Part 28

“Funny you should say that. He’s my godson--Horace--and he _is_ a good bit more like our side of the family than any of the others. Not that the others take after their father in anything but looks, I will say.”

“Don’t you like him, then?” inquired Jennie innocently.

Lydia had not thought fit to enter into any details before Jennie as to the little she knew of Beatrice Senthoven’s disastrous alliance with Mr. Stanley Swaine. She had indeed systematically evaded all Jennie’s inquiries about her contemporary cousins.

“Like him?” said Olive explosively. “Hark at her, Lydia! Why, he’s a bad lot, Jennie--that’s what he is--a regular scallywag. He--you know.”

An expressive pantomime of tilted-up arm and hand and a motion as of swallowing completed Olive’s terse description of her brother-in-law’s failing.

“Ah, a lot of good fellows get their lives spoilt that way,” said Valentine sympathetically--but quite matter-of-factly, thought Lydia.

“Him and Beatrice ought never to have been allowed to go about together the way they did,” said Aunt Evelyn suddenly. “I blame myself.”

“Now, now, now--tell us all about this wedding of yours, Jennie,” said Aunt Beryl, violently tactful.

“A regular war-wedding, isn’t it?” said Olive. “One of our nurses at the hospital the other day got a telegram just like that to say that her _fiasco_ was coming on leave, and they were to get married straight away. So this girl I’m telling you about, this nurse--she went straight off with twenty-four hours’ leave--that was all they’d give her, if you please--and simply came back married.”

“Only twenty-four hours!” exclaimed Jennie. “What did the husband do?”

“Oh, came down with her, of course, and stayed at the hotel.”

“Well, I think it was too bad,” Aunt Beryl remarked with finality. “Only giving her twenty-four hours like that, poor thing.”

“One’s got to think of the work,” said Olive, shaking her head. “We’re fearfully full up just now. I wonder you don’t take up nursing, Jennie--but perhaps you mean to after you’re married?”

“I don’t know,” said Jennie calmly.

Then she had had some such idea, although Lydia had definitely stated that she was not fitted for such work, and had taken it for granted that Jennie would come home to her after Roland’s return to the front.

Lydia had far too much self-command to risk a betrayal of her thought by looking at her daughter, but she knew by intuition that Jennie had shot a half-frightened, half-mischievous glance at her in schoolgirl-fashion.

“I’d like to have Jennie doing work in London somewhere,” declared Roland Valentine. “It’ll be handy for my leave, or if I get sent into hospital.”

“We might find a flat in town,” said Lydia quietly.

“There are all sorts of hostels for women-workers being opened everywhere,” said Jennie.

The implication was obvious enough.

At four o’clock Olive rose importantly. She had been glancing surreptitiously at the clock for the last ten minutes.

“Well, I suppose I must be toddling. What a bore!” she said with an affectation of reluctance. “It’s as much as my place is worth to be five minutes late in going on duty.”

“I told the girl to put a cup of tea for you in the dining-room, dear. You’ve plenty of time. (The girl I’ve got now,” said Aunt Beryl in parenthesis to Lydia, “is the best I’ve had since Gertrude left. You remember Gertrude, who got married?) How are you going, Olive?”

“By tram, I s’pose.”

“Perhaps you and Jennie would like to walk her as far as the tramway centre?” suggested Aunt Beryl, with a kindly gleam of rather pallid mirth directed at the Canadian.

“Sure! Will you, Jennie?”

“Come on, then. Goo’-bye, auntie; goo’-bye, Lydia, ole gurl. Awfully glad to have seen you--’specially in these busy days. Ta-ta!”

Olive clattered from the room, quite in the old, breezy Senthoven manner.

“She won’t be back till ten o’clock to-night, as likely as not,” moaned her mother.

“She’s looking very well on it,” declared Aunt Beryl stoutly. “Lydia, don’t you think Olive looks ever so much better for the interest?”

Lydia agreed with complete sincerity.

Aunt Beryl sat down by the fire, and there was a certain relaxation, as from a long strain, in her bearing.

“Those are the lucky ones, those that have a job. There’s poor George eating his heart out because he’s past the age for even the volunteers. It does seem hard, too. All he can do is to stay overtime at the office, doing the work of young fellows who’ve gone to the war. Lydia, that’s a fine young chap that Jennie’s got there.”

“I’m glad you like him, Aunt Beryl,” said Lydia gently.

Her tone held no hint of disagreement. To disparage her accepted son-in-law would have offended her taste, besides mitigating her claim to self-sacrificed motherhood.

“Dear little Jennie! She’s full young--but you weren’t much older when you were married yourself, Lydia.”

“Nearly three years--and Jennie is such a baby for her age!”

Lydia held tenaciously to the theory of Jennie’s tardy development because it seemed to exonerate her from some of the charges, that she could not forget, brought against her successively by Roland Valentine and by Joyce Damerel.

“She’ll mend of that fast enough in these days, poor dear! Besides,” said Aunt Beryl thoughtfully, “I don’t know that she’s so much of a baby, Lydia. This engagement will have steadied her, too. I could see a great difference. Evelyn, didn’t you think Jennie much less of a child--more grown-up, like?”

“What, dear?”

“Tell Lydia whether you don’t think Jennie much more of a woman since she’s been engaged,” screamed Aunt Beryl.

“Oh! Yes, poor little Jennie! The world’s all being made over in this awful war--it’s only the young things who count for anything now.”

“She hasn’t heard,” said Aunt Beryl to Lydia, shaking her head.

But the observation of the deaf woman had not been so irrelevant, at least to the thoughts that surged into Lydia’s sub-consciousness.

Only the young people counted now. It was they who, in every sense, stood in the forefront of the battle now.

“Oh,” said Lydia, in sudden, overwhelming need of a vent for the intolerable misery that was surging within her, “I can’t bear to think of my little, sheltered Jennie suddenly rushed into the realities of life like this. If only I could bear it all for her!”

“Ah, yes--I expect you feel that,” said Aunt Beryl with strange matter-of-factness.

“I would so gladly take it all for her.”

Even as she spoke Lydia realized the full truth of the words. How much easier it would be, how far less costly to herself, to know Jennie ignorant and happy, while she herself, a recognized victim, faced a suffering that would be rendered entirely bearable by that very fact.

“I’m sure it’s very hard to sit by and see others suffer,” said Aunt Beryl tritely, and added in the same rather monotonous voice, “I was very fond of your mother, Lydia, and I remember quite well thinking how much easier it would have been when your poor father died if I could have had the pain of it all to myself, instead of having to feel for her, and Aunt Evelyn there, as well. There was a sort of selfishness in it, like, I daresay.”

“Aunt Beryl,” said Lydia suddenly, “should you say that I was selfish with Jennie?”

“How do you mean, dear, exactly?”

There was nothing in Aunt Beryl’s voice that showed her protesting, as Lydia inwardly craved that she should protest, at the mere suggestion.

“Then you do think so?”

“No--oh, no, Lydia. I shouldn’t say that, dear.”

They both glanced at Mrs. Senthoven.

She had fallen into a doze, and was nodding over the red fire.

Lydia’s misery drove her to a form of self-revelation utterly foreign to her.

“I--I’ve been worried lately. Joyce--my sister-in-law--who has never liked me--began to talk about Jennie the other day. And she sounded as though--as if--she thought that my very love for Jennie was something selfish--had always been selfish. It upset me very much. And she wasn’t even logical, Aunt Beryl. She said I’d never cared for anyone but myself, and in the same breath accused me of caring for Jennie selfishly--as though I hadn’t lived my whole life for Jennie since her father died. After all, I was quite a young woman when I was left a widow. I--I might have married again.”

“I _have_ sometimes wondered, dear.”

“Of course, living quietly in the depths of the country, I practically never saw anyone. But all the same--I could have married.”

“I daresay that would be so, dear.”

“But don’t you see, that would have meant that Jennie could no longer be my first consideration. And I’ve always put her first, Aunt Beryl--always.”

“She’s grown up a very dear girl, I’m sure,” said Aunt Beryl expressionlessly.

“If she were marrying someone we’d all known and liked--and there wasn’t this horrible war hanging over it all; if I could only feel that she was going to happiness, naturally and normally--then I could bear losing her. It’s the lot of parents, and I’d face all my loneliness gladly--if only I didn’t feel that some awful loss or grief may be coming to her that I shan’t be able to take in her stead.”

“Well, of course you know, dear, Jennie has to live her own life.”

Aunt Beryl had spoken. Colloquially, without emphasis, she had repeated the verdict already voiced crudely by young Valentine, and vehemently by Joyce.

They thought that Lydia grudged Jennie--had always grudged her--the right of experience.

Lydia had never held Aunt Beryl’s opinions in high esteem. Indeed, there were very few opinions so to hold. One talked with Aunt Beryl of the people one knew, of household difficulties, and of clothes. Never of abstract questions, nor of inner perplexities. One knew instinctively that for such she would have no solution to offer.

And yet Aunt Beryl’s simple statement that Jennie had to live her own life carried with it to Lydia an altogether disproportionate dismay.

“To see one’s own child suffer--it’s far worse than suffering oneself,” she reiterated helplessly.

“I’m not saying it isn’t hard on you, dear.”

Aunt Beryl softly picked up the little knitted shawl that had slipped from Mrs. Senthoven’s shoulders and replaced it without waking her.

“I’m sure it isn’t good for Aunt Evelyn to sleep in the day-time the way she does, Lydia. It isn’t what I call wholesome sleep either--hark at the way she’s breathing!”

Aunt Beryl reseated herself.

“About what we were saying, dear. No doubt, you’ll say, me being an old maid, I can hardly enter into a mother’s feelings, and probably it’s the case. But I always remember that time, years and years ago, Lydia, when you went off to London to that Madame Elena’s, that shop--I always remember what a way I was in about it. Feeling you were too young, you know, and that someone ought to stand between you and the world, and so on and so forth. You know the way one goes on, dear. And then something or other set me thinking--and Mr. Monteagle Almond and Uncle George and I got talking one evening, I remember, and it seemed as though it would be more myself I was thinking about than you, really, if I insisted upon you being kept under my wing, as they say, instead of letting you learn for yourself. Of course,” said Aunt Beryl apologetically, “I’m not saying it’s the same thing as being a mother, you understand--but it does seem as though one ought to be ready to let the young people suffer for themselves, so to speak, if that’s the way they’re going to learn.”

“But I want to see my Jennie happy,” said Lydia piteously.

“I suppose there’s no real happiness without there’s been sorrow too,” said Aunt Beryl simply.

Her speech had never been free from provincialisms such as Lydia had instinctively known all her life how to avoid.

“If you can reach the bell without getting up, Lydia, I wish you’d ring, dear. I’m trying to train the girl to be a bit more punctual with tea of an afternoon--she’s very bad that way. She could start laying, and then wait the teapot for Jennie and Mr. Valentine. I said tea up here this afternoon so as to save a fire in the dining-room. I thought you’d understand, dear.”

“Of course,” said Lydia, hardly hearing. “I suppose they’ll be back in a minute. Oh, Aunt Beryl--if _only_ I knew what was best for Jennie.”

“I should let her judge for herself, dear--truly I should,” said Aunt Beryl placidly. “It may hurt you more just to stand by and watch, but it’ll be better for her in the long run to have been let learn her own lessons.”

There was a curious stability about Aunt Beryl’s point of view. Lydia did not feel that she could hope to modify it, however mildly it might be reiterated in homely and uneloquent phrases.

“You mean that I’ve got to sacrifice Jennie for Jennie’s own good?”

The door of the drawing-room opened.

“You can start bringing up the tea-things, Gladys,” said Aunt Beryl. “Don’t make the tea until the young lady and gentleman are in--they’ve left the door on the jar, but in case you don’t hear them I’ll ring.”

“Yes, Miss Raymond.”

Gladys went away again.

“She’s quite a smart-looking girl, isn’t she, Lydia?” said her mistress complacently. “And one doesn’t have to keep nagging all the time--she’s thoroughly willing. You were saying, dear, that you ought to sacrifice Jennie for her own good, but I don’t know that that’s exactly how I’d put it, myself. It’s more sacrificing yourself that I meant--sacrificing your own feelings, like.”

Another echo.

Roland Valentine had said: “It’s only another kind of sacrifice that’s wanted ... the way you can do it best is just the way that’ll hurt you most.... Let her take her own risks and shoulder her own responsibilities.”

Yes--it was just the way that hurt Lydia most. No doubt of that.

“That’s the hall-door! If the water’s boiling--_really_ boiling, mind, Gladys--you can make the tea, and bring up the hot toast.”

Aunt Evelyn woke suddenly.

“Tea already?” she said eagerly. “I must have closed my eyes. It’s a shame Olive couldn’t stop for a nice cosy tea by the fire before going out.”

“She had a cup in the dining-room, dear--Gladys had it all ready--and a piece of cake.”

“I don’t like this mad way of scamping her meals,” said Aunt Evelyn dejectedly. “Fancy that now, Lydia! A bitter wind like to-day and there’s Olive will come home, on the top of a tram as like as not, with her chest and all, at nine or ten o’clock to-night.”

Aunt Beryl firmly picked up the ear-trumpet, adjusted it, and spoke through it with vigour.

“Olive’s all right, Evelyn! You know the doctor said she could try it for a bit, and she was wild to do something for the war. She’d have fretted herself to fiddlestrings if she hadn’t got this job.”

They both of them spoke, Lydia thought with a little amusement, as though Olive were quite a young girl, instead of a middle-aged woman.

As Aunt Beryl’s shrill voice ceased, her sister nodded her head reluctantly.

“Well, well, it’s a terrible war, and I wish I were good for anything besides knitting. Though they say the boys out there can’t have enough woollies. But it would be easier to go out and do the hard work oneself, if only one could, and leave the children safe at home, like when they were little. I expect you’re beginning to feel that, Lydia. It’s the way of the world, and we must just make the best of our shelf, now we’re on it.”

Aunt Evelyn even laughed a little.

But Lydia felt as though the whole world were in league against her.

XXVIII

They did not go down to Devonshire until the middle of the following day.

Lydia had the whole morning to herself, even after she had finished packing up her small suit-case and Jennie’s. This time Jennie had made no protest when her mother began to pack for her. She and Roland had gone out together quite early, and although Lydia thought that they had told her of their destination, she seemed able to remember nothing but the essential fact that they were to meet her at the station at one o’clock.

In the meanwhile she felt an urgent need of occupation, and remembered an apologetic request of Aunt Beryl’s.

“I don’t know whether you could ever recommend poor Maria Nettleship’s rooms to any of your friends, Lydia--but it would be a real kindness. The boarding-house has been giving her ever so much trouble lately--and then this war coming. One doesn’t know how things will be, and she hasn’t got much put by, I’m afraid. I never hear from her without she asks after you in the letter, you know. She’s never forgotten you, and if ever you’re up that way, I know it will give her real pleasure to see you. But, of course, she understands you’re busy.”

So far as Miss Nettleship was concerned, Lydia had been busy for many years.

Now, however, half curious and half listless, she found herself in the old Bloomsbury neighbourhood. Looking up at the tall house, Lydia supposed that it was unchanged, but such a lassitude had crept over her perceptions that she seemed to herself utterly incapable of summoning any vivid recollection to her mind.

Should she go in?

She felt little inclination to do so, but it would please Aunt Beryl, and anything was better than to remain alone with one’s thoughts, and expose oneself perhaps to a more active realization of certain dimly-apprehended truths. Europe was at war--Jennie was going to be married, a mere baby, to a young Canadian who cared nothing for the traditions in which she had been brought up, who upheld her ungrateful defiance of her mother, and would, if he lived, take her right away ... no one left ... Nathalie thinking of her husband and her boys.... Lady Lucy thinking of her young grandson, the only male Damerel left, gone into the fighting-line ... no one giving a thought to Lydia, save Lydia’s racked and bewildered self.

She shuddered involuntarily, and rang the door-bell.

“Miss Nettleship?”

“Will you step up into the drawing-room?” said the maid.

She preceded Lydia upstairs, pulling down the sleeves of her dress as she went.

“I’ll tell Miss Nettleship, if you’ll take a seat.”

Lydia heard her clattering downstairs again. No doubt Miss Nettleship was in the basement, supervising the activities of a successor to someone whom she had invariably alluded to in the old days as “poor old Agnes.”

Lydia actually smiled a little, as her surroundings recalled old, forgotten details of the boarding-house life.

The drawing-room was still furnished in yellow, the heavy gilding of the mirror over the mantelpiece seemed only slightly more chipped and tarnished. There was no fire, although it was cold.

The smell of distant, greasy cooking still hung in the air.

On a small shelf in a corner were some very dirty and tattered numbers of the _Lady’s Realm_, “Molly Bawn,” devoid of cover, and the novel written nearly twenty years ago by Lydia herself.

Time worked very few changes at Miss Nettleship’s house in Bloomsbury.

Lydia looked up when the door of the drawing-room opened, feeling sure that she would have no difficulty in recognizing Miss Nettleship, although it was nearly six years since they had last met, on one of Lydia’s infrequent expeditions to Regency Terrace.

But in effect they were strangers to her who entered the room, although a curious sense of familiarity seemed to indicate that the type was not new to her.

Both ladies were middle-aged, both looked pinched and cold and shabby, and both gave Lydia the same furtive, hesitating bow as they passed.

They took their seats on either side of the empty grate, and talked to each other in low, discontented murmurs.

“It’s too bad not to have a fire a day like this, with the dining-room smoking so that one can’t stay in the room.”

“She said she’d have the fire in here lit after midday dinner. I thought I’d tell you, Mrs. Morrison, knowing how bad your chest has been, so that we could slip out of the dining-room early, and get two nice chairs and keep warm all the afternoon. Otherwise, we know who will get the best places.”

“Oh, yes, it’s always the same. _Selfish_ I call it. Thank you for the hint, Miss Parry. I shall make the most of it. I suppose it isn’t anywhere near dinner-time yet?”

“Oh, no! Only just gone twelve.”

“Is that all? I thought the breakfast very poor this morning, didn’t you?”

“Downright robbery, considering the money we pay. It isn’t at all the sort of thing I consider one has the right to expect in a Residential Private Hotel either.”

“The porridge burnt----”

“And all the toast finished, if one’s so much as five minutes late.... Old Mr. Kinch thinks nothing of helping himself to two pieces at once--I’ve seen him do it. And one doesn’t like to _say_ anything.”

“Certainly not. It isn’t the _food_ one cares about, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“Miss Nettleship ought to stop it, you know. But of course, there it is--he’s a permanent let, and doesn’t care what he pays--naturally, she won’t risk losing him.”

“Oh, naturally. Why, they say he thinks nothing of ordering in wine for himself, and fruit out of season.”

“Of course, it’s good for the house, I suppose, seeing things delivered at the door like that from West End shops.”

Miss Forster--Mrs. Clarence--ancient Miss Lillicrap, with her heart disease--the old, forgotten ghosts all crowded back upon Lydia’s memory.

The dingy walls of the drawing-room had encompassed the same conversations about food, and lack of warmth, and grasping fellow-boarders, year in and year out.

“They say this war is going to affect the price of food, and there’ll be things we shan’t be able to get any more.”

“Ah, things we’ve been getting from Germany, I daresay that would be,” vaguely said the spinster, Miss Parry.

“I should have thought we could make anything here that the Germans could make, I must say.”

“Not at the price though,” said Miss Parry sagely. “They’ve been making a regular business of cheap trades, you know. That’s part of their cleverness.”

“Ah, I daresay. They say the Kaiser had all this war planned out as far back as the old Queen’s death. How he can sleep in his bed at night, I can’t imagine!”

“Perhaps he can’t,” said Miss Parry darkly. “_I_ couldn’t, in his place, I know that.”

“Oh, nor could I.”

The ladies fell silent, perhaps each imagining herself in the unenviable position of the potentate under discussion. Lydia felt sure that such a flight of fancy was well within the humourless capacity of each.

When the door opened again and Miss Nettleship came in, very fat, and panting a great deal, but otherwise unchanged, Miss Parry and Mrs. Morrison watched with furtive eagerness her enthusiastic greeting of Lydia, whilst pretending to conceal themselves behind the loose sheets of an illustrated paper.

The uncertain movement made by Mrs. Morrison towards the door was forestalled by Miss Nettleship, however.

“Come into my room for a little chat,” she begged Lydia. “I’ve a sitting-room now, besides the office.”

The sitting-room was a small back bedroom, hung with cheerful red twill curtains, and almost entirely filled by an arm-chair and an old-fashioned sofa, designated by its owner as “the couch.”

“Take the couch, won’t you? It’s a nice, comfortable seat, and I’ll have the room warm in a minute.”

Miss Nettleship knelt down upon the floor, not without difficulty, and applied a match to the small gas-fire. A fierce, yapping sound ensued, and then a pale-blue flame appeared, gradually extending the length of the grate, and began to glow, sending out an amount of heat that seemed to scorch up the air in the tiny room, in spite of the shallow pan of water standing just in front of the grate. Lydia, in a strange, detached way, reflected that it was a long while since she had sat in the dry, odorous heat of a gas-fire. At Regency Terrace they made use of smoking coal, in Devonshire, most of the hearths that she knew burnt sweet-smelling wood.