Dulcie Clay, in her neat uniform of grey and white, with the scarlet
cross on the front of her apron, was sitting in the room she occupied
for the moment in Aylmer's house in Jermyn Street. It was known as 'the
second best bedroom'. As she was anxious not to behave as if she were a
guest, she used it as a kind of boudoir when she was not in attendance.
It was charmingly furnished in the prim Chippendale style, a style
dainty, but not luxurious, that seemed peculiarly suited to Dulcie.
She was in the window-seat--not with her feet up, no cushions behind
her. Unlike Edith, she was not the kind of woman who rested habitually;
she sat quite upright in the corner. A beautiful little mahogany table
was at her right, with a small electric lamp on it, and two books. One
of the books was her own choice, the other had been lent to her by
Aylmer. It was a volume of Bernard Shaw. She could make neither head nor
tail of it, and the prefaces, which she read with the greatest avidity,
perplexed her even more than the books themselves. Every now and then a
flash of lightning, in the form of some phrase she knew, illumined for a
second the darkness of the author's words. But soon she closed the thick
volume with the small print and returned to _The Daisy Chain_.
Dulcie was barely one-and-twenty. She carried everywhere in her trunk a
volume called _The Wide, Wide World_. She was never weary of reading
this work with the comprehensive title; it reminded her of schooldays.
It was comforting, like a dressing-gown and slippers, like an old
friend. Whether she had ever thoroughly understood it may be doubted. If
any modern person nowadays were to dip into it, he would find it,
perhaps, more obscure than George Meredith at his darkest. Secretly
Dulcie loved best in the world, in the form of reading matter, the
feuilletons in the daily papers. There was something so exciting in that
way they have of stopping at a thrilling moment and leaving you the
whole day to think over what would come next, and the night to sleep
over it. She preferred that; she never concentrated her mind for long on
a story, or any work of the imagination. She was deeply interested in
her own life. She was more subjective than objective--though, perhaps,
she had never heard the words. Unconsciously she dealt with life only as
it related to herself. But this is almost universal with young girls who
have only just become conscious of themselves, and of their importance
in the world; have only just left the simple objectiveness of the child
who wants to look at the world, and have barely begun to feel what it is
to be an actor rather than a spectator.
Not that any living being could be less selfish or vain, or less of an
egotist than Dulcie. If she saw things chiefly as they were related to
herself, it was because this problem of her life was rather an intricate
one. Her position was not sufficiently simple to suit her simple nature.
Her mother, who had been of Spanish descent, had died young; her father
had married again. He was the sort of man who always married again, and
if his present wife, with whom he was rather in love, had passed away he
would have undoubtedly married a third time. Some men are born husbands;
they have a passion for domesticity, for a fireside, for a home. Yet,
curiously, these men very rarely stay at home. Apparently what they want
is to have a place to get away from.
The new stepmother, who was young and rather pretty, was not unkind, but
was bored and indifferent to the little girl. Dulcie was sensitive;
since her father's second marriage she had always felt in the way.
Whether her stepmother was being charming to her husband, or to some
other man--she was always charming to somebody--Dulcie felt continually
that she was not wanted. Her father was kind and casual. He told
everyone what he believed, that his second wife was an ideal person to
bring up his little daughter.
Therefore it came upon him as a surprise when she told him she was grown
up, and still more that she wished to leave home and be a nurse. Mrs.
Clay had made no objection; the girl rather depressed her, for she felt
she ought to like her more than she did, so she 'backed up' with
apparent good nature the great desire to go out and do something.
Dulcie had inherited three hundred a year from her mother. Her father
had about the same amount of his own to live on. He believed that he
added to it by mild gambling, and perhaps by talking a good deal at his
club of how he had been born to make a fortune but had had no luck. His
second wife had no money.
Dulcie, therefore, was entirely independent. No obstacles were placed in
her way--the particular form that her ambition took was suggested by the
war, but in any case she would have done something. She had taken the
usual means of getting into a hospital.
Gentle, industrious, obedient and unselfish, she got on well. Her
prettiness gained her no enemies among the women as she was too serious
about her work at this time to make use of her beauty by attracting men.
Yet Dulcie was unusually feminine; she had a natural gift for nursing,
for housekeeping, for domesticity. She was not artistic and was as
indifferent to abstractions and to general ideas as the ideal average
woman. She was tactful, sweet, and, she had been called at school,
rather a doormat. Her appearance was distinguished and she was not at
all ordinary. It is far from ordinary, indeed it is very rare, to be the
ideal average woman. She took great interest in detail; she would lie
awake at night thinking about how she would go the next day to a certain
inexpensive shop to get a piece of ribbon for one part of her dress to
match a piece of ribbon in another part--neither of which would ever be
seen by any human being.
Such men as she saw liked and admired her. Her gradual success led her
to being sent abroad to a military hospital. She inspired confidence,
not because she had initiative, but because one knew she would do
exactly as she was told, which is, in itself, a great quality. At
Boulogne she made the acquaintance at once of Aylmer, and of _the coup
de foudre_. She worshipped him at first sight. So she thought herself
fortunate when she was allowed to come back to London with him. Under
orders she continued her assiduous attention. Everyone said she was a
perfect nurse.
Occasionally she went to see her father. He greeted her with warmth and
affection, and told her all about how, on account of racing being
stopped, he was gradually becoming a pauper. When she began telling him
of the events in which she was absorbed he answered by giving her news
of the prospects for the Cambridgeshire. In the little den in the house
in West Kensington, where he lived, she would come in and say in a
soft voice:
'Papa dear, you know I shan't be able to stop much longer.'
'Much longer where?'
'Why, with my patient, Mr Ross--Mr Aylmer Ross.'
'Shan't you? Mind you, my dear, there are two good three-year-olds that
are not to be sneezed at.' He shook his head solemnly.
It had never occurred to Dulcie for a moment to sneeze at
three-year-olds. She hardly knew what they were.
'But what do you advise for me, papa?'
'My dear child, I can't advise. You can't select with any approach to
confidence between Buttercup and Beautiful Doll. Mind you, I'm very much
inclined to think that More Haste may win yet. Look how he ran in
August, when nobody knew anything about him!'
'Yes, I know, papa, but--'
She gave it up.
'Go and see your mother, dear; go and ask her about it,' and he returned
to the racing intelligence.
Strange that a man who had not enough to live on should think he could
add to his income by backing losers. Still, such was Mr Clay's view of
life. Besides, he was just going out; he was always just going out.
She would then go and see her stepmother, who greeted her most
affectionately.
Dulcie only kept half her little income for herself at present, a
considerable advantage to a woman like Mrs Clay, who declared she was
'expected to dress up to a certain standard, though, of course, simply
during war-time.' She would kiss the girl and drag her up to her bedroom
to show her a new coat and skirt, or send the general servant up to
bring down the marvellously cheap little tea-gown that had just
come home.
Both her parents, it will be seen, were ready enough to talk to her, but
they were not prepared to listen. All the warmth and affection that she
had in her nature very naturally was concentrated on her patient.
Dulcie now sat in the window-seat, wondering what to do. She was sadly
thinking what would happen when the time came for her to leave.
In her mind she knew perfectly well that what several people had said
was true: the profession she had chosen was too arduous for her physical
strength. Besides, now she could not bear the idea of nursing anyone
else after Aylmer. She was trying to make up her mind to take something
else--and she could not think what.
A girl like Dulcie Clay, who has studied only one thing really
thoroughly, could be fitted only to be a companion either to children,
whom she adored, or to some tedious elderly lady with fads. She knew she
would not do for a secretary; she had not the education nor the gift
for it.
The thought of going back to the stepmother who showed so clearly her
satisfaction and high spirits in having got rid of her, and of being
again the unwanted third in the little house in West Kensington, was
quite unbearable.
She had told much of her position to Edith, who was so sympathetic and
clever. It would have been a dream of hers, a secret dream, to teach
Edith's little girl, whom she had once seen, and loved. Yet that would
have been in some ways rather difficult. As she looked out of the
window, darkened with fog, she sighed. If she had been the governess at
Edith's house, she would be constantly seeing Aylmer. She knew, of
course, all about Aylmer's passion. It would certainly be better than
nothing to see him sometimes. But the position would have been painful.
Also, she disliked Bruce. He had given her one or two looks that seemed
rather to demand admiration than to express it; he had been so kind as
to give her a few hints on nursing; how to look after a convalescent;
and had been exceedingly frank and kind in confiding to her his own
symptoms. As she was a hospital nurse, it seemed to him natural to talk
rather of his own indisposition than on any other subject. Dulcie was
rather highly strung, and Bruce got terribly on her nerves; she
marvelled at Edith's patience. But then Edith.... No, she could not go
to the Ottleys.
Her other gift--a beautiful soprano voice--also was of hardly any use to
her, as she was now placed. When she sang she expressed herself more
completely than at any other time, but that also she had not been taught
thoroughly; she had been taught nothing thoroughly.
A companion! Though she had not absolutely to earn her living, and kept
only half of her little inheritance for herself, what was to become of
her? Well, she wouldn't think about it any more that day. At any rate
Aylmer talked as though she was to remain some time longer.
When he had returned suddenly to the house in Jermyn Street, a relative
had hastily obtained for him the necessary servants; his former valet
was at the front; they were all new to him and to his ways, and he had
no housekeeper. Dulcie did the housekeeping--could she take that place
in his house? No, she knew that she was too young, and everyone else
would have said she was too pretty. Only as a nurse would it be correct
for her to be his companion.
And from fear of embarrassing him she was hardly ever with him alone.
She thought he was abrupt, more cool to her since their return, and
guessed the reason; it was for fear of compromising her. How angelic of
him; what a wonderful man--how fortunate his first wife must have been.
And the boy, Teddy--the charming boy so like his father, whom she had
only seen for a day or two before he left to go out. Teddy's presence
would help to make it more difficult for her to remain.
In that very short time the boy had distinctly shown her by his marked
attention how much he admired her. He thought her lovely. He was devoted
to music and she had sung to him.
Aylmer also liked music, but apparently did not care to hear her sing.
On the occasion that she did, it seemed to irritate him. Indeed, she
knew she was merely the most amateurish of musicians, and could just
accompany herself in a few songs, though the voice itself was a rare
gift.... How perfect Aylmer had been!... There was a sharp ring. She
closed the book, turned out the little electric lamp and went
downstairs.
She was looking ideally pretty in the becoming uniform, but uniforms are
always becoming, whatever the uniforms or the people may be. The reason
of this is too obscure to fathom. One would say that to dress to suit
oneself would be more becoming to men and women. Yet, in fact, the
limitation and the want of variety in this sort of dress had a singular
attraction. However, if she had chosen it to suit her, nothing could
have been more becoming. The severity of the form, the dull colour,
relieved by the large scarlet cross, showed off to the greatest
advantage her dense dark hair, her Madonna-like face and the slim yet
not angular lines of her figure. Dulcie's beauty was of a kind that is
thrown into relief by excessive plainness of dress.