Celia's House (15 page)

Mark woke with a feeling of flatness. It was all over. He had not expected to enjoy it, but it had been tremendous fun. They had all worked together and they had
made
something. It was not perfect, of course, but it was worthwhile. Now the cord that had bound them all together was broken and they were scattered. That was what Mark felt. It had been lovely saying those words to Tessa… “How now, my love, why is thy cheek so pale”…“Gentle Hermia, may I marry thee?” Somehow he knew she had understood that he really meant the words, that they expressed his own deepest feelings.

Mark leaned out of his bedroom window. It was very early, but the birds were awake, twittering in the bushes, singing in the trees. Mark's heart sang with them. “My love…my fair love…may I marry thee?”

He was going to see her this afternoon, for she and Oliver were coming over to tea. He must get her alone and find out if she
really
understood. Of course he could not say anything definite to Tessa yet. He was not even qualified; he had nothing to offer her, but they were both young. Tessa would not mind waiting. He would work like a Trojan and pass his exam with honors. He would work ten times harder than ever before…

It was not very difficult to get Tessa alone, for the others were busy adding up the money and congratulating themselves upon the large pile of shillings that had been taken by Johnson at the gate.

“I'm no good at arithmetic,” Tessa said, and she walked out into the garden. Mark followed her and, together, they went down the path between the trees.

“It was fun, wasn't it?” said Tessa. “I enjoyed it terribly much.”

“So did I,” said Mark. “It was even rather fun pretending to hate you, Tessa.”

She smiled up at him. “Was it pretense?”

“You know it was,” he said.

There was a short silence and then Tessa said, “We're going away tomorrow.”

“Going away!”

“Yes, Oliver and I ought to have gone back to London last week, but of course we waited for the play.”

“I see,” said Mark. It was a great temptation. He would have given anything to be able to say, “Gentle Hermia, may I marry thee?” The words were there on his lips, but it would not be right. It would not be fair to bind her. He must wait.

“Will you miss us?” Tessa inquired. “I hope you'll miss us. It's nice to be missed.”

“I shall miss you horribly.”

Tessa sighed. She said, “I hate leaving this place. I would like to settle down and live here forever and ever. It's so lovely.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Mark. “I feel just like you. Dunnian seems like a part of me, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I wish that Dunnian—”

“Oliver is sorry to leave here too,” said Tessa, interrupting him. “There's a very potent attraction at Dunnian. Perhaps you've noticed it.”

“You mean—Joyce?” Mark asked in surprise.

She laughed but did not answer.

Presently they began to talk of the play. It was an inexhaustible subject of conversation. “You do think it was a success, don't you?” Tessa asked. “You aren't sorry I persuaded you to have it.”

“It was splendid,” Mark replied. “I enjoyed every moment of it.”

“Everyone played up like anything, didn't they?”

“Yes, the only flop was Angela—but of course it must have been difficult for her, being dragged in at the last moment.”

“Poor Angela!” Tessa exclaimed, laughing. “I'm sorry for Angela, you know. Her one ambition in life is to grab a husband—anything in trousers would do. She pursues her game madly and rolls her eyes; no wonder the men sheer off!”

“Oh, I say,” Mark said uncomfortably.

“It's perfectly true.”

“No—honestly. Angela is rather a dear. I've known Angela for years and years. We used to do our sums together. She isn't a
bit
like that.”

“Have it your own way,” Tessa said casually.

Mark was silent. He could not bear to hear Tessa talk in this fashion; it was not worthy of her. But he comforted himself with the reflection that this kind of talk was not really natural to Tessa but was “put on”—just as her dress was “put on.” Her dress might be unbecoming, but that did not alter her nature nor make him love her less.

• • •

Mark began to work harder than ever now. He worked late at night, poring over his books and making copious notes in his neat, small writing. He was thus engaged when Deb opened the library door and looked in.

“Shall I take the dogs out?” she asked.

“No, come talk to me,” replied Mark, flinging down his pen. “My head is buzzing; I can't do any more tonight.”

She sat down on the hearth rug and held out her hands to the fire. “It's cold tonight,” she said. “The wind has gone into the east.”

“I want to talk to you about things,” said Mark.

She smiled and waited. It was nice that Mark wanted to talk to her. Mark had been…not quite so friendly lately, but now he was smiling at her in the old way, so everything was all right.

“It's about Oliver,” said Mark. “Oliver and Tessa have gone.”

“Yes,” agreed Deb. She tried to make her voice sound regretful, but it wasn't easy.

“It's funny,” Mark continued slowly. “It's funny really. I thought—I don't know if you noticed—I thought he was fond of Joyce.”

“Joyce?” asked Deb.

“Yes, I thought so. Didn't you?”

“I thought—” Deb began and then she stopped.

“What did you think?” asked Mark.

“I didn't think he was fond of Joyce.”

“Well, I did,” declared Mark, “and what's more I think Joyce is—is fond of Oliver. She's rather under the weather, isn't she?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think can have happened?”

Deb did not answer. She had taken up the hearth brush and was busy sweeping the grate, making it neat and tidy.

“I don't know what to do,” continued Mark. “If Dad were here—but of course he isn't. Oliver is a good fellow, isn't he?”

“He's very good-looking,” Deb said after a short pause.

“I mean, he wouldn't do anything shabby, would he?” Mark asked a trifle anxiously.

“You know him much better than I do,” Deb replied.

Mark sighed and lay back in the big chair. He said, “I wish I knew what to do. It's a comfort to be able to talk to you about it. I can always talk to you about things. You're my favorite sister, Deb.”

Once, long ago, these words had filled Deb with delight, but they sounded different now. She did not want to be Mark's favorite sister.

“I can talk to you about
anything
,” repeated Mark, “You always understand. I wonder if you understand what I feel about Tessa.”

“I think so,” Deb said in a very small voice.

“Wasn't she marvelous as Hermia?”

“I thought you were marvelous as Lysander.”

“I wasn't really acting,” said Mark.

Deb had known this, of course, but to hear him say it made it more definite, more real, more painful. Deb told herself that if only Mark had set his heart upon someone else she would not have minded—if it had been Angela or Jean or
any
of the other girls—but Tessa was the wrong person for Mark. Tessa was ruthless. She was selfish and deceitful; she was no more like Mark's conception of her than a tiger is like a kitten. Someday Mark would find out what Tessa was really like…but he would find out too late. Oh, Mark, why are you so blind? She will break your heart!

Fortunately Deb had the sense to know that it was useless to say anything. She held her peace.

“She's so sweet,” Mark continued. “There's something about her. She's so beautiful and good and kind. Of course I haven't said anything to her yet, because—well—because I must have something to offer her, but I'm almost sure she likes me. I think it will be all right, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Deb. She was quite sure Tessa intended to marry Mark. Her intention had been obvious from the beginning.

Mark smiled. He said, “You see everything, quiet little mouse that you are!”

• • •

There were other conversations going on in Dunnian that evening. The house seemed to be listening to them. The voice of the Rydd Water was very soft and low.

“I don't think it's fair,” Joyce was saying. Joyce had come into Edith's bedroom to say good night and she had stayed to talk.

“What isn't fair?” Edith asked with a yawn.

“You have everything,” Joyce replied. “You take everything and leave nothing for me. You've always done that.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You
do
know,” Joyce declared in trembling tones. “You know quite well. You're engaged to Douglas—almost married—why can't you be content with that?”

“Content?” asked Edith. “I never said I wasn't content—”

“Oliver has always been my friend,” Joyce said tearfully. “He always liked me best—and then you—”

“I can't help it if people like me,” Edith said, smiling. She was sitting in front of her mirror and, as she spoke, she took up her brush and began to brush her hair. It was thick and golden, the color of ripe corn, and she gave it a hundred strokes with the brush every night of her life.

“One…two…three,” said Edith, drawing the brush through her hair.

“I wish you'd listen,” said Joyce.

“I
am
listening. What do you want to tell me?”

“You might let me have a chance now and then,” said Joyce, trying to control herself and speak naturally. “You're so selfish and—and unkind. I should have been Helena in the play.”

“Oliver said—”

“I know, but you could have refused. It wasn't right for you to take the part. Douglas didn't like it, and I don't wonder.”

“It was only a play, silly.”

“People are talking.”

“Who cares?”

“Douglas cares.”

“I'm not married to Douglas yet.” There was a queer expression in Edith's eyes as she said these words.

“You don't mean—” Joyce began in dismay.

“I don't mean anything,” Edith declared hastily. “As a matter of fact I'm so sleepy that I don't know what I'm saying. You had better go to bed.”

Joyce went toward the door and paused with her hand on the handle. “Edith,” she said. “Have you had a letter from Oliver?”

“No, why should he write to me?” said Edith.

• • •

In Alice's bedroom a third conversation was taking place. Becky was there. She was heating some milk on the electric radiator. Alice always had a glass of hot milk before she went to sleep and Becky usually had some too. They both enjoyed the little quiet time together, sipping their milk and talking about the day's doings. It was a habit that had originated when Celia was born and had never been abandoned.

“They're all so cross,” Alice complained. “I suppose it's the reaction or something. I never remember a time when they were
all
cross, Becky.”

“I can.”

“Can you?”

“Yes, when they had measles,” Becky said, nodding. “They were all as cross as cross could be. There was no pleasing any of them.”

“But they haven't got measles now, so—”

“They're in love,” said Becky.

“They can't all be in love.”

“Can't they?”

“No, of course not. Even Debbie is a little impatient—
she
can't be in love. Edith and Joyce quarrel all the time; Mark is sulky. It's
very
unpleasant.”

“It will wear off,” Becky said comfortingly.

“But what's the reason for it?”

“I told you—”

“You don't really mean they're all in love, do you?” Alice asked in some alarm. “It was just a joke, wasn't it, Becky?”

“Yes, just a joke.”

“You frightened me,” declared Alice, lying back on her pillows. “You frightened me horribly. I couldn't bear it if they were all in love at the same time and Humphrey not here. You know, Becky, I can't cope with them now. They don't tell me things. It was so much easier when they were small.”

“It always is. Tantrums and stomach aches are soon cured.”

“Gregory's mixture,” agreed Alice, nodding. “I believe it would do them good
now
, but of course they wouldn't like it if I suggested it.” She sighed and added, “I wish Humphrey was here.”

“So do I,” said Becky.

“Do you think Mark is fond of Tessa?”

“It looks like it, I must say.”

“She's a sweet girl,” said Alice. “Pretty and clever and sweet.”

“I don't care for sweets much, myself,” Becky said in an undertone.

“What did you say, Becky?”

“She's not good enough,” said Becky.

Alice smiled. She said, “Of course you think there's nobody good enough for Mark, don't you, Becky?”

Becky did not reply.

Humphrey managed to get leave. He walked into the drawing room one evening when they were all sitting around the fire.

“I thought I would surprise you,” he said.

“Humphrey!” cried Alice, rising and upsetting her work basket onto the floor. She was in his arms in a moment, half laughing and half crying.

They were all here—all the family—Humphrey seized his daughters and kissed them; Celia clung around his neck; over her head Humphrey's eyes sought Mark's—and they smiled.

“This is splendid!” Humphrey said. “This is what I like—all being together—”

“How did you manage to get away?”

“How did you come?”

“Have you had dinner?”

“How long can you stay?”

He laughed and said, “Have pity on me! I flew from Marseilles and I've got two months' leave.”

“Lovely!” Alice said blissfully.

“Yes,” agreed Humphrey. “It's about time I had some leave. It's about time I came back to look after my family. What's all this about a wedding?” He smiled at Edith as he spoke, but she did not smile back.

“He's such a dear,” declared Alice. “He's so quiet and easy to understand. You'll like him, Humphrey.”

“I hope so,” Humphrey said, smiling more broadly than before.

“Of
course
you'll like him,” said Alice. “There's something about him. He's a little shy but
charming
when you get to know him!”

Humphrey laughed. “He seems to have charmed Edith very successfully.”

As usual Humphrey was feeling the strangeness of being at home, of being at Dunnian in the midst of his family, of hearing the light voices of his womenfolk. He felt even more strange than usual this time, more out of touch with their lives, but perhaps that was due to the fact that he had not been home for so long. They were grown up now, thought Humphrey, looking around the circle of faces. They were men and women. Billy was independent and self-confident, well started on his career.

Only Celia was still a child, and even she had grown and developed since he had seen her last. She was different from the others, of course, for she was small and neatly made. She was more like Aunt Celia than ever. Humphrey was proud of his daughters, and he had reason to be proud, for they were all remarkably good-looking: two large and fair and blue-eyed—like Alice—and one small and dark and merry. What a stir they would create if he could transport them to the wardroom! Parker was supposed to be an authority on women. What would Parker think of his daughters, Humphrey wondered.

“Such a lot to arrange,” Alice was saying. “The date hasn't been fixed. We were just waiting to hear from you before fixing the date—”

“Dad,” said Billy. “Dad, I want a tailcoat. I want to be an usher. I'm not too young, am I?”

“Daddy,” said Joyce. “Don't you think pink would be nice for the bridesmaids' dresses?”

“You'll have to get a new topper, Dad.”

“You'll have to give away the bride, you know.”

“The reception must be here, of course.”

They were all talking at once and Humphrey found some difficulty in keeping track of all the suggestions and demands. He managed to disentangle one of the suggestions and to answer it. “Of course the reception must be here,” said Humphrey, raising his voice slightly. “There hasn't been a wedding at Dunnian for something like eighty years. Isabel was the last Miss Dunne to be married from the house—Debbie's great-grandmother.”

Deb was smiling at him across the room. (He thought,
She's improved enormously. She's pretty in her own quiet way and there's something very attractive about her…but she doesn't look well…
)

“That's very interesting,” Mark said.

“Quite a lot of presents have come already,” said Alice. “We put them in the east bedroom. Edith will show them to you—such lovely presents, Humphrey!”

“Lucky girl!” said Humphrey, smiling at his daughter.

Once again Edith refused to smile back.

(
I'm out of touch
, thought Humphrey.
I mustn't tease Edith. People are often a bit prickly when they're in love.
)

“Daddy,” Celia said suddenly. She was sitting on a stool beside him and leaning against his knee. “Daddy, I want to ask you something.”

“What do you want to ask?” inquired Humphrey, smiling at her affectionately.

“I needn't go to school, need I?” Celia said.

“She ought to go to school,” declared Edith. “Joyce and I went to school, and Celia ought to go. She's getting spoiled at home.”

“Celia isn't spoiled,” Alice said quickly.

“I don't want to leave Dunnian,” Celia explained. “I wouldn't mind going to school if I could take Dunnian with me.”

The others laughed at this, but somehow or other Humphrey understood. “We'll see,” he said. “Mummy and I will talk it over. We won't send you away from Dunnian if you feel very strongly about it.”

“I feel
very
strongly about it,” Celia said gravely.

“If only you could have been here for the play!” exclaimed Billy. “Gosh, you would have liked it, Dad. I was Bottom, you know. It was tremendous fun.”

“I was Puck,” said Celia.

They all began to talk at once and to tell him about it.

The evening passed pleasantly, but all the same Humphrey was glad when “the women and children” went to bed and he and Mark were left together for a quiet chat. Mark had opened the door for his mother. He came back to the fire and stood on the hearth rug looking down at Humphrey.

“Sit down,” said Humphrey. “I can't talk to you up there. You've grown into a perfect giant.”

Mark sat down without speaking.

“This is nice,” said Humphrey. “This is like old times. Is everything all right?”

It was the usual question. It was the question Humphrey always asked when he came home from sea. Long ago, when Mark was quite a small boy, he had been given to understand that it was his business to look after the family in his father's absence. Mark had liked it. He had felt important and responsible. It had been one of those things that had bound them closely together. (“Is everything all right, Mark?” “Yes, Dad, everything's fine.”) But tonight Mark did not make the usual reply. He hesitated.

“There's nothing wrong, is there?” Humphrey asked in sudden anxiety.

“I'm not sure,” said Mark.

“What's the matter?”

“I'm not sure,” repeated Mark. “It may be nothing at all. It's about Edith really. I can't help wondering if she really likes Rewden.”

“Don't you like him?”

“Not awfully,” Mark said uncomfortably.

“What's wrong with the fellow?” It was Humphrey's quarterdeck voice, crisp and incisive, a voice that demanded a plain answer to a plain question, and this was what Mark could not give. There was nothing
wrong
with Rewden—not really.

“He's sort of—colorless,” said Mark vaguely.

“I don't know what you mean. If Edith likes him—aren't they fond of each other?”

“I don't know. That's the whole trouble,” said Mark.

“You'll have to explain.”

“I can't. I don't want to say too much. It's just…well…Edith doesn't behave as if she is very fond of him.”

“I can't bear people mooning and making eyes at each other in public.”

Mark laughed, but it was not a very mirthful sound. “Mooning!” he exclaimed. “You won't see much mooning there.”

“I don't want to.”

“I know,” agreed Mark, “but there is a sort of medium.”

Humphrey was worried when he went up to bed. He was worried not only about Edith and her “colorless” young man, but also, strangely enough, about Mark. There was something missing in Mark. That gaiety of spirit that lay beneath his quiet manner was slightly dimmed, and somehow Humphrey had not felt that close companionship with Mark. He had felt as if something stood between him and his son, shutting them off from each other. Debbie too had seemed unlike herself…and Joyce was not as spontaneously gay as usual. Of all the family only Alice was the same. Alice was always the same—his dear, beautiful Alice.

She lay in his arms with her head on his shoulder.

“Alice, is everything all right?”

“Yes, darling, of course. I've missed you horribly, but everything's all right now you're home. We won't send Celia to school, will we?”

“Not unless you think she should go.”

“I don't,” said Alice. “Dunnian is hers really—it will be hers when you and I are dead—so I don't think it's right to send her away, do you?”

“Perhaps not.”

“She doesn't know, of course.”

“She mustn't know until she's twenty-one,” Humphrey said firmly.

There was a short silence and then Humphrey said, “Alice, you're quite pleased about this marriage, aren't you?”

“Yes, of course, darling.”

“Do you think Edith is fond of him?”

“Yes, of course, darling. I told you in my letter—”

“I know.”

“I always tell you everything, Humphrey.”

“I know. I love your letters. They're a part of you—”

“And your letters,” Alice said sleepily. “Darling letters, Humphrey—”

• • •

Douglas Rewden came over to Dunnian the next morning, and Humphrey interviewed him in the library. Humphrey had not intended the interview to be formal, but somehow or other it was. They were both shy and embarrassed. Rewden did not smoke and he refused a drink, saying that, although he was not a teetotaler, he had not much use for the stuff.

“Oh, well…” said Humphrey. He felt he ought to be glad that his future son-in-law neither smoked nor drank, but somehow he was not. It would have been easier if they could have had something together. It would have made things easier.

“You and Edith seem to have—er—fixed it up,” Humphrey said, smiling in what he hoped was a friendly manner.

“Er—yes,” agreed Rewden. “Edith and I—er—er…”

“Yes, quite,” agreed Humphrey.

“Mrs. Dunne said you were pleased.”

“Yes—oh, yes, of course. I mean, if you and Edith—”

“Yes,” said Rewden.

There was a short silence. Humphrey began to feel quite desperate. “Are your people pleased?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Rewden said without enthusiasm.

“That's all right then.”

“Of course my mother is a little—er—er—but she knows I've got to marry sometime.”

“Perhaps she's sorry to leave Sharme.”

“She isn't leaving,” replied Rewden. “I'm letting her stay on at Sharme. Edith and I will spend most of our time in London.”

“Business?” asked Humphrey.

“Er—no. As a matter of fact I don't—er—care for business. I've got a house in London, of course.”

“I see,” said Humphrey. He was disappointed, for he had hoped Edith would be settled near Dunnian. Sharme was only thirty miles from Dunnian.

“I like London,” Rewden said. “You get good bridge in London.”

“I shouldn't care to live in London myself.”

“Why not?” inquired Rewden, raising his fair eyebrows in surprise.

“It doesn't matter,” Humphrey replied hastily. “I mean, if you and Edith—well, that's all that matters, isn't it?”

“Of course,” said Rewden.

There was another silence, a very embarrassing one. Humphrey searched about in his mind for something to say, but he could find nothing.

“What about the wedding?” Rewden asked at last.

“The wedding?”

“Yes, we were waiting for you, but now you're here. There isn't any sense in waiting, is there? Can't we fix the date?”

“That's for Edith to decide,” said Humphrey.

“We were waiting for you,” Rewden repeated in a tired voice. “There's no sense in putting it off. I should like it to be next month.”

“That doesn't give much time!” exclaimed Humphrey.

“It's better to get it over,” Rewden said.

This was a queer thing to say…or perhaps it was only a natural thing badly worded. Humphrey gave Rewden the benefit of the doubt. He remembered that when he was engaged to Alice he had been very anxious to hasten on the wedding. It was natural for a man to be impatient, but somehow Rewden did not give one the impression of an impatient lover, eager to be married to the woman of his choice. He seemed tired and slightly bored; his voice was flat and uninteresting. Humphrey had not understood what Mark meant when he said Rewden was “colorless” (it had seemed a stupid word to describe a man), but now he realized that it was a strangely apt description.

“You'll have to talk to Edith about the date,” Humphrey said.

“Yes,” agreed Rewden.

Silence fell again. Humphrey felt restless. He had to get up and do something, anything, as a relief and a distraction. But Humphrey knew he couldn't get up and just wander around.

“Is that all you wanted to say?” asked Rewden.

“No,” said Humphrey, pulling himself together. “No, not quite. I'm afraid there's no money, Rewden.”

“I know,” replied Rewden. “Mrs. Dunne told me. It doesn't matter. You can't have everything.” He conveyed the impression that it mattered a good deal and that he was being magnanimous.

Humphrey did not like it.

“Women with money are usually plain and uninteresting,” added Rewden.

This sounded better—by implication—but Humphrey was still a bit ruffled. He remembered his interview with Alice's father; how respectful he had been! How anxious to make a good impression!

“I hope you'll settle something on Edith,” Humphrey said. It took a good deal of nerve to say it, but Mr. Wanlock had told him he must.