Listening Valley (20 page)

“It sounds very odd,” continued Celia. “We've talked about it a bit—Courtney and I—but we haven't really gotten down to brass tacks because I find it a bit difficult. I suppose I'm old-fashioned or something.”

Tonia nodded understandingly.

“Courtney's idea is that it wouldn't be fair to me to be married now. He says that he doesn't want me to be tied to him. This frightful invasion is supposed to be coming off pretty soon and of course he'll be in it. He seems to think,” said Celia, knocking the ash off her cigarette with elaborate care. “He seems to think it wouldn't matter so much if he were killed outright, but it would matter quite a lot if he were maimed. That's his idea, you see,” said Celia in a voice that tried very hard to be quite steady but shook just a little in spite of itself. “That's
his
idea. My idea is—is different.”

“Yes,” said Tonia a trifle huskily. “Yes, I see.”

“My idea is
quite
different,” continued Celia in stronger tones. “I
want
to be tied to Courtney. I want to be tied to him tight and fast, hand and foot,
now
, this very minute. I want him to belong to me when he lands in France or Belgium or wherever it is, when he goes roaring up the beach in his tank. If he comes through all right—then it will be—marvelous, and if—if he doesn't—at any rate I shall have been his wife; and if he's wounded, or—or blinded—then I ask nothing better than to spend my life taking care of him. That's all, really.”

Tonia said nothing, because she couldn't speak.

“That's what I feel,” explained Celia. “It's quite—sensible, really, and I feel it more strongly than anything I've ever felt before. But the silly thing is I can't explain it to Courtney. I can't tell anybody about it… I haven't the least idea why I'm telling
you
.”

“Because we're friends,” said Tonia, who had managed to find her voice. “Because we're old friends, Celia. That's why.”

“You mean…yes, I see,” said Celia, smiling. “Our friendship is a hundred years' old.”

They were silent for a little while.

“It
does
make a difference,” said Celia at last in thoughtful tones. “I think we should have been friends anyway, but it would have taken longer. It's as if we were building a house and the foundations were laid already.”

“It's
exactly
like that!” cried Tonia joyfully.

Celia smiled at her. “You are a dear,” she said.

When Celia and Tonia got back to the bog the picking was over and the “moss-hags” were thinking about tea. The picked moss was in large sacks, which were scattered far and wide over the moor, just where the pickers had filled them, and the next thing to be done was to collect the sacks and bring them over to the road where two pony carts were waiting to take them to the depot. This was the most unpopular part of moss gathering, for the sacks were full of wet moss and therefore incredibly heavy, and the ground was boggy and seamed with deep fissures full of peaty water. There were bushes of bog myrtle, with tough wiry stems, and patches of heather and rocks—all these presented formidable obstacles to a woman with a sack of moss upon her back. Some of the pickers suggested that they should have tea before tackling the job, and others were anxious to finish the job before sitting down to tea. They appealed to Celia for a casting vote and Celia was about to give her opinion when two men appeared from behind a rocky knoll, leaping over the bog from tussock to tussock and waving their arms. One of them was well in advance of the other and seemed to be making better progress.

“Soldiers!” exclaimed Celia in surprise.

“It's Bay!” exclaimed Tonia.

“Hold hard!” cried Bay when he got within speaking distance. “We've come to give you a hand, Bob and I. We couldn't find you or we'd have been here ages ago…and Bob kept on falling into holes.”

“Your moors…take a bit of knowing,” declared Bob, arriving breathless and muddy. “That green stuff looks OK, but when you jump on it there's nothing solid. It's like a nightmare…”

“That sinking feeling,” said Bay, nodding gravely. “You ought to take something for it. I'll speak to the M.O.”

“And the ditches are full of molasses,” added Bob.

“I wish they were,” declared Celia.

“Never mind, Bob,” said Bay. “It's a new experience for you. When you go back to Carolina you can tell the old folks at home that you've sampled Macbeth's blasted heath.”

“Blasted is the word,” agreed Bob with a grin. “I guess the old folks at home will want to know if I saw the witches, too.”

“Tell them you met the moss-hags,” suggested Celia.

“Enough of this!” exclaimed Bay. “We've come to work, not to bandy words. You want these sacks carried over to the carts, don't you, Celia? Come on, Bob. Get a move on. You take these two sacks and I'll get those two over there.”

“Easy,” agreed Bob cheerfully. He bent to lift the sack nearest to him and then looked up in surprise. “Did you say take
two
?” he inquired.

“Of course,” replied Bay. “Save you another journey. Much better take two at a time.” He also bent to lift the sack; he also looked up in surprise.

There was a peal of laughter from the pickers, who had been watching with bated breath.

“All right, all right,” said Bay, smiling. “I thought there was moss in the bags—not coal. We'll take them one by one. Come on, Bob, remember this is the stuff to cure you when you get that Jerry bullet through your—through your leg.”

“I get you,” agreed Bob. “Just give me a lift with this onto my back.” He hoisted it up and staggered off, remarking, cheerfully that if he happened to fall into another hole he would sink to the bottom and never be seen again.

“Don't worry,” cried Bay. “There isn't a bottom. You'll come out in Australia.”

In spite of this backchat the work went forward rapidly, much more rapidly than it would have without the reinforcements. The sacks were hoisted into the pony carts and the workers sat down to have their well-earned tea. They found a sheltered spot in a disused quarry and spread their rugs and produced sandwiches and thermos flasks. It was cold now, and the sun was declining. It was sinking into a group of larches whose bare branches showed red against the pale turquoise blue of the sky. There was a faint haze on the ground, tinged with reddish gold.

Everybody was tired and hungry and conscious of good work well done; there was not much talk, but the silence was friendly and intimate.

“It might be a summer evening,” said Bay suddenly. “I mean, it
looks
like a summer evening if you forget that it's so cold.”

Some of the party agreed with Bay and some did not. It depended upon whether the person in question had sufficient imagination.

“I suppose it's quite different from America,” somebody asked Bob.

Tonia thought this rather a foolish remark, but Bob answered it quite cheerfully, saying that he came from South Carolina and the country there was completely different—not to speak of the climate.

“I meant the people,” explained his interlocutor.

“Our women are a bit smarter,” replied Bob frankly.

Everybody laughed at this, for it seemed a miracle of understatement.

“You forget that we're moss-hags,” said somebody.

“No,” replied Bob quite seriously. “That's the whole thing. I guess an American woman would be dressed up a bit even if she was on a dirty job.”

“Old clothes look best on the moors,” declared Bay, glancing at Tonia's shabby tweeds.

“But we don't have moors,” said Bob, frowning a little. “To tell the truth I just can't see this happening in the States. It would all be different. Our women do chores in the house but I can't see them wading in bogs. Maybe they would if they had to.”

“Of course they would,” said Celia. “And I know exactly what you mean. They would wear marvelous skiing suits and colored berets.”

“Not if they had to do it on clothes coupons,” objected one of the hags.

“We have picnics, of course,” continued Bob, who seemed to be interested in the discussion. “But if this was the States there would be a lot more talk and wisecracking.”

“Wisecracking?” somebody inquired.

Bob nodded and explained. “I say something pretty smart and you say something a bit smarter.”

Celia remarked that America was not the place for her because she could never think of anything smart at the right moment. “Long afterward I think of it,” said Celia sadly. “I think of the most marvelous wisecrack, but of course it's too late.”

“I'm not much good at it myself,” said Bob comfortingly.

They did not dawdle over their tea, for it was too cold and the light was beginning to fail. The rugs and haversacks were piled into the carts and the workers started for home. It was very quiet, the shadows of the trees stretched across the road, and wisps of fleecy white mist lay in the hollows.

“Bay is in good form today,” said Celia, as she and Tonia walked along together. “He's looking ever so much fitter and happier, somehow.”

“His fiancée is coming tomorrow,” explained Tonia.

“I didn't know he was engaged!” cried Celia in surprise.

“Oh, yes, he's been engaged for a long time. She's French and very pretty and smart. Her name is Retta Delarge.”

“Where did Bay meet her?”

“At Dieppe,” replied Tonia. “It was at the beginning of the war, and then she managed to escape and came over here.”

“I see,” said Celia in a very thoughtful voice.

“I'm so glad she's coming,” continued Tonia cheerfully. “It will be nice for Bay, won't it? He has taken rooms for her at Mrs. MacBean's. I do hope she will be comfortable there—and not find it dull. Of course Bay can go and see her whenever he can get away but, as a matter of fact, he's pretty busy and doesn't get off much…” Tonia continued to babble in this cheerful, but somewhat unnatural manner, until their ways parted.

Retta Delarge arrived at Ryddelton by the morning train (Bay could not meet her because he was busy) and walked up the High Street to her rooms, causing a good deal of interest by reason of her exotic appearance. She left her suitcase there and crossed the street to Melville House and rang the bell.

“Bay did tell me about you,” said Miss Delarge, when Tonia opened the door. “Bay's letters were all about the good, kind Mrs. Norman who took pittee upon his lonely condition. I feel I must come and say thank you the very first moment I am here.”

“I hope the rooms are comfortable,” said Tonia, showing her guest into the drawing room.

“Comfortable!” cried Miss Delarge. “
O, mon Dieu!
They are so small one could swing a cat and the roof comes down at the sides!”

“The roof comes down!”

“It slopes,” she explained, gesticulating wildly. “It slopes so that only in the middle can one stand erect. O, how you are fortunate to have this beautiful house all of your own! My home it is beautiful too but, alas, the dirty Bosche is there and who knows what he is doing to it. Who knows whether my beautiful home is still in its place or burnt to ruins!”

“Oh,
no
,” said Tonia faintly.

“But this,” cried Miss Delarge, throwing out her arms. “But this, how beautiful it is! So very peaceful,
n'est-ce pas?
You do not know there is any war at all. Ah, how peaceful!” Miss Delarge sighed, sinking gracefully into a chair.

“You must come here,” said Tonia, trying to sound more hospitable than she felt.

“Oh, I could not trouble you!”

“Of course you must come. I can easily give you a room.”

Miss Delarge protested and exclaimed, but she was so easily persuaded that it was obvious she had intended to come from the very beginning, but it could not be helped. Tonia had felt bound to ask her, and perhaps she would not stay very long—perhaps she would be bored. This seemed all the more likely because she was so out of place in Ryddelton, so smart and colorful—exactly like an illustration in
Vogue,
thought Tonia, eyeing the elegant figure with reluctant admiration. Although she had been traveling all night she was full of life and vivacity.

“And if I come,” cried Miss Delarge. “If then I accept this so delightful and warm invitation there is no need of delay. I come now,
n'est-ce pas?
I go queek and fetch my suitcase across the street and I tell the fat lady with the beard that I do not stay to knock my head against her roof.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Tonia, smiling. “I'll get the bed aired—”

“No, no, you leave it to me.
All
that
I will do and not you at all. You will see I am a useful person and no bother.”

She moved across the street that afternoon, bringing one suitcase and explaining that it contained all that she possessed. “But me, I am clevaire,” she added. “One does not need much clothes if one is clevaire. It is the little touch that counts, the little blouse that makes the whole ensemble a different appearance, the red scarf or the green that is put around the neck or the head.”

It was true, of course. She had a flair for clothes and everything she wore suited her and expressed her personality. It was true, also, that she was useful in the house; she helped to get the room ready and when that was done she insisted on cooking the supper.

“You will call me Retta,” she announced, as she took Tonia's apron and tied it around her waist. “And I will call you Antonia. It is a lovely name and a pittee to spoil it… And now I will make the omelet with some dry eggs that are so very strange but not at all bad when they are cooked the right way, and we will look in the larder for a little something to put inside…and there will be coffee.”

“It sounds lovely,” said Tonia.

“It will taste lovely,” declared Retta. “There is nobody can make an omelet like me, my husband says—”

“Your husband?”

“O, how I am stupid!” cried Retta, throwing up her hands and laughing. “
Mon
frêre
—it is my brother, I mean. This
so
difficult language of yours, I shall never learn it proper, but perhaps you can speak French?”

Tonia shook her head. She was much too shy to attempt to speak French to Retta.

“Quel dommage!”
said Retta sadly. “What a pittee! We must do the best we can and you shall tell me when I say things all wrong.
N'est-ce pas, chère
Antonia? You shall say, ‘No, stupid Retta, that is not the way we say,' and then you will tell me how.”

“I think you're very clever,” declared Tonia, with sincerity, for although Retta's English was a bit peculiar, she had a fine flow of words and was never at a loss to explain what she meant.

“O, clevaire!” said Retta. “It is not that. It is just that I
must
learn how to talk or else I burst. At first when I come to England there is nobody I know and I am like a fish on straw gasping to breathe…and then I learn to talk and it is not so bad…and then my brother come and it is better. We take a little flat together in London and we get on all right though all the time our hearts are sore for
La
France.
You do not understand that.”

“But of course I do!”

“You do not understand,” repeated Retta. “
La
France
is everything to us and now she has no friend in all the world. There are people who laugh and say bad things about her. That makes me mad. Yes, I am mad when I hear what people say. You do not know there is a war. You are happy and comfortable. It is not fair.”

Tonia did not know what to say to this, so she said nothing—and perhaps this was best, for it is impossible to argue with a person who will not argue back.

Retta had made her omelet by this time and had gotten it in the pan. She was bending over it and watching it with anxious care.

“When the omelet is ready we must eat it queek,” said Retta. “You have the plate hot? That is right. Where is the fork?”

“Spoon,” said Tonia, smiling and handing it.

“I make mistakes all the time!” exclaimed Retta, laughing heartily—so heartily that Tonia was obliged to laugh too.

They were still laughing when the door opened and Bay walked in. “What a row!” he exclaimed with a delighted smile, for to tell the truth he was more than pleased to find the two girls getting on so well.

“O, Bay!” cried Retta excitedly. “What brings
you
here, may one ask? Who is wanting great big ugly men in a kitchen! And why you come in whenever you like and not to ring the door knocker!” She flung herself into his arms as she spoke and raised her face to kiss him.

Bay kissed her lightly. He was very red and embarrassed, and Tonia was embarrassed too. She busied herself dishing the omelet Retta had abandoned in her excitement. Retta was speaking French now; streams of it were pouring from her lips, and this embarrassed Tonia still more, for she could understand every word. I never meant I couldn't
understand
French, thought Tonia, trying to shut her ears. Goodness, how awful this is!

It was more than awful, for Retta was giving Bay a long account of her arrival at the rooms and of her conversation with Tonia. Tonia learned to her surprise that she had visited Retta at Mrs. MacBean's and had looked around in horror and had insisted on Retta repacking her suitcase and coming to Melville House, that she had refused to accept any excuses or denials but had declared she was lonely and
“triste”
and she would go mad if she did not have company in the long evenings. “So you see,” continued Retta, in her rapid flowing French. “So what could I do, tell me that, dear one. Could I do other than come here and be with her and cheer her? She has been so kind to you that I felt I owed her a little consideration, for anyone who is kind to my dearest one is kind to me. Of course it would be better to be on our own, and you know that your Retta does not care where she is—whether she is comfortable or not—if only she can be near you. We should have had more freedom if I could have remained in the rooms—
ça va sans dire
—but she will be
convenant,
the poor little thing; she will not embarrass us with her company…”

Tonia did not embarrass them with her company more than she could help. They had supper together, of course (the omelet was extremely good), and then she sent her two guests into the drawing room and shut the door upon them and proceeded to wash up the dishes. For some reason or other she felt lonely and miserable—it was the first time she had felt lonely since she came to Ryddelton—and this was rather strange when you came to think of it. Tonia would have liked somebody to talk to. She half thought of going in and seeing the Smilies (she had a standing invitation to go in and see them whenever she felt dull) but that would be silly, thought Tonia, hesitating. I'm
not
lonely, really. I expect I'm just tired or something so I had better go to bed.

She got into bed and there, beside her on the table, was Great-Aunt Antonia's diary. Tonia settled herself comfortably and began to read the delightful account of Arthur's visit to Ryddelton Castle to ask for Antonia's hand.

How splendid he looked, riding up the drive, wrote Antonia. I had been watching for him from my bedroom window, for I was aware that he would ride over in the afternoon. When he reached the corner by the rhododendron bushes, he raised his hat so I knew he had seen me and I waved my handkerchief. I fear Mama might have thought this conduct unmaidenly, but I was glad to have the opportunity to encourage Arthur and nerve him for the interview, and I have known Arthur all my life, which makes it seem less bold. He was with Papa for more than an hour, and I confess I was restless and impatient, though I tried to compose myself with my sewing, but when I was sent for to go down to Papa's library, my mood changed and I was reluctant to leave my room. I realized that this was an important moment in my life. I loved Arthur dearly, but I felt young and awkward, unwilling to advance and to leave my childhood behind. However, I managed to encourage myself and I went downstairs, as boldly as I could. Mama and Papa and Arthur were all in the library. Arthur came to me at once and took me by the hand and smiled at me. There was no need to ask the result of his interview with Papa—all was settled. Papa was kind enough to say I had been a good daughter and Mama kissed me with great affection, saying she would miss my help with the little ones but that she was overjoyed that I would be settled so conveniently near. I was overcome with so much kindness, which I feel I have done little to deserve…

Arthur and I walked in the garden together. It was a beautiful spring day and the clouds were moving across the sky like stately galleons, casting their shadows upon the hills. Arthur told me that Papa had been most kind and approved of the marriage heartily…Arthur asked me if it would be possible for us to be married before he sails. He asked it very modestly and diffidently, saying that he was aware the time was short but it would make him very happy if I would agree. I was somewhat alarmed, for the time is short indeed. I am devoted to Arthur and would do anything to give him pleasure but I have not become used to the idea. It will take time for me to adjust myself. I explained this as best I could but I could see he was disappointed and eventually I agreed to talk to Mama and see what could be done. “You will persuade her,” Arthur said, and he looked at me so lovingly that I felt I could deny him nothing…

Today I spoke to Mama and asked her if she and Papa would allow us to be married before Arthur sails, but Mama was very much against the proposal, declaring that we should have no time to prepare my trousseau, to buy the linen and mark it and a hundred and one other things. It will be better, Mama says, to wait until Arthur's return when everything will be prepared. I told her that Arthur wished it and that I should like to conform to his wishes, to which Mama replied that marriage should not be entered upon hastily or inadvisedly. She embraced me fondly and added that I was very young and had much to learn before becoming Arthur's wife. This is true, and although Arthur will be disappointed, he will realize that I can do nothing to distress Mama…

Arthur rode over today. He brought me a magnificent Chinese jar, which he had bought in China the last time he was there. It is a most delightful shape and has green dragons on it. I am charmed with it and have put it on a little stand in the corner of my bedroom so that I may see it when I wake. Arthur was a little sad when I told him what Mama said about our marriage…

Today Mary and Courtney Dale were married. They were married in the drawing room at Dunnian and the room was crowded with friends and relations who had come to Ryddelton for the occasion. It was a gay scene. The room was decorated most beautifully with flowers from the Dunnian greenhouses. The cake was the largest I have seen. I must admit that Mary looked extremely well in white satin with orange blossoms in her hair. Celia was in pink, a color that becomes her mightily. Everyone seemed happy, and there was a great deal of talk and laughter, but I could not help feeling that the gaiety was false. Celia should have been the bride. Celia should have been standing beside Mr. Dale and receiving the good wishes and congratulations. This conviction was so strong that I could hardly believe the other guests did not share it. Arthur noticed my preoccupation and rallied me upon it. “I know what you are thinking,” he declared (and for a moment I believed that it was true and that he had become aware of the secret). Before I could answer he continued. “You are thinking what a terrible ordeal it is to be married like this with the whole clan looking on, and I must admit I agree with you. I should find it impossible to emulate Courtney's courage and cool demeanor. Give me a naval battle and I warrant I shall be as cool as a cucumber, but this sort of affair tries a man too high.” I laughed, but Arthur was perfectly serious. “I shall run away with you,” he said. “We shall be married privately and only our nearest and dearest shall be present to hear us take our vows. Say you agree with this, my dearest one.” I told him that his pleasure was mine and that we should be married exactly as he wished. “But not when I wish,” said Arthur with a sigh. This distressed me, and distressed me all the more because he has been very good and patient and has not tried to hurry me in any way but has taken the decision to wait as final.