Listening Valley (21 page)

Arthur came over today to say good-bye. Nothing could be worse than this parting. As I gazed at his dear face I had a terrible premonition that I might never see him again. It was more than I could bear. I wish I were his wife. I wish it with all my heart and soul. I know now that it is my own fault we are not married, for if I had urged the matter strongly Mama would have agreed. The truth is I was glad when Mama counseled delay. I was a coward. I felt young and awkward and ignorant. My fate came upon me too suddenly, and I was not ready to go forward and meet the challenge. Yes, I am a coward and not fit to be the wife of a brave man. Mama and I were both wrong. I see that now, when it is too late. I should have married Arthur and given him all the happiness I could. I feel very strongly—though perhaps unreasonably—that he would be safer if we had been married, that the bond would shelter him in the midst of danger and bring him back to me. Arthur kissed me tenderly, and I clung to him, for I felt I could not let him go. I felt as if my heart were breaking. He whispered to me that a year is not long, but I know he feels it will be an eternity—just as I do…

Tonia put down the diary and sighed. She understood so well what Antonia meant when she had written that she was not ready to go forward into life, for she (Tonia) was of the same nature—or had been until she met Robert. She had very nearly missed her chance of marrying Robert because she was a coward and not ready. If
they
had not quarreled over the fish, thought Tonia, looking back on that evening that seemed so long ago, if they had not been so horrid about Lou, I might be at home now, growing up into a soured old spinster. It was unpleasant and more than a little alarming to think that the whole of one's life could hang in the balance and the balance be tipped by a piece of fried sole.

She took up the diary again and turned over a good many pages, for she did not want to read about Arthur's death tonight—she was sad enough already—and presently she came to a list of furniture Antonia had brought with her when she came to live at Melville House. This interested the present owner a good deal, for the things were still here in much the same places. There was the Chinese jar, of course, which had been Arthur's parting present to Antonia and which still stood upon its ebony plinth on the upper landing, and there was the cabinet in the drawing room and the writing bureau and a score of other pieces that had become Tonia's friends…for if you dust and polish your own furniture, as Tonia was obliged to do, you get to know it intimately in a very short time.

Below this list of furniture Antonia had written an explanation of her desire to leave her home.

Papa understands my feelings, but Mama is a little hurt and this distresses me. However, I am sure she will soon get used to the idea of my leaving home, and Louise is now quite old enough to help her. Perhaps it seems strange that I should wish to leave my home where everyone has been so kind to me, but my heart is sad and will never recover its lightness. I cannot join in the gay talk, and my presence casts a constraint upon the spirits of my younger sisters and brothers. At Melville House I shall be my own mistress and able to do as I feel inclined; I can be quiet and read and sew. I shall practice my music daily. Mama has insisted that I must have Mrs. Thomson to live with me and I have consented, for I do not want to go against Mama's wishes in the matter, but I have a feeling that Mrs. Thomson will find it somewhat dull after her gay life in Edinburgh. Perhaps she will not
stay…

Tonia put down the diary and listened. Yes, Bay was going away; she could hear his voice in the hall, and Retta's voice protesting that it was early and inquiring whether he was going out over Germany tonight and, if so, where he was going. She could not hear Bay's answer, but it must have been quite short, for almost immediately the door was shut and Retta came upstairs.

“My poor little one,” said Retta, looking in at the door. “You have a migraine? If you had told Retta she would have given a powder that takes it away directly—whoof, it is gone!”

“No,” said Tonia. “I just thought you and Bay would like a little chat all by yourselves.”

“Chérie!”
cried Retta. “How sweet! How very, very kind! I will not pretend it is not true. Bay is so fond, so lover-like, you would not think it when you see him and other peoples are there, but when we are alone he is
quite
different.”

“Yes,” said Tonia.

“Bay is dreadful,” declared Retta with a little laugh. “He is so strong and forceful. I say to him, ‘O, Bay, you must not eat me,' but what is the good?”

“He hasn't seen you for a long time.”

“It is a thousand years,” agreed Retta. She yawned luxuriously and added, “And now I must go to bed. How nice to think of it! That
so
comfortable bed that is not at all like the one at Mrs. MacBean's house. Ugh, what a bed! I feel it with my hand and it is lumpy like potatoes…”

She blew a kiss in Tonia's direction and went away.

Retta settled down comfortably at Melville House. She was a very easy guest. The odd thing was Tonia could not make up her mind about Retta. Sometimes she liked her very much indeed, and sometimes she did not like her at all. On the credit side Retta was always pleasant and smiling and often amusing; she admired the house and was most appreciative of anything Tonia did for her comfort; she did most of the cooking and did it extremely well—far better than Tonia, of course—and she was amazingly unobtrusive and did not expect attention nor entertainment. On the debit side Retta was just a shade untruthful, though perhaps untruthful was too hard and definite a word; it was more as if her exuberance ran away with her and she turned things roundabout to make a better story or to put things in a better light.

At one time the mere fact of a person deviating from strict truthfulness would have shocked Tonia and put her off completely, but since living with the Garlands Tonia had become more broadminded and she was prepared to make allowances for Retta.

Tonia thought of all this as she prepared tea in the drawing room, putting the little table near the fire and spreading upon it one of Nannie's best tea cloths edged with crochet lace. Retta had been out all the afternoon but would soon be home, and Celia Dunne was coming and bringing Courtney, who was on leave at the moment. Bay might look in if he could get away—and that made five. Quite a nice little tea party, thought Tonia.

Retta was the first to appear; she came in with glowing cheeks and was full of apologies for not having gotten back earlier. She had been in the woods and had lost her way and had run all the way home.

“What a view!” declared Retta, standing near the fire with her hands in the pockets of her slacks she had put on for her walk. “From the woods one can see for miles—the airfield and the town and the hills—and I was fortunate to meet a very nice man, who did tell me so many interesting things…and then it was late,” said Retta, laughing and shaking her head. “It was late quite suddenly, and I ran and ran. So now I must go and get tidy and put on a skirt before the guests arrive.”

“You look very nice in slacks,” said Tonia.

“It is because my legs are long,” agreed Retta. “To wear slacks one must have long slim legs and not much behind.”

Tonia laughed.

“That is another joke?” inquired Retta, smiling. “Again I make a clevaire joke without meaning. So clevaire I am! But it is true about the legs and the behind. When I was little I sometimes put on the trousers of my brother and dance about and have fun. You have a brother, Antonia?”

“No, just a sister.”

“But that is lovely!” cried Retta. “It is what I have wanted, always—to have a sister. It is quite different, the two things,
n'est-ce pas?
To have a brother—
lovely
—he take you about and introduce his friends and you make a gay time together. To have a sister, she share your secrets and you talk your heads off.”

“Yes,” agreed Tonia. “Yes, when Lou and I get together we talk all the time.”

“Tell me about this Lou. She is like you?”

“I'll tell you another time,” replied Tonia. “If you want to change before the others come you had better go now.”

“O gosh!” exclaimed Retta (who had picked up this expression from Bay and used it with intense feeling). “O gosh, it is true, I will have to be queek.”

The three guests arrived all together just as Retta was coming downstairs and when the buzz of greetings and introductions had subsided Tonia found herself sitting at the tea table with Courtney Dale beside her. She was glad of this, for she had not met him before and she had heard a great deal about him. At first she was too busy pouring out tea to have much time to talk, but she noticed that he was extremely helpful in an unobtrusive way, passing the cups and offering the scones and making himself generally useful. When everyone had been served they settled down to talk and, as the others were fully occupied in listening to Retta, their conversation was as private as any
tête-a-tête.
He talked about Celia—it was obvious that he adored her and thought her perfect in every way—and Tonia was only too ready to listen to Celia's praises, so they got on very well indeed. Celia had told him about the diary, and he asked about it and was quite awed when it was put into his hands.

“History repeats itself,” he said. “But I guess this Courtney is going to marry the right girl.”

“I'm sure he is,” agreed Tonia.

“I'd like to read this little book,” continued Courtney. “Maybe someday I could come over and read it.”

“You can take it with you if you like.”

“Take it!” he exclaimed. “That's very good of you. I'll read it and fetch it back on Monday. I promise I'll take great care of it, Mrs. Norman.”

He was so earnest about it and seemed so impressed by the antiquity of the book that Tonia could not help laughing; and Courtney, who was always ready to laugh, joined in. Whereupon the other members of the party turned around and inquired if they might share the joke.

“It's private,” replied Courtney, taking the book and stowing it away safely in an inner pocket. “It's between Mrs. Norman and me.”

Retta was somewhat annoyed, for she liked being the center of attraction. She decided that Courtney Dale was worth cultivating and having ascertained that, like most Americans, he could speak French, she proceeded to talk to him volubly in that language, complimenting him upon his accent, his nationality and the outstanding courage of his compatriots. Courtney could do nothing to stem the torrent of words. He smiled in a somewhat embarrassed manner and allowed himself to drift.

This was one of the times when Tonia did not like Retta at all. She left them to it and retired to the kitchen to prepare some vegetables for a pie she and Retta intended to have for supper.

“Bay,” said Celia in a low voice completely covered by the rattle of Retta's conversation. “Bay, you've read old Antonia's diary, haven't you?”

“Bits of it,” replied Bay.

“You know about old Courtney Dale and Mary and Celia?”

“Yes,” said Bay, nodding.

“He married the wrong girl, Bay.”

“I know,” said Bay, taking out his pipe and polishing it carefully.

“It's a pity when that happens,” said Celia earnestly. “It's a pity for everyone.”

“We're more sensible nowadays,” declared Bay.

“Are we, Bay?”

Bay had begun to fill his pipe. He did not speak for a few moments and then he said, “Courtney was engaged to Mary before he met Celia—that's what the diary says.”

“But, Bay—”

“So what could he do? He couldn't do anything, could he?”

“Listen, Bay—”

“Personally,” said Bay in a casual sort of voice. “Personally I think old Courtney did the right thing.”

“Oh, no, I don't agree with you at all.”

“We must agree to differ, then,” declared Bay, firmly.

Celia rose. She said, “Are you ready, Courtney?”

Courtney was perfectly ready—almost eager—to depart. He said good-bye to Miss Delarge and followed Celia out of the room.

“She has him well in hand, that one,” declared Retta when they had gone and she and Bay were alone.

“They're engaged,” replied Bay.

“I know, and so are we,” said Retta, smiling. “Come then, we are alone at last and all the tiresome peoples gone.” She patted the sofa with her hand, inviting him to sit down beside her.

Bay did not seem to notice. He was lighting his pipe with a spill from the fire. “I don't know what you mean by
tiresome
,” he said. “You seemed to be getting on all right with Dale.”

“O, la la!” cried Retta, laughing. “He is jealous now, my big Bay. But he must not be jealous—that is
too
stupid. Come and sit here and I will tell you how nice you are, how much nicer than the tiresome American…but you must put your pipe away first, for the smoke is not nice at all.”

“The smoke is very nice,” declared Bay, standing on the hearth rug and smiling down at her.

“Nicer than kisses, perhaps?”

“Sometimes,” said Bay, smoking with rather too obvious enjoyment.

Her eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to make a spirited retort…and then closed it again. There was a short silence.

“Cher ami,”
said Retta at last in a low husky voice.
“Cher ami,
let us not say unkind things to each other. Let us not be unkind even in little ways, for I have no one else to love me, no one at all…”

“Oh, Retta—” exclaimed Bay.

“No,” said Retta, taking out her handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. “No, I have no one. I am a stupid girl and not very patient but how can one be patient when one loves…so you will be kind and forgive,
n'est-ce pas
,
mon
ami
?”

“Of course,” said Bay uncomfortably. “I mean, there's nothing to forgive. It's absolutely all right. I was rather a beast—”

“It is all forgotten!” cried Retta, smiling at him with dewy eyes. “I was a little bit naughty, too. I was flirting just a little bit with the American…so now it is all right as you say.”

“Of course,” agreed Bay, putting his pipe on the mantelpiece and sitting down beside her.

“Dear Bay,” said Retta, laying her head on his shoulder and relapsing into her native tongue. “It is so dull when you are not here; I think of you all the time. I should like to see your quarters, the room where you sleep, so that I can think of you better.”

“Perhaps we could manage it,” said Bay.

“And the airfield,” continued Retta. “I have never seen an airfield.”

“I don't know about that,” said Bay, smiling. “Why do you want to see these things, Retta?”

“But is it not natural!” cried Retta. “All that you do interests me, because I love you so much. It is a woman's way to want to know all about the man she loves and all the little things in his life. I should like to sit in the big bomber, in your seat and put my hands on the controls. I should like to walk around the airfield with you so that I could imagine you whenever I shut my eyes.”

“I'm afraid that's impossible,” said Bay. “I could show you my quarters of course but nobody is allowed in the hangars.”

“Tell me,” said Retta, snuggling against him, “are you going out tonight. I get so anxious and worried about you. It would make me happy if I knew you were not going tonight.”

“It would make the Germans happy, too,” replied Bay grimly.

“What do you mean?”

“Just exactly what I say. It can't be much fun for the Germans to have their cities bombed. I know what it was like in London.”

“You use much bigger bombs,” said Retta thoughtfully.

“Yes, of course. Everybody knows that.”

“Bay,” said Retta. “Sometimes I have wondered—sometimes I have felt a little frightened to think of those big bombs so near the town of Ryddelton. What would happen to the town if they went off suddenly?”

“They are not likely to do that.”

“Why?” asked Retta, turning to look at him. “If you keep them at the airfield—hundreds of them! But perhaps they come in small quantities, just when you need them?”

“You need not worry,” declared Bay. “We take every precaution.”

Retta pouted at him. She said, “You tell me nothing. Why is that, dear one? Do you not trust me? Will you tell me more when we are married?”

“What a lot of questions all at once!” he exclaimed, smiling at her. “I'll tell you something if you promise not to tell anyone else.”

“But yes,” declared Retta earnestly.

Bay assumed a very serious expression and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You are very pretty,” he said. “Very elegant, and also very inquisitive…”