Joan Smith: Delsie

She looked at him, bewildered. Before she had said anything, Lady Jane came forward and pushed a glass of wine into her hands. “Drink this, you’ll feel better,” she said.

Sir Harold engaged the vicar in some ecclesiastical talk, and Lady Jane turned to Delsie. “We had to give vicar some story. He thinks you and Andrew have been in love for some time.”

Delsie nodded and sipped her wine. She was relieved that the vicar at least was acting decently in the matter.

In a short space of time, deVigne and the solicitor descended. The doctor arrived and went abovestairs to his patient, while the solicitor offered the vicar a ride back to Questnow. As soon as the family were alone, Delsie said, “Must I come back after lunch?” Her face, though she didn’t know it, was ash-white, her eyes two large dark circles.

“Just for a moment,” deVigne said. “I doubt he will even be conscious. It is nearly over, Mrs. Grayshott.”

“Oh!” she gasped. It was the first time she had been called by her new name. She found it singularly unpleasant.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lady Jane suggested. “Enough to give anyone the blue devils, looking at this dust-laden room.”

They all arose, with no argument. DeVigne took Delsie’s arm and led her to his carriage, and the others followed in Sir Harold’s, the two making a brisk trot to the Hall. Seeing the Hall at such close range, actually entering its twin portals, would have been a matter of great interest on any other occasion. Today, Delsie entered in such a state of distraction, she spared not a glance at the surroundings. She was vaguely aware of approaching a large stone home, with leaded windows gleaming in the pale autumnal sunshine, and the vines just turning to fall colors along the windows’ edges. She was similarly insensible to aged oaken woodwork within, the curving great staircase with intricately carved ornaments on posts and ceilings. The size and furnishings of the large saloon into which she was shown were also ignored. She walked to the fireplace and stood looking into the leaping flames, with her hands stretched out to them. Her hands were cold as ice.

Her three companions exchanged a look, wondering what to do about her. DeVigne poured a healthy portion of brandy, Jane added a dash of water to it, and handed it to her. “Try this,” she said.

Delsie sipped obediently and choked, being unaccustomed to the strong drink. But in small sips she finished the glass, and felt a little restored. It took the cold chill from her bones as the fire had not done. It was more an emotional numbness than a physical chill.

“We’d better get on with luncheon if we are to go back to the cottage,” deVigne suggested.

“Must she go, Max?” Lady Jane asked, with a condoling look at the bride. “She doesn’t look up to it.”

“I promised him,” Delsie said. “I’ll go.” Then she set down her empty glass, lifted her chin, and accepted deVigne’s arm to enter the dining room.

With such a small company, just the four of them, luncheon was served in the breakfast room, where no effort had been made to treat the occasion as a wedding feast. The silverware and china were finer than Miss Sommers was used to. A large bowl of late roses, in shades of pink, decorated the center of the table. There was an abundance of meats she could not relish in her state, but with gratitude she accepted a glass of wine. One glass a day was more than she usually took; this morning she had had three drinks in fairly quick succession. Her head began spinning, and she changed to water. That was her luncheon-a glass of wine and a glass of water. The others scarcely ate more.

“Well, it is done!” Lady Jane said, with a note of satisfaction.

“Leave it to Max,” Sir Harold added by way of a compliment, and lifted his glass.

They then abandoned the subject, and began to speak of other things. What did Max think of Sir Harold’s paper on Goethe? Hearing only one word in ten, Delsie was struck with the odd fact that Sir Harold had no small talk-he discussed only philosophy and weighty matters of eternal interest, while his wife was just the opposite. She rattled away about the flowers or a gown or a servant, but hadn’t a word to say on her husband’s conversation. What an odd pair, she smiled inwardly-but not so odd as Mr. Grayshott and myself.

After luncheon, she was again led to deVigne’s carriage, and the short drive down the hill to the Cottage was executed. She sat silent, thinking her own wandering thoughts, while her finger played with the wedding ring. It fit perfectly. As they turned in at the gateway he said, “This is the worst of it. It will soon be over with,” in a bracing way.

It was over sooner than either of them thought. They were met inside the door by the doctor, who told them Mr. Grayshott had passed quietly away in his sleep half an hour before. It was as though a great weight slipped from her back. She felt light, giddy with relief. Perhaps she had been harboring the dread that he might recover, that she would actually have to live with that shell of a man.

"I'll take Mrs. Grayshott home, then,” deVigne said. He too sounded relieved.

“This is my home now,” she pointed out, with a downcast look at the Cottage.

“There will be no need to spend the night here. It is not fit to live in yet. Lady Jane had your bag taken to her place. You and Roberta will spend the night there, and come here tomorrow or the next day. You won’t want to be alone tonight.”

She didn’t want particularly to be with a stranger either. “Couldn’t I go back to the village?” she asked.

“This business is already irregular enough that we shouldn’t add unnecessarily to it,” he pointed out, kindly but firmly. “You are leaving that life behind you. Don’t look back.”

The advice, she supposed, was good. She had often enough wished she were out of it. Back into the carriage, which already seemed to be second nature to her. There was no feeling of grandeur attaching to it now, but only a welcome haven from the brisk winds of November. They went at once to Lady Jane.

The Dower House was a stone building like the Hall. It was three stories high, done in a Gothic style, lancet windows, pointed roof, and even miniature flying buttresses, ornamental very likely, as it was not huge enough to actually require that support. There was a fine wrought-iron fence around the place, shoulder high, through which it was necessary to pass by foot as the gates were rusted shut at an angle too narrow to allow the carriage to pass. This seemed to be the only feature of the house that was not in first repair, however. All was neatly trimmed, windows shining, a pleasant change from the cottage. DeVigne left his carriage standing at the gate and took her to the door, indicating that he did not mean to enter. He left her in the hallway with Lady Jane. Sir Harold was in his study, reading some Latin manuscript he had on loan from the Bodleian Library.

“Come into the saloon,” Lady Jane said kindly, examining her new relative minutely for lingering signs of shock.

Delsie was sufficiently recovered to appreciate this room. Cozy-there was not that feeling of being in a cathedral she had experienced at the Hall, but perhaps that had been due to her emotional state. It was done in gold tones-velvet settees, the wooden pieces large and substantial, from an older period. A bowl of mums was nicely arranged with ferns on a mahogany table. Delsie’s gaze settled on this.

“What does one say at such a time?” Lady Jane asked frankly, then laughed. Looking into those dancing blue eyes, Delsie had a smile coaxed out of her. “Not condolences, I shouldn’t think,” the dame rattled on. “It must be a great relief to you he passed on so quickly. Good riddance say I, and may the Lord forgive me if it’s wrong.”