DOROTHY WEST AT HOME
"Mother mine," cried Dorothy West, as she withdrew the pins from her
hat, "John Dene's a dear, and I think his passion for me is developing."
"Dorothy!" cried Mrs. West, a tiny white-haired lady whose face still
retained traces of youthful beauty.
"You needn't be shocked, lovie; John Dene is as worthy as his namesake
in _Evangeline_." She laughed lightly. "Now I must eat. John Dene's
like sea air, he's so stimulating;" and she began to eat the dinner
that Mrs. West always prepared with such care.
For some minutes she watched with a smile of approval her daughter's
healthy appetite.
"I think I should like Mr. Dene, Dorothy," she said at length. "I have
always heard that Canadians are very nice to women. You must ask him
to call."
"Oh, you funny little mother!" she laughed. "You forget that we have
come down in the world, and that I'm a typist."
"A secretary, dear," corrected Mrs. West gently.
"Well, secretary, then; but even a secretary doesn't invite her
employer to tea, even when the tea is as mother makes it. It's not
done, so the less that's said of John, I think, the better," she quoted
gaily. "Oh! by the way," she added, "you might get his goat; Sir
Lyster does."
"His goat, dear!" Mrs. West looked up with a puzzled expression.
Dorothy explained the allusion. She went on to tell of some of the
doings of John Dene, his impatience, his indifference to and contempt
for constituted authority. In short she added a few vivid side-lights
to the picture she had already given her mother of how John Dene had
come and carried all before him.
"I think," she said in conclusion, screwing up her pretty features,
"that John Dene is rather a dear." Then after a pause she added, "You
see, he is also a man."
"A man, my dear," questioned Mrs. West, looking at her daughter with a
smile.
"Yes, mother, he's so intensely masculine. I get so fed up with----"
"Dorothy!" expostulated Mrs. West.
"Yes, I know it's trying, mother, but I get so weary of the subaltern
and junior naval officer. Of course they're splendid and brave; but
they don't seem men."
"But think of how they have given their lives," began Mrs. West.
"Yes; but we see those who haven't, mother, and very few of them have
chevrons on their sleeves. Now John Dene is quite different. He
always seems to be a man; yet he never forgets that you are a woman,
although he never appears to be conscious of your being a woman."
Dorothy caught her mother's eye, and laughed.
"Of course it sounds utterly ridiculous I know; but there it is, and
then think of what----" She suddenly broke off.
"Yes, dear," said Mrs. West gently.
"I was nearly letting out official secrets, mother. Of course I
mustn't do that, must I?"
"Of course not, dear," said Mrs. West.
"Yes," continued Dorothy, her head on one side, "I like John Dene. It
must be ripping to be able to bully a First Lord of the Admiralty," she
added irrelevantly.
"Bully a First Lord," said Mrs. West. Mrs. West seemed to be in a
perpetual state of repeating in a bewildered manner her daughter's
startling statements.
"He doesn't care for anybody. He calls Mr. Blair, that's Sir Lyster's
secretary, the prize seal, and I'm sure he takes a delight in
frightening the poor man. That's the best of being a Canadian, you see
you don't care a damn----"
"Dorothy!" There was horror in Mrs. West's voice.
"I'm so sorry, mother dear; but it slipped out, you know, and really
it's such an awfully convenient word, isn't it? It's so different from
not caring a bother, or not caring a blow. Anyway, when you're a
Canadian you don't care a--well you know, for anybody. If a man
happens to be a lord or a duke, you're rude to him just to show that
you're as good as he is. Sometimes, mother, I wish I were a Canadian,"
said Dorothy pensively. "I should so like to 'ginger-up' Sir Lyster."
"Your language, my dear," said Mrs. West gently.
"Oh, that's John Dene," said Dorothy airily. "That's his favourite
expression, 'ginger-up.' He came over here to 'ginger-up' the
Admiralty, and in fact 'ginger-up' anybody who didn't very strongly
object to being 'gingered-up,' and those who did, well he gingers them
up just the same. You should see poor Mr. Blair under the process."
Dorothy laughed as she thought of Mr. Blair's sufferings. "The girls
call him 'Oh, Reginald!' and he looks it," she added.
Mrs. West smiled vaguely, finding it a little difficult to follow her
daughter along these paths of ultra-modernism.
"You see, if Sir Lyster says to me 'go,' I have to go," continued
Dorothy, "and if he says to me 'come,' I have to come; but if he says
to John Dene 'go,' he just says 'shucks.'"
"Says what, Dorothy?"
"Shucks!" she repeated with a laugh, "it means go to--well, you know,
mother."
"And does he say that to Sir Lyster?" enquired Mrs. West in awe-struck
voice.
Dorothy nodded vigorously.
"The only one that seems to understand him is Sir Bridgman North, and
he never stands on his dignity, you know. If I were in the Navy," said
Dorothy meditatively, "I should like to be under Sir Bridgman, he's
really rather a dear."
"But why do----" began Mrs. West, "why does Sir Lyster allow----"
"Allow," broke in Dorothy. "It doesn't matter what you allow with John
Dene. If you agree with him he just grunts; if you don't he says
'shucks,' or else he questions whether you've got any head-filling."
"Any what?" asked Mrs. West.
"Head-filling, that means brains. Oh, you've got an awful lot to
learn," she added, nodding at her mother in mock despair. "I think
John Dene very clever," she added.
"Dorothy, you mustn't call him 'John Dene."
"He's always called 'John Dene,'" said Dorothy. "You can't think of
him as anything but John Dene, and do you know, mother, all the other
girls are so intrigued. They're always asking me how I get on with
'the bear,' as they call him. That's because he doesn't take any
notice of them, except Marjorie Rogers, and she's as cheeky as a robin."
"But he isn't a bear, is he, Dorothy?"
"A bear? He's the most polite creature that ever existed," said
Dorothy--"when he remembers it," she added after a moment's pause.
"You see they all expect me to marry him."
"Dorothy!"
"I'm not so sure that they're wrong, either," she added naively. "You
see, he's got plenty of money and----"
"I don't like to hear you talk like that, dear," said Mrs. West gravely.
"Oh, I'm horrid, aren't I?" she cried, running over to her mother and
putting her arm round her neck. "What a dreadful thing it must be for
you, poor mother mine, to have such a daughter! She outrages all the
dear old Victorian conventions, doesn't she?"
"You mustn't talk like that, Dorothy dear," said Mrs. West. There was
in her voice that which told her daughter she was in earnest.
"All right, mother dear, I won't; you know my bark is worse than my
bite, don't you?"
"Yes, but dear----"
"You see, way down, as John Dene would say, in his own heart there is
chivalry, and that is very, very rare nowadays among men. He is much
nicer to me than he would be to Lady Grayne, or Mrs. Llewellyn John, or
to the Queen herself, I believe. I'm sure he likes me," added Dorothy
half to herself. "You see," she added, "he broke my teapot, and he
owes me something for that, doesn't he?"
"Dorothy, you are very naughty." There was no rebuke in Mrs. West's
voice.
"And you're wondering how it came about that such a dear, sweet,
conventional, lovely, Victorian symbol of respectability and convention
should have had such a dreadfully outrageous daughter as Dorothy West.
Now confess, mother, aren't you?"
Mrs. West merely smiled the indulgent smile that Dorothy always
interpreted into forgiveness for her lapses, past, present and to come.
"You see, mother, John Dene has got it into his head that we're
hopelessly out of date," she said. "He's quite sincere. He thinks
we're fools, Sir Lyster, Sir Bridgman and the whole lot of us, and as
for poor Mr. Blair, he knows he's a fool. He thinks that Mr. Llewellyn
John is almost a fool, in fact he's sure in his own mind that unless
you happen to be born a Canadian you're a fool and can't help it. He's
quite nice about it, because it really isn't your fault."
"I'm afraid he must be very narrow-minded," said Mrs. West gently.
"No, he isn't, that's where it's so funny, it's just his idea. He
looks upon himself as a heaven-sent corrective to the British
Government. I'm afraid poor John Dene is going to have a nasty jar
before he's through, as he would say himself."
"How do you mean, Dorothy?" enquired Mrs. West.
"I mustn't say any more, because I should be divulging official
secrets. The other girls are so curious to know what is happening.
Bishy, that's Miss Bishcroft, asked me whether John Dene made love to
me, and Rojjie is sure that he kisses me." Dorothy rippled off into
laughter.
"How impertinent of her!" Mrs. West was shocked.
"It wasn't impertinence, mother, it was funny. If you could only see
John Dene, and imagine him making love to anyone. It really is funny.
Sometimes I sit and wonder if he knows how to kiss a girl."
"Dorothy, you are----" began Mrs. West.
"Why shouldn't we be frank and open about such matters? Every man
kisses a girl at some time during his life, except John Dene," she
added. "In Whitehall it's nothing but minutes and kisses. Why
shouldn't we talk about it? It's helping to win the war. It's so
silly to hide everything in that silly Victorian way of ours. If a
nice girl meets a nice man she wants him to kiss her, and she's
disappointed if he doesn't. Now isn't she?" challenged Dorothy as she
perched herself upon the arm of her mother's chair and looked down at
her, her eyebrows and mouth screwed up, impertinent and provocative.
"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, dear," said Mrs. West, as she
regarded her daughter's pretty features.
"Why, mother?" she enquired, bending and brushing a swift kiss upon her
mother's white hair.
"It--it doesn't seem----" she paused, then added rather weakly, "it
doesn't seem quite nice."
Dorothy jumped up and stood before her mother, smiling mischievously.
"And so you don't think I'm quite nice, Mrs. West?" She made an
elaborate curtsey. "Thank you very much indeed. At the Admiralty
there are quite a lot of young men, and some old ones, too, who don't
agree with you," she added, returning to her chair.
"But you mustn't say such--such things," protested Mrs. West weakly.
"But, mother, when you were a girl and knew a nice man, didn't you want
him to kiss you?"
"We never thought about such things. We----"
"Didn't you want father to kiss you?" persisted Dorothy.
"We were engaged, my dear, and your dear father was so----"
"But before you were engaged. Suppose father had tried to kiss you.
What would you have done?"
The girl's eyes were on her mother, mischievous and challenging. A
faint blush tinged Mrs. West's cheeks.
"I'll tell you what you'd have done, you dear, naughty little mother.
You'd have pretended to be shocked, but in your heart you would have
been glad, and you'd have lain awake all night thinking what an awful
rip you had been." She nodded her head wisely.
"Sometimes," said Mrs. West after a pause, "I wish it had not been
necessary for you to work. Girls seem so different nowadays from what
they were when I was young."
"We are, you dear little mouse," smiled Dorothy. "We know a lot more,
and to be forewarned is to be forearmed. I'm glad I didn't live when
you had to faint at the sight of a mouse, or swoon when you were
kissed. It would be such a waste," she added gaily.
Mrs. West sighed, conscious that a new age of womanhood had dawned with
which she was out of touch.
"Mother," said Dorothy presently, "what made you love father?"
Mrs. West looked up in surprise at her daughter, but continued to fold
her napkin and place it in her ring before replying.
"Because your father, Dorothy, was----" she hesitated.
"My father," suggested Dorothy.
Mrs. West smiled; but there was a far-away look in her eyes.
"Everybody loved your father," she went on a moment later.
"Yes, mother, but everybody didn't marry him," she said practically.
"Noooo----" hesitated Mrs. West.
"But you mean to say that everybody would have liked to marry him."
"He was very wonderful," said Mrs. West, a note of sadness creeping
into her voice.
"But you haven't answered my question," persisted Dorothy. "Why is it
that we women love men?"
Mrs. West was not conscious of the quaint phrasing of her daughter's
remark.
"We don't love men, Dorothy," she cried, "we love a man, the right man."
"But," persisted Dorothy, "why do we do it? They're not pretty and
they're not very interesting," she emphasised the "very," "and only a
few of them are clever. Sometimes in the Tube coming home I see a girl
and a man holding hands. What is it that makes them want to hold
hands?"
"It's natural to fall in love," said Mrs. West gently.
"But that's not falling in love," protested Dorothy scornfully. "If I
fell in love with a man I shouldn't want to hold his hand in a train.
I should hate him if he expected it."
"It's a question of class," said Mrs. West a little primly.
"Oh! mother, what an awful snob you are," cried Dorothy, jumping up and
going round and giving her mother a hug. "Let's go into the
drawing-room and be comfy and have a chat."
When they were seated, Mrs. West in an armchair and Dorothy on a stool
at her feet, the girl continued her interrogations. "Now suppose," she
continued, "I were to fall in love with a man who was ugly,
ill-mannered, badly dressed, with very little to say for himself. Why
should I do it?" Dorothy looked challengingly up at her mother.
"But you wouldn't, dear," said Mrs. West with gentle conviction.
"Oh, mother, you're awfully trying you know," she cried in mock
despair. "You've got to suppose that I have, or could. Why should I
do it?" Mrs. West gazed at her daughter a little anxiously, then shook
her head.
"Now I can quite understand," went on Dorothy, half to herself, "why a
man should fall in love with me. I'm pretty and bright, wear nice
things, particularly underneath----"
"Dorothy!" broke in Mrs. West in a tone of shocked protest.
She laughed. "Oh, mother, you're a dreadful prude. Why do you think
girls wear pretty shoes and stockings, and low cut blouses as thin as a
cobweb?"
"Hush! Dorothy, you mustn't say such things." There was pain in Mrs.
West's voice.
"I wish we could face facts," said Dorothy with a sigh. "You see,
mother dear," she continued, "when you're in a government office, with
heaps of other girls and men about, you get to know things, see things,
and sometimes you get to hate things."
"I have always regretted," began Mrs. West sadly.
"You mustn't do that, mother dear," cried Dorothy; "it has been an
education. But what I want to know is, what is it in a man that
attracts a girl?"
"Goodness, honour and----" began Mrs. West.
"No, it isn't," said Dorothy, "at least they don't attract me."
Mrs. West looked pained but said nothing.
"You see," continued Dorothy, "there are such a lot of good men about,
and honourable men, and--and--they're so dreadfully dull and
monotonous. I couldn't marry that sort of man," she added with
conviction.
"But----" began Mrs. West. "You wouldn't----"
Then she paused.
"I can't explain it, mother," she said, "but I should hate to be doing
the same thing always."
"But we are doing the same things always, Dorothy," said Mrs. West.
"Oh! no we're not," protested Dorothy. "I never know until I get home
on Saturday where I'm going to take you. Now if I had a husband, a
good and honourable husband, he would begin about Thursday saying that
on Saturday afternoon we would go to Hampstead, or to Richmond, or
to--oh! anywhere. Then when Saturday came I should hate the very name
of the place he had chosen. Then on Sunday we should go to church in
the morning, for a walk in the afternoon, pay a call or two, then
church or a cinema in the evening. That's good and honourable married
life," she concluded with decision.
Mrs. West looked down with a puzzled expression on her face.
"Wait a minute, mother," said Dorothy. "Now we'll imagine the real me
married to a good and honourable man. At twelve-thirty on the Saturday
that he has arranged to lose himself and me at the maze at Hampton
Court, I telephone to say that we're going to Brighton, and that he's
to meet me at Victoria at half-past one, and I'll bring his things.
Now what do you think he'd do?" With head on one side she gazed
challengingly at her mother.
"I--I don't know," faltered Mrs. West.
"I do," said Dorothy with conviction. "He'd have a fit. Then if I
wanted him to come for a 'bus ride just as he was going to bed," went
on Dorothy, "he'd have another fit; and if one fine morning, just as he
was off to the office, I were to ask him not to go, but to take me to
Richmond instead, he'd have a third fit, and then I should be a widow."
"A widow!" questioned Mrs. West. "What are you talking about?"
"Third fits are always fatal, mother," she said wisely. Then with a
laugh she added, "Oh, there's a great time in store for the man who
marries Dorothy West. He will have to have a strong heart, a robust
constitution and above all any amount of stamina," and she gave a
mischievous little chuckle of joy. Then a moment after, looking
gravely at her mother she said, "You must have been very wicked, lovie,
or you'd never have had such a daughter to plague you. I'm your
cross;" but Mrs. West merely smiled.