexpected petition he slyly peeped through his long lashes at Rose, as though to see how the innovation would strike her. She said nothing, but inwardly she was both frightened and angered.

“Good-night, precious. Sleep well.”

“Good-night, Mummie.”

She kissed him and went away.

At the door of the nursery she paused.

“Miss Wade.”

“Yes, Mrs. Aviolet?”

The little governess was meek and inoffensive. She generally wore a conciliatory smile and coloured up to her spectacles with nervousness when she was spoken to unexpectedly.

“Has Ces been having ideas put into his head about going to school?”

Miss Wade looked very much astonished.

“I don’t think I quite understand what you mean, Mrs. Aviolet.”

She looked so frightened that Rose burst out laughing.

“He said something about it just now, that’s all, and you know, nothing’s settled yet, and he’s very backward about lessons.”

“I am doing my best to get him on as fast as possible,” replied Miss Wade, now obviously rather offended, “but of course if you’re not satisfied with his progress, Mrs. Aviolet, I’d much rather be told so. I quite understand——”

“Oh, my Lord!” was the exasperated exclamation of Rose Aviolet. “I don’t mean that at all. He’s getting on like a house on fire. I only mean that it isn’t any good, him or anybody else, thinking that he’s going dashing off to school as a matter of course, just because it’s supposed to be the proper thing to do.”

Rose’s explanation did not appear to afford any illumination to little Miss Wade.

“Lady Aviolet distinctly informed me that I was preparing Cecil for school,” she said. “If he were not so behindhand in English—though I’m sure it’s very natural that he should be so, after India—I should have started him in Latin by this time.”

“Ceylon isn’t India,” said Rose, infuriated, and walked out of the nursery.

Half-way downstairs again, remorse suddenly overtook her.

“What a pig I am! Worse than the Pryce-Jones woman was to me, and, after all, it might just as well be me sitting stuffed up in that old nursery mending Cecil’s clothes and her prancing down to dinner in a low frock. I’d better——”

She turned round and dashed upstairs once more, and burst open the nursery door.

“I’m sorry I seemed cross. It wasn’t anything to do with you, really, and I think Ces is getting on first-rate, truly I do. ’Night-night.”

Late for dinner and stumbling over her long dress as she hastened downstairs, Rose felt better satisfied with herself.

Miss Wade, who had perceived from the first moment of her arrival that Mrs. Aviolet was no lady, felt her opinion to have received confirmation good and strong, and from that moment she despised Cecil’s mother from the bottom of her little soul.

Dinner that evening was the most amusing gathering at which Rose had assisted since coming to Squires, although she was disappointed not to find herself placed next to Lord Charlesbury.

She sat between Sir Thomas and a young fox-hunting squire, the only other guest staying in the house, whom everyone excepting herself seemed to call Toby. As soon as she had discovered that he liked playing cards, they discussed whisky-poker, made very familiar to Rose both in Ceylon and on board ship.

On the other side of the table, Lord Charlesbury listened to Miss Grierson-Amberly’s flat, pleasant tones with exactly the same appearance of intense interest that he had accorded to Rose’s monologue earlier in the day. But every now and then he adjusted his single eyeglass and glanced across the glittering expanse of white cloth, crystal, and silver.

The conversation only became general when Rose’s neighbour spoke animatedly upon the subject of billiards.

“We might have a game after dinner,” said Sir Thomas. “Though I’m afraid we don’t muster very strong here.”

He paused a moment.

Jim Aviolet had played billiards.

“I’m a very poor performer,” said Ford. “Toby could give me fifty in a hundred and a beating, easily. Are you an expert, Diana?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know one end of a cue from the other,” she confessed, and then discounted the admission by adding: “but I can mark for you.”

“I can play,” said Rose, “but I’m awfully bad.”

“I’m afraid that Toby is ‘awfully’ good,” Ford told her, stressing the slang qualification. “If you want a foe worthy of your steel, Toby, we might ask Dr. Lucian up one evening. He’s a local worthy—and a very fine player at that.”

Something in the patronizing inflection of the words, no less than the implied rebuke to herself, roused Rose’s never very deeply dormant pugnacity.

“Dr. Lucian is most awfully nice,” she proclaimed very loudly. “I like him and his sister. They’re—they’re awfully nice.”

She coloured and unconsciously tossed her head as she bore her haltingly worded testimony. There was a moment’s silence.

“I remember Lucian,” said Lord Charlesbury. “A clever fellow, too. I should like to meet him again.”

“Perhaps he could dine here one night, and you might have some good billiards,” said Lady Aviolet.

She looked at Diana Grierson-Amberly and they both rose.

In the drawing-room, Lady Aviolet turned to Diana.

“I hope your violin is down here, Di.”

“It’s upstairs, but I’ll fetch it.”

“Your coffee, my dear....”

“Mother doesn’t let me have it, Cousin Catherine, because of my complexion.”

“Ah, well, you can’t be too careful,” the elder lady acquiesced.

When the girl had gone upstairs, she said to her daughter-in-law:

“I should like to ask Dr. Lucian to dinner, Rose, since he is a friend of yours. But I am afraid that I have never called upon his sister.”

Rose could think of no reply to the last half of the announcement, and therefore ignored it.

“I hope he’ll come,” she said. “He’s very nice and he’s awf—very interested in Cecil.”

“He knew Cecil’s father many years ago, and in fact he has known all of us for many years—ever since he first came down here from London. I believe he’s very highly thought of in his profession. A clever man, Ford calls him.”

She was complacently secure that Ford’s judgment must be infallible, but in this instance Rose felt no desire to dispute it.

“Won’t you look through my pieces, Mrs. Aviolet?” Diana’s voice inquired behind her.

The girl had returned with her violin-case and a neat pile of music.

She opened the grand piano that Rose had never dared to touch, as she spoke. Her pieces, as she had called them, were thoroughly deserving of the name. There was Thomé’s “Simple Aveu” and somebody’s “Variations in F,” and some Operatic Selections, and a good deal of French music.

Already Rose was regretting the rash impulse that had moved her to volunteer the accompaniments.

“I’m more used to songs than to violin pieces,” she answered nervously.

“We’ll have a practice together to-morrow morning, before we perform in public,” Diana good-naturedly suggested.

But when the men came into the drawing-room, the youth Toby was clamorous for some music, and Sir Thomas politely seconded his urgent requests.

“Try this,” Diana said to Rose again and again. “It’s so very easy, really.”

And Rose, giggling nervously, repeated loudly: “No, I couldn’t—really, I couldn’t,” a great many times.

At last she agreed to attempt the “Variations” and sat down at the piano, endeavouring to give herself confidence by the preliminary sketchy “run” that had been the orthodox prelude to all piano solos at school.

Her fingers, stiff from absence of practice, bungled it badly, but she regained courage at the first bars of the very simple music.

“One, two and three, four,” murmured Rose under her breath, violently stressing the first beat in every bar, regardless of phrasing, and vaguely hopeful that the application of the loud pedal would drown any false notes.

If Diana’s playing was mediocre, that of Rose was definitely vulgar, although she possessed a real ability to read at sight, and considerable muscular power and agility.

“Oh, thanks awfully!” cried Toby, when it was over. “Have you got that ripping waltz out of ‘The Strawberry Girl’?”

“Well played, well played,” muttered Sir Thomas, not looking up from his Times.

Charlesbury said nothing at all, and Ford, going over to the piano, silently assisted Rose to close it, with an air which plainly implied that there remained nothing else to be done.

“I suppose I made a fool of myself,” she observed with an angry laugh.

He made no reply.

“She—your cousin—doesn’t play awfully well herself, does she? On her fiddle, I mean.”

“She has had some very good teaching, I believe.”

“Of course, she was miles better than I was,” Rose added with belated generosity. “Not that that’s saying much. I’m awfully out of practice.”

Ford made no reply at all, and Rose, in her desire for reassurance, found temerity to cross the length of the room and sit down beside Charlesbury.

He stood up, as she dropped into her armchair with the flouncing movement of a schoolgirl, but to her relief sat down again almost at once and looked at her with his kind, interested smile.

“I am sure you love music,” he said to her.

“Yes, I do. Not that you’d have thought so, from the row I made just now. I don’t know why I ever said I’d play her accompaniments. I’ve never accompanied a violin before, only songs.”

“You husband didn’t care for music, did he?” said Charlesbury, rather as though stating a fact.

“Not a bit. Did you know Jim?”

“I knew him a little. I’ve known them all for years. But Ford is the one I’ve seen the most of, although he is younger than I am by several years.”

“They told me you were his friend, and I was so surprised, after I’d seen you.”

Charlesbury smiled a little.

“Why were you surprised?”

“Well, you know, I think he’s odious,” said Rose.

Even Lord Charlesbury’s calm wavered slightly before the singular candour of this unvarnished revelation.

“H’sh—his mother may hear you ...” he indicated Lady Aviolet, knitting placidly.

“I daresay she knows quite well what I think,” said Rose gloomily, her voice obediently lowered.

“I hope not.”

He looked down at the monocle, idle between his fingers.

“I’m so sorry you feel like that, Mrs. Aviolet. It must make it so extraordinarily lonely for you here.”

She felt a rush of warm gratitude for the sympathy in his voice.

“Oh, it does. I’m a—a fish out of water, altogether, and I’d go away to-morrow if it wasn’t for little Ces. It isn’t only Ford—though I hate him the worst—it’s the whole life—everything.”

“I’m so sorry for you,” he repeated gently.

“Thank you,” said Rose Aviolet, her honest, child-like brown eyes gazing at him, and her rouged mouth trembling a little with the sincerity of her feelings.