Collected works of e m d.., p.387
Collected Works of E M Delafield, page 387
It was still natural to Denis, as natural as it had been in childhood, to translate his emotions into terms of prayer. He knelt for a long time by the side of the bed, unconscious of the slightly absurd conjunction of this traditional attitude of supplication with his neat, blue-striped pyjama suit, his carefully brushed little narrow head clasped in his long, skinny fingers, and the upturned soles of his slipperless feet.
When at last he climbed into bed, it was heaven to lie in the stillness, the window wide open to the breathless, starlit night, and relive, over and over again, every instant of the evening spent with Chrissie Challoner. He could remember everything that she had said, and that he had answered, and every intonation of her softly spoken phrases. He could feel again the close, steady pressure of her small hand as they said good-night.
He did not allow himself fully to realise that he had fallen violently in love. He thought of the strong compulsion that had drawn Chrissie and himself towards one another as an irresistible spiritual affinity, a mutual recognition. And indeed it was true that physical desire, in Denis, was almost as undeveloped as in a young child, deeply inhibited as he was by obscure terrors, sham idealism, and the intense shyness of the eternally self-conscious. His day-dreams were still those of an unawakened adolescent.
Far too profoundly excited to sleep, he lay with open eyes until dawn flooded the sky with an exquisite, clear, pale green.
Denis turned over, placing one hand beneath his cheek like a child, and his eyelids closed. Imperceptibly he drifted, on a tide of radiant happiness, into sleep.
(4)
The rickety gate of the shaky little lift clanged on a shrill, uncertain note as Coral Romayne stepped out of it.
It clanged again as Angie Moon slammed it, and pressed the button that should take her up a floor higher.
Coral, yawning, and unfastening hooks with one hand, hung for a moment over the banisters. She could see Buckland and young Moon coming up the stairs, not talking, Hilary walking ahead.
“Good-night,” she called.
They looked up.
“Good-night,” said Hilary. He sounded rather surly.
Coral trailed very slowly along the passage towards the door of her own room at the far end of it. She heard Hilary’s steps, on the marble, going up higher. Then Buckland’s heavy tread, pausing on the top step. She did not turn round.
In another moment, she heard him following her down the long passage. Timing herself carefully, she allowed him to catch up with her just as she reached the bedroom door.
“Got all you want?” he asked casually.
“I expect so. Don’t wait for me to-morrow morning. I shall have breakfast up here.”
“All right.”
She had opened her door, and he was half in and half out of the room.
“That yellow thing you’ve got on looks marvellous. It suits you too terribly well.”
He fingered the filmy stuff that hung at her breast.
“Shut up, Buck — you’ll wake the hotel, and make a scandal. Good-night.”
“Good-night — Coral.”
He took hold of her by the shoulders.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. Go to bed.”
“Aren’t you going to say good-night to me?”
“How much would you mind if I didn’t?”
“A lot more than you think.”
“Liar!”
Coral freed herself, and pushed him away with both hands. He resisted, and for a moment they swayed together in a laughing struggle. Then Coral abruptly stood still and said: “Hark! What was that?”
Somewhere a door had shut softly.
“I didn’t hear anything,” said Buckland, without much conviction.
“I did. Good-night.”
She shut her door in his face, and after a second’s hesitation he turned away and went upstairs.
(5)
Patrick Romayne stood still, pressed closely against the door that he had so cautiously and quickly shut.
He heard Buckland’s footsteps recede along the passage and die away in the distance. He could also hear his mother moving things about in the room next door. Once she dropped something, and he was almost sure that he caught the sound of a brief ejaculation. But perhaps that was imagination, because he knew that she always did swear, briefly and without real anger, whenever she dropped things.
There was a communicating door between the rooms, but she wouldn’t open it. Probably she thought he’d gone to sleep long ago, and of course he was much too old now for her to come in and look at him asleep, as she’d sometimes done when he was little.
Most likely she wouldn’t even notice that there was a light under his door, if he were to switch it on and read for a bit.
He fixed his mind on the detective story in the Tauchnitz volume lent him by Olwen Morgan.
It was a good yarn.
Patrick got into bed and read steadily, trying hard to keep his mind on the story.
CHAPTER IV
(1)
Almost everyone had coffee and rolls in the morning on the terrace at the Hôtel d’Azur.
Only one waiter was on duty, and he went without much haste backwards and forwards between the little tables under the red-and-white umbrellas, up the steps, through the hall, and to the service-regions behind the dining-room.
So that almost everyone was kept waiting a long time for breakfast. This was resented most by Mr. Muller, the tall American. He had, however, discovered — more by intuition than anything else — that the Hotel actually contained someone else who was, like himself, a chess-player, in the person of Mr. Bolham.
At the singular hour of eight in the morning they met on the terrace, and silently played chess.
It was the coolest time in the day, and a breeze rustled the stiff leaves of the palms, and fluttered the red-and-white check tablecloths that were being laid on the tables by the waiter and Gwennie Morgan.
Gwennie was always friendly with hotel servants. They always made a fuss of her, and gave her things to eat, and told her interesting stories about other people. The fact that she knew hardly any French never appeared to interfere with these amenities. She ran briskly about, in her little blue bathing-suit, and was a success with everybody.
Dulcie Courteney, who had far more need of general goodwill than had Gwennie, watched her rather enviously from the steps where she was sitting in solitude, the sun already beating down on her uncovered fair head and thin bare arms clasping her knees.
She was sitting on the steps partly because she intended to remain there, ostentatiously, most of the morning “waiting for Pops,” who was to arrive by the ‘bus from St. Raphael, and partly because it was a good place in which to exchange greetings with people coming out for breakfast. Very often, in return for a bright good-morning, Dulcie received a good-natured invitation to join in the day’s excursion, or even to come and have her coffee and rolls in company, instead of having to wait for them until after everybody else had been served.
Dulcie had been a hotel-child ever since she could remember, and there was nothing she did not know about the possibilities of exploiting hotel-guests, especially rich ones in holiday mood.
Marcelle Duval, who was always nice to her, never came downstairs until midday, and neither did her husband. One glance at the Moons had taught Dulcie all that it was necessary for her to know about them — which was to the effect that she had better keep out of their way as much as possible.
The Morgans were kind quite often, although she and the Morgan children didn’t really like one another. Dulcie was jealous of Olwen’s good looks, and of Gwennie’s popularity, and of the fact that all three could swim much better than she could. She also, in her heart, feared and detested a quality common to all the Morgans, known to Dulcie as “high-up-ness.” She was sure, however, that Pops would ask her at once if she had made friends with those nice children, and had been asked to go out bathing with them.
Mrs. Romayne, Mr. Bolham, Buckland, and Mr. Muller were all fitfully good-natured. Dulcie knew that none of them could be depended upon to remember her insignificant existence for a moment, unless it was actually going on beneath their very eyes. If she chanced to annoy any one of them, a snub, or even a complaint to the management, might be her immediate portion.
The big French family of commerçants ignored her completely. They were snobs, and could gauge her father’s position to a nicety.
The person in the Hotel whom Dulcie liked by far the best was Denis Waller.
His manners seemed to her the perfection of chivalry, and his repertory of genteel little catch-words and phrases— “Allow me,” “Pardon,” “Just a very little more tea — so many thanks” — represented, she felt, a spirit of exquisite courtesy.
He usually spoke to her with a smile, and always gently. He made her feel that she was quite as important, interesting, and worth paying attention to, as if she had been a real hotel-visitor, like anybody else.
There was also at the back of her mind a fellow-feeling for Denis because he was only in the Hôtel on sufferance as the employee of Mr. Bolham. Any “extras,” thought Dulcie, translating into terms of her own values, that Denis might desire would always have to be paid for by himself — but for his daily board and lodging he was dependent upon his power to satisfy the requirements of his employer.
She felt sure that Denis wasn’t like Mr. Buckland, who took advantage of his position at every turn. Dulcie had heard the concierge comment upon the freedom with which cette espèce de précepteur anglais ordered drinks, and taxis for St. Raphael, and even postage-stamps, and had them all put down to the account of Mrs. Romayne.
No wonder Patrick hated him, and never spoke to him if he could help it. Mr. Buckland was always pretending that the expenses he incurred were all on Patrick’s behalf.
“‘Morning, Dulcie,” said the voice of Buckland himself behind her. He came down the steps, pulling up the zip fastener of his bright blue singlet, and looking strong and vigorous, grinning at her.
“Oh, good-morning, Mr. Buckland. D’you know my Pops is coming back to-day?”
“Good business,” returned Buckland heartily.
“I’m ever so excited,” Dulcie said girlishly, and putting her head on one side. “I simply don’t know how I’m going to get through the time till he comes. I’ve been awake for ages and ages, simply. Though I haven’t had breakfast yet,” she added thoughtfully.
“Well, don’t wait too long, or there won’t be any confitures left,” advised Mr. Buckland, and he went away.
Dulcie sighed a little. She hadn’t expected very much from the tutor. He knew all the moves of the game, a good deal better than she did herself.
Presently the French family came down — Dulcie moved politely to let them go past, but they took no notice of her whatever — and then Gwennie’s mother, with David and Olwen. They asked Dulcie if she would like to come with them and eat bouillabaisse for lunch at the Réserve. They were to join forces with Mrs. Romayne and Patrick.
Dulcie accepted joyfully. Pops would be delighted with her if he found her making friends with people, and being taken out for the day, like that. She decided to pick a little bunch of the hideous yellow flowers that grew behind the Hotel and offer them to Mrs. Morgan, humbly and touchingly.
Patrick Romayne came out of the Hotel, and stood on the steps, screwing up his eyes against the glare as he looked along the terrace.
“Good-morning,” piped Dulcie. She wished she knew what to call him. If she said “Mr. Romayne” it sounded absurd, and yet he might think it cheek of her to call him Patrick. Though the Morgans did, even Gwennie.
“Good-morning. I say, have you had breakfast yet?”
“No,” said Dulcie hopefully.
“Well, you sometimes have it in the hall, don’t you? I mean, if there aren’t enough tables and things outside. Well, would you mind if I had mine with you? My mother’s not coming down this morning, and I simply hate sitting out on that beastly terrace. So if you wouldn’t mind — say if you’d simply hate it, won’t you?”
“But I’d love it,” Dulcie said earnestly. “I’ll tell Emile.”
The waiter on duty, Emile, was the good-natured one. He was hardly ever rude to her.
Besides, after all, he wouldn’t have to carry the things nearly so far, if they had it indoors.
She moved an ash-tray and a couple of very old illustrated papers off a table, and presently she and Patrick Romayne were sitting at it, and she was pouring out coffee and hot milk.
They did not talk a great deal, though Dulcie tried to make herself agreeable with some timid references to cricket and swimming. Patrick, who looked rather miserable, made indifferent answers, that led to nothing further.
Captain Morgan, on his way out, nodded to them without saying anything, but Denis Waller, who came down last of all, stopped and spoke.
He said to Dulcie: “What time are you expecting your father? He’s coming to-day, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Mr. Waller, I’m so awfully excited. You know, Pops is all I’ve got, so naturally we’re simply everything to one another. I don’t know exactly what time he’ll be here, but some time in the morning, I expect. I’m going to sit out on the steps and watch for the ‘bus.”
“Good,” said Denis sympathetically. He really looked as if he felt pleased about it — for her sake, thought Dulcie.
“I hope he comes early, Mr. Waller, because we’re going over to the Réserve for lunch. Isn’t it lovely? Mrs. Morgan’s asked me to go with them, wasn’t it sweet of her? Patrick’s going too, and Mrs. Romayne, of course. I love going to the Réserve, don’t you? They give you lunch in the garden, right on top of the sea, almost.”
She prattled on, and Denis smiled dreamily at her, as if rejoicing in her pathetic raptures at being given a share in other people’s outings.
“I’ve never tasted bouillabaisse,” said Patrick suddenly.
“Haven’t you, Patrick? Neither have I,” said Denis. “I’ve always wanted to. You’ll have to tell me what you think of it. I suppose you’ve been to the Réserve often, Dulcie?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Waller, lots of times. Pops takes me quite often, and people in the Hotel are always so kind to me. Why, I went with the Morgans the very first time they ever tasted bouillabaisse. Gwennie was so funny. I do think Gwennie’s awfully sweet and quaint, don’t you?”
“Very.”
“She’s clever, for a kid of her age,” Patrick remarked unexpectedly. “I mean, she’s sort of original, I mean.”
“You’re quite right,” Denis said in a considering tone. “Gwennie always strikes me as being such a very Welsh type. Definitely precocious and — and subtle-minded. I’ve often thought so.”
“You’re an awfully good judge of character, Mr. Waller, aren’t you?” said Dulcie admiringly.
Denis smiled, and said: “Psychology always interests me,” and left them.
“He’s awfully nice, isn’t he?” said Dulcie.
“Yes, he is, rather. Though I can’t understand why he never goes into the water, except off the plage, where it’s shallow. I believe he’s afraid of getting his hair wet.”
Dulcie laughed discreetly. She always laughed at other people’s jokes, but if they were at the expense of somebody else, she refrained from comment. One never knew when things might get repeated.
“Isn’t he coming too, to the Réserve?” she suggested. “He said he’d never tasted bouillabaisse.”
“He ought to come, then. I’ll ask my mother to invite him. I suppose Mr. Bolham won’t mind.”
“Oh no. He’s coming himself.”
“How funny! He never goes for expeditions as a rule. We shall be quite a large party,” said Patrick, pushing his chair back from the table.
He did not look as if he were pleased about the party to the Réserve. He looked dreary and listless.
Dulcie went back to her watch on the steps.
(2)
At a quarter-past nine the postman came. He trudged up the steps to the terrace in a huge straw hat and holland uniform, his brown face shiny and dripping with sweat, and emptied his heavy bag at the concierge’s desk.
The concierge, with his permanently scornful expression slightly accentuated, sorted out the large, thin Continental envelopes, addressed in violet ink, the broader, thicker, and more expensive-looking ones that bore an English postmark, and the numerous picture-postcards. There were a few newspapers too, and an untidy parcel addressed to T. Buckland Esq., with a darned sock-heel protruding out of one corner. Numerically, the letters of Mr. Muller usually predominated over those of anybody else, but there was no American mail in this morning.
Mr. Bolham, as usual, had catalogues, and a parcel of books.
Mrs. Romayne, also as usual, had a pile of obvious bills. The concierge smiled cynically. He knew that he would see them again, later in the day, torn in half and left lying about anywhere.
There was nothing for the Morgans except a newspaper, nothing for the Moons, and a postcard for Dulcie Courteney. It was in French, and the concierge read it with mild interest, since it had been written by an American girl who had recently been staying at the Hôtel d’Azur. So she was at Toulon, was she? Then why had she said that she was going to Antibes? These modern young women, they lied automatically, with every breath they drew. The concierge shrugged his shoulders.
