The Provincial Lady Series. E. M. Delafield
which I do not attempt to fill, ensues.
We return to Barbara, and Mrs. B. says it is very natural that a girl should be wrapped up in her own little concerns. I feel that we are getting no further, and boldly introduce the name of Crosbie Carruthers. Terrific effect on Mrs. B., who puts her hand on her heart, leans back, and begins to gasp and turn blue. She is sorry, she pants, to be so foolish, but it is now many nights since she has had any sleep at all, and the strain is beginning to tell. I must forgive her. I hastily do forgive her, and depart.
Very, very unsatisfactory interview.
Am told, on my way home, by Mrs. S. of the Cross and Keys, that a gentleman is staying there who is said to be engaged to Miss Blenkinsop, but the old lady won't hear of it, and he seems such a nice gentleman too, though perhaps not quite as young as some, and do I think the Himalayas would be All Right if there was a baby coming along? Exchange speculations and comments with Mrs. S. for some time before recollecting that the whole thing is supposed to be private, and that in any case gossip is undesirable.
Am met at home by Mademoiselle with intelligent enquiry as to the prospects of Miss Blenkinsop's immediate marriage, and the attitude adopted by old Mrs. B. "Le coeur d'une mère," says Mademoiselle sentimentally. Even the infant Vicky suddenly demands if that gentleman at the Cross and Keys is really Miss Blenkinsop's True Love? At this, Mademoiselle screams, "Ah, mon Dieu, ces enfants anglais!" and is much upset at impropriety of Vicky's language.
Even Robert enquires What All This Is, about Barbara Blenkinsop? I explain, and he returns—very, very briefly—that old Mrs. Blenkinsop ought to be Shot—which gets us no further, but meets with my entire approval.
April 10th.—Entire parish now seething with the affaire Blenkinsop. Old Mrs. B. falls ill, and retires to bed. Barbara bicycles madly up and down between her mother and the garden of the Cross and Keys, where C. C. spends much time reading copies of The Times of India and smoking small cigars. We are all asked by Barbara What she Ought to Do, and all give different advice. Deadlock appears to have been reached, when C. C. suddenly announces that he is summoned to London and must have an answer One Way or the Other immediately.
Old Mrs. B.—who has been getting better and taking Port—instantly gets worse again and says that she will not long stand in the way of dear Barbara's happiness.
Period of fearful stress sets in, and Barbara and C. C. say Good-bye in the front sitting-room of the Cross and Keys. They have, says Barbara in tears, parted For Ever, and Life is Over, and will I take the Guides' Meeting for her to-night—which I agree to do.
April 12th.—Return of Robin for the holidays. He has a cold, and, as usual, is short of handkerchiefs. I write to the Matron about this, but have no slightest hope of receiving either handkerchiefs or rational explanation of their disappearance. Robin mentions that he has invited "a boy" to come and stay for a week. I ask, Is he very nice and a great friend of yours? Oh no, says Robin, he is one of the most unpopular boys in the school. And after a moment he adds, That's why. Am touched, and think that this denotes a generous spirit, but am also undeniably rather apprehensive as to possible characteristics of future guest. I repeat the story to Mademoiselle, who—as usual, when I praise Robin—at once remarks: "Madame, notre petite Vicky n'a pas de défauts"—which is neither true nor relevant.
Receive a letter from Mary K. with postscript: Is it true that Barbara Blenkinsop is engaged to be married? and am also asked the same question by Lady B., who looks in on her way to some ducal function on the other side of the county. Have no time in which to enjoy being in the superior position of bestowing information, as Lady B. at once adds that she always advises girls to marry, no matter what the man is like, as any husband is better than none, and there are not nearly enough to go round.
I immediately refer to Rose's collection of distinguished Feminists, giving her to understand that I know them all well and intimately, and have frequently discussed the subject with them. Lady B. waves her hand—(in elegant white kid, new, not cleaned)—and declares That may be all very well, but if they could have got husbands they wouldn't be Feminists. I instantly assert that all have had husbands, and some two or three. This may or may not be true, but have seldom known stronger homicidal impulse. Final straw is added when Lady B. amiably observes that I, at least, have nothing to complain of, as she always thinks Robert such a safe, respectable husband for any woman. Give her briefly to understand that Robert is in reality a compound of Don Juan, the Marquis de Sade, and Dr. Crippen, but that we do not care to let it be known locally. Cannot say whether she is or is not impressed by this, as she declares herself obliged to go, because ducal function "cannot begin without her". All I can think of is to retort that Duchesses—(of whom, in actual fact, I do not know any)—always remind me of Alice in Wonderland, as do white kid gloves of the White Rabbit. Lady B. replies that I am always so well-read, and car moves off leaving her with, as usual, the last word.
Evolve in my own mind merry fantasy in which members of the Royal Family visit the neighbourhood and honour Robert and myself by becoming our guests at luncheon. (Cannot quite fit Howard Fitzs. into this scheme, but gloss over that aspect of the case.) Robert has just been raised to the peerage, and I am, with a slight and gracious inclination of the head, taking precedence of Lady B. at large dinner party, when Vicky comes in to say that the Scissor-Grinder is at the door, and if we haven't anything to grind, he'll be pleased to attend to the clocks or rivet any china.
Am disconcerted at finding itinerant gipsy, of particularly low appearance, encamped at back door, with collection of domestic articles strewn all round him and his machine. Still more disconcerted at appearance of Mademoiselle, in fits of loud and regrettable Gallic merriment, bearing extremely unsuitable fragments of bedroom ware in either hand . . . She, Vicky, and the Scissor-Grinder join in unseemly mirth, and I leave them to it, thankful that at least Lady B. is by now well on her way and cannot descend upon the scene. Am seriously exercised in my mind as to probable standard of humour with which Vicky will grow up.
Look for Robin and eventually find him with the cat, shut up into totally unventilated linen-cupboard, eating cheese which he says he found on the back stairs.
(Undoubtedly, a certain irony can be found in the fact that I have recently been appointed to new Guardians Committee, and am expected to visit Workhouse, etc., with particular reference to children's quarters, in order that I may offer valuable suggestions on questions of hygiene and general welfare of inmates . . . Can only hope that fellow-members of the Committee will never be inspired to submit my own domestic arrangements to similar inspection.)
Write letters. Much interrupted by Helen Wills, wanting to be let out, kitten, wanting to be let in, and dear Robin, who climbs all over all the furniture, apparently unconscious that he is doing so, and tells me at the same time, loudly and in full, the story of The Swiss Family Robinson.
April 14th.—Cook electrifies me by asking me if I have heard that Miss Barbara Blenkinsop's engagement is on again, it's all over the village. The gentleman, she says, came down by the 8.45 last night, and is at the Cross and Keys. As it is exactly 9.15 A.M. when she tells me this, I ask how she knows? Cook merely repeats that It is All Over the Village, and that Miss Barbara will quite as like as not be married by special licence, and old Mrs. B. is in such a way as never was. Am disconcerted to find that Cook and I have been talking our heads off for the better part of forty minutes before I remember that gossip is both undignified and undesirable.
Just as I am putting on my hat to go down to the Blenkinsops' our Vicar's wife rushes in. All is true, she says, and more. Crosbie Carruthers, in altogether desperate state, has threatened suicide, and written terrific farewell letter to Barbara, who has cried herself—as our Vicar's wife rather strangely expresses it—to the merest pulp, and begged him to Come At Once. A Blenkinsop Family Council has been summoned—old Mrs. B. has had Attacks—(nobody quite knows what of)—but has finally been persuaded to reconsider entire problem. Our Vicar has been called in to give impartial advice and consolation to all parties.