Joan Smith - Delsie

He held out a hand and said in a weak voice, “Come in, Miss Sommers.” She entered, reluctantly, and deVigne came beside her. “Leave us, Max. You too, Samson,” he said to his valet. Delsie cast one wild, imploring look to deVigne. His fingers tightened reassuringly on her arm before he left, with Samson departing from another door. She stood alone with her bridegroom.

“Come closer,” he said. She advanced to the side of the bed. He reached out a hand to her, and in confusion, she put hers into it. “Miss Sommers-now I may call you Delsie-at last it is to be.” He referred, she presumed, to their marriage. “You have made me wait too long,” he said sadly. “Still, you are mine at last, and we shall have a few months together at least.” Her heart fluttered at this grim forecast, but of course it was nonsense. He was at death’s door. Perhaps they had led him to believe it, to get his agreement to the marriage.

She half feared he might close his eyes and expire even while she stood with her hand in his. He sighed, but a stronger pressure from his fingers told her death was not yet at hand. “There is so much I would say,” he began, with his eyes closing. “You will be kind to my little Bobbie. I know that much. Promise me you will take care of her.”

“Yes, I promise.”

Again he squeezed her fingers, while she looked at the wizened face before her. “You will not regret it,” he went on, weakly. “The cottage and her mother’s portion are for my daughter. It was arranged by deVigne, but the rest of it is yours-payment for this favor you do me. There is money, you know. I have money.” He got his eyes open, with some effort, and looked at her closely.

“I do not do this for money,” she said. Grayshott’s fortune, she knew from deVigne, was dissipated.

“For love?” he asked, and smiled ironically. She said nothing. This was carrying hypocrisy too far. She could not say she loved him. He lifted the hand he held to his lips and kissed it, while she stood rigid with embarrassment and shame, and even anger. Then he fell into a fit of coughing. “Better get on with it,” he said when he had recovered. “Call deVigne.”

She was heartily glad to leave the room in search of him, and hadn’t far to go. He stood outside the door, a few feet down the corridor, with the vicar, Lady Jane, and Sir Harold, and no doubt the solicitor too was not far behind, though she didn’t actually see him. The whole party entered Grayshott’s room, except Sir Harold, who went below. The bride stood beside the prostrate bridegroom, and the vicar, opening his book, began to intone the solemn words of the marriage ceremony. How inappropriate they sounded-”to love, honor, and cherish…to have and to hold…till death us do part…” It was a moot point whether the groom would last out the ceremony. Grayshott held her hand tightly throughout the reading, repeating those portions of the service that ritual decreed. “I, Andrew Grayshott, take thee, Delsie Sommers…”

Best not to think. Think about something else. In five minutes it will be over-I can leave. Miss Frisk is having her lunch now. No school tomorrow, or any tomorrows. DeVigne is not wearing his good-luck charm today. I wish I were wearing it. I think I’m going to giggle-I think I’m going crazy. Where shall I go when this wedding is over? Do I remain here, in this house? No doubt deVigne has arranged all details.

She repeated her words, parrot-like, and soon the circlet of diamond baguettes was being pushed on to her finger by Andrew. It had the weight of a pair of manacles, and though it was pretty, she felt a strong urge to pull it off and throw it out the window. Then they were signing papers, people were shaking her hand-so foolish-the vicar wishing her happy. My God, what must he make of this travesty? What subtle pressures had deVigne brought to bear, to make him go through with it?

“Leave us now,” Grayshott said to them all. “I want to be alone with my bride.” Delsie cast a frightened glance to the little group, then looked to her groom. “Don’t worry, Max, you can send in the solicitor in five minutes. Leave me five minutes’ privacy with my wife,” Grayshott said, his voice fading.

They left, but the ceremony had tired Grayshott, and the five minutes were not so harrowing as she had feared. She sat beside him, while he held her hand, his eyes closed, his lips smiling. He looked frighteningly like a death mask. “Talk to me,” he ordered.

What did one say to a man at death’s door, a man, besides, whom one had just married without caring for him in the least? She decided to talk of his daughter. “I shall take good care of Roberta,” she began. “I shall try to be a mother to her. I am used to dealing with children. I am-was-a schoolteacher, you recall.” He nodded, satisfied apparently with this line, and she rambled on, making much of nothing.

After an interval that was surely at least five minutes, he opened his eyes and said, “You’ll do. There is money-I should tell you where. It’s not easy. I’ll tell you later, when I feel stouter. I saved it for you, for…” Then he fell into a coughing fit again, and it was clear he was nearly spent. There was a tap at the door. DeVigne entered, with the solicitor at his heels.

“May I go now?” Delsie whispered to him.

He nodded. From the bed a weak voice followed her. “Come back after, Delsie. I’ll tell you where…”

“Your wife will return to you after luncheon, Andrew,” deVigne said. “She has had a busy morning. She will want her luncheon.”

“After lunch,” he nodded, and Delsie escaped out the door, down the stairs to the main saloon, where Lady Jane and Sir Harold sat talking to the vicar. They all looked toward her. “Lord deVigne and the solicitor are with him,” she said, and sat down, too overcome to take part in any conversation.

The vicar turned to her. “This has been a very romantic affair,” he said, smiling. “A long-standing attachment-a pity you waited so long, Miss Sommers.”

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.