Celia's House (16 page)

“Oh!” Rewden said in surprise. “I was going to give her an allowance, of course, but—”

“I would prefer a settlement.”

“Oh, well—if you want it, I'll speak to my lawyer. It seems a bit unnecessary.”

“I would prefer it,” Humphrey repeated firmly.

When Rewden had gone, Humphrey sought for Edith and found her in the east bedroom arranging her presents on a large table that had been put there for the purpose. Humphrey felt that it was his duty to speak to Edith, but it was not a pleasant duty. It was because he dreaded it that he rushed upon it with undue haste.

“Edith, I want to speak to you very seriously,” he said.

She looked up and he saw from her face that she was alarmed. Perhaps he had spoken too sharply.

“It's all right,” he assured her. “There's nothing to be frightened of.”

“You've seen Douglas,” she said somewhat anxiously. “What did he say?”

“Nothing very much,” replied Humphrey. “He wants the wedding to be soon—but that's for you to decide.”

“There's no hurry, is there?”

“No, of course not.”

“Was that all Douglas said? He didn't say anything about the play, did he?”

“Not a word,” replied Humphrey.

She looked relieved. She was smiling. Humphrey hesitated and then he said, “I suppose you're quite sure you want to go on with it?”

“Go on with what?” asked Edith.

“You're sure you want to marry him?”

Edith hesitated, but only for a moment. The hesitation was scarcely perceptible—she covered it with a laugh. “Of course I do,” she said. “What a funny question!”

“Edith, are you certain?” urged Humphrey. “I know it would be difficult and a bit unpleasant if you changed your mind, but it would be better to do that than to marry him unless you're quite sure about it. We'll stick by you and see you through…”

“But, Daddy—”

“Are you really fond of him, that's the question.”

“I wouldn't have said I would marry him if I hadn't been fond of him, would I?”

“No,” Humphrey said doubtfully. “But you might have changed your mind.”

“I suppose Joyce has been talking!”

“Joyce! What has Joyce got to do with it?”

“Nothing, of course,” Edith said crossly. She had taken up a gold and platinum bracelet set with diamonds and was trying it on her arm—it was Lady Skene's present.

Humphrey looked at her. He saw that her face wore a sulky mulish expression; it was an expression Humphrey had seen before. When Edith put on this expression it meant that she intended to keep her own counsel and go her own way. She had worn it when she was a child—when Humphrey had caught her eating sweets in bed and had asked her where she had gotten them. She had not answered then and she would not answer now. You could get nothing out of Edith when she wore that mulish expression.

“I want you to be happy,” said Humphrey. “That's all, Edith. I want you to be happy. Are you sure you can be happy with Rewden?”

“Of course,” Edith said firmly. (She intended to be happy. She was making a brilliant marriage; she would be rich; she would live in London; she would have a splendid time. Oliver would never have the satisfaction of knowing he had touched her heart.)

Dunnian House was full of flowers: chrysanthemums and dahlias in the hall and late roses in the drawing room. It was a quiet house; the Rydd filled it with a gentle murmur, but soon the guests would arrive and the voice of the Rydd would be drowned in a buzz of talk and laughter. Becky had not gone to the church, for she had things to do—things that could not be done till the very last minute. She went around the house looking at all the arrangements with an eagle eye and giving instructions to the maids.

“Move that jar of chrysanthemums into the corner,” said Becky. “We'll have someone knocking it over if we don't look out…and roll up that rug…and put a chair over there.”

“There's a chair there already.”

“I know. Lady Skene will sit there—unless I'm much mistaken—and she'll want another beside her for whoever's talking to her. Did you put hairpins on the dressing table for the ladies? They won't use them, of course, but there had better be some there.”

Becky had scarcely finished her alterations and was still in the billiards room pottering about among the presents and rearranging them for the third or fourth time when the bride and bridegroom drove up to the door in a new car—a present from the bridegroom's mother—and got out looking cool and collected. Becky hurried to meet them, but already Edith had gathered up her train and walked in. The next two cars were full of bridesmaids: Joyce and Celia, Deb and Angela, Jean Murray and Felicia Rewden (a cousin of the bridegroom). They all went into the drawing room and stood there looking at the cake. They were happy and excited and they all knew each other well—except Miss Rewden, of course. She knew nobody and gave the unfortunate impression that she was glad to have it so.

“Stand here, Douglas,” Edith was saying. “Celia, spread out my train…no, not like that; Joyce had better do it.”

“Shall we stand in a group?” Angela inquired.

“Yes, but you can move about later. It looks silly to stay in a group.”

Humphrey was arriving with Mrs. Rewden and her younger son, and Alice with Mark and Billy, and then the guests began to pour into the drawing room, thick and fast, the Murrays, the Macfarlanes, the Sprotts and scores of other families, all talking and laughing cheerfully, all agreeing that the bride was one of the prettiest they had seen, that the church was beautifully decorated, that the day was splendid, and that Dunnian House was a perfect house for a wedding reception. Old Lady Skene had taken up her position in the most comfortable chair; her sight was worse than ever and, even with thick-lensed glasses, the faces of her fellow guests were undistinguishable blurs, but she had managed to get ahold of Mrs. Raeworth. Eveleyn was such a good-natured creature.

“Sit down beside me,” said Lady Skene. “Tell me who's here. Who's that girl in the pink frock talking to the Rewden boy?”

“Joyce,” replied Eveleyn Raeworth, sitting down beside her old friend and preparing to be her eyes.

Lady Skene nodded. “Of course. What it is to be blind! Pretty girl, isn't she? Oliver had rather a penchant for Joyce at one time.”

“Why aren't they here—Oliver and Tessa, I mean.”

“Oh, hadn't you heard? They've gone to New Zealand. It was all arranged quite suddenly. Jack had to go, so he decided to take the children. It will be a lovely trip for them.”

“Tessa was to have been a bridesmaid, wasn't she?”

“Yes, but she couldn't do both and the New Zealand trip was too good to miss. They went off last week and they aren't coming back until the spring—so they'll be away all winter,” Lady Skene added a trifle enviously.

“Why didn't you go with them?”

Lady Skene chuckled. “My dear, I'm eighty-five! If a woman can't settle down comfortably at home when she's eighty-five I don't know when she can. Where's Alice?”

“Over there near the door in a silvery sort of frock and a chinchilla fur.”

“Oh, yes, I see her now. Sweet creature, Alice…looks young to have all those big children, doesn't she? Is that Mark standing beside her? Mark is a pet. I've always liked Mark best of the family.”

“That's lucky, isn't it?” Eveleyn asked, smiling.

Lady Skene grinned back at her mischievously. “You mean he and Tessa…but of course nothing is settled yet; they're much too young.”

“Deb is my favorite,” declared Mrs. Raeworth.

“Debbie!”

“Yes, she's a dear. As a matter of fact I've only just discovered Deb, for she manages to hide herself pretty successfully, but now that I've found her I'm going to drag her out of her lair. I'm determined to paint her for one thing.”

“I should paint Joyce if I were you. She's prettier.”

Eveleyn Raeworth said nothing.

“Do you see Harriet Murray anywhere?” asked Lady Skene.

“Yes, she's talking to Alice—black-and-white silk and black fox furs.”

“Tell her I want to speak to her, Eveleyn.”

Mrs. Raeworth smiled and departed to carry out her mission. She was quite used to being ordered about by Lady Skene.

“Selma!” cried Mrs. Murray, hastening up and taking the vacant chair. “Selma, my dear, I never saw you! I might have known you would be ensconced in the most comfortable corner in the room. What a squash, isn't it? Everybody's here. I'm enjoying myself tremendously.”

“I haven't seen you for ages, Harriet.”

“I've been ill,” Mrs. Murray replied gravely. “I haven't seen a creature. It's been
too
dreary. Dr. Anderson has been ill too, so I had to have his assistant—quite a nice young man, but he doesn't understand my tummy.”

“Dr. Anderson is always ill,” declared Lady Skene.

“I know. I told him he ought to get a partner—someone really good. Timperton is
full
of people with tummies—I can't think why.”

Lady Skene seemed to understand this somewhat ambiguous statement. She replied, “It must be the water, Harriet. You should get a thingamajig to put in your cistern. It takes all the chalk out of the water, or something.”

“I'm sure it can't be the water,” Mrs. Murray declared. “Ian never drinks it and his tummy is worse than mine.”

“Celia!” cried Lady Skene, catching hold of Celia's frock as she passed. “Celia, come here and talk to us. I want to hear all about everything.”

“Would you like to see the presents?” asked Celia, looking down at Lady Skene and smiling. “I'll take you to see them if you like.”

“No,” her ladyship said firmly. “I've seen hundreds of displays of presents. It's a barbarous custom to display them—a form of blackmail. How many sugar sifters have they got?”

“Twelve,” said Celia. “Twelve sugar sifters and eleven sets of silver cruets and fourteen butter dishes. Of course we've scattered them about,” Celia declared gravely. “We haven't put them all together, you know.”

“You should have put them all together,” said Lady Skene. “It would serve the butter-dish people right. Everyone goes and looks at the presents with the sole object of seeing their own contribution and whether it is properly set out for all the other people to see.”

“Yours isn't.”

“Isn't it?”

“Edith is wearing it,” said Celia. “There's just a card saying, ‘Lady Skene, gold and platinum bracelet set with diamonds.'”

Lady Skene chuckled. “Very proper!” she said. “That'll teach the butter-dish people what's what. Let's look at you, child. Come nearer. Hmm, you're more like old Celia than ever. When are you going to get married, eh?”

“I'm thirteen,” replied Celia, grinning. “You can't get married till you're fourteen and anyway I don't want to.”

“You don't want to be a bride in white satin and have all the county sending you butter dishes?”

“Oh, I suppose I shall get married
someday
,” Celia said thoughtfully, “but, if I do, it will have to be someone—different.”

“They're all different, my dear.”

“But I mean
quite
different,” Celia said vaguely. “I mean, someone like—like young Lochinvar.” She looked at Lady Skene as she spoke to see if Lady Skene was laughing at her, but no, she was perfectly grave.

“Young Lochinvar has come out of the west,” said Lady Skene, nodding. “Say it to me, child.”

Celia said it in a low clear voice:

“Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,

And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.”

“Very nice,” said Lady Skene. “Very nice indeed. We must keep our eyes open for young Lochinvar; he would make an admirable husband for you.”

At this moment Mark approached, edging his way through the crowd with a tray of glasses.

“Mark, this is lovely,” said Lady Skene. “Give me a full one. I adore champagne. Mark, why haven't you been over to see me, lately? Yes, I'll have a piece of cake as well.”

“I've been working,” replied Mark. “And of course we've been busy with the wedding and all that. Have you heard from Tessa?”

“A postcard from Marseilles—you've had a letter, I suppose.”

“No, not even a postcard.”

“Foolish girl!” exclaimed Lady Skene. “Why doesn't she write to you? If you were my young man I should write to you every day.”

Mark laughed. The implication that he was “Tessa's young man” was extremely pleasant.

“You had better throw her over and have me instead,” her ladyship continued gravely. “As a matter of fact, I'm looking about for a nice young man to walk out with.”

“I shall be delighted,” Mark declared with equal gravity. “What about tomorrow afternoon?”

“You won't come.”

“I shall—at three o'clock precisely.”

She chuckled delightedly. “Get away with you!” she said.

It was now time for the speeches, but, fortunately, the speeches were short. When they were over and the healths had been drunk with acclamation, the noise of chatter broke forth with renewed energy.

Humphrey still had Mrs. Rewden on his hands and saw no prospect of release.

She was not “colorless” like her son, but neither was she any easier to get on with.

“This is the first time I've been here,” said Mrs. Rewden, gazing around through a pair of tortoiseshell lorgnettes.

Humphrey was aware of this, of course; he and Alice had invited Mrs. Rewden several times, but their invitations had been refused. “We were so sorry you couldn't come before,” said Humphrey.

“It's a pretty house,” she said in lukewarm tones. “This is the drawing room, I suppose; it's small, isn't it? We have two drawing rooms at Sharme. I find a second room very convenient. I suppose you haven't thought of throwing out a bow window?”

“No, I haven't,” Humphrey replied firmly.

“I like a bow window.”

“So do I—in the right place. This would be the wrong place, I'm afraid. It would spoil the symmetry of the facade; it would be an excrescence,” said Humphrey a trifle heatedly.

“You might enlarge the room by throwing another room into it,” Mrs. Rewden suggested.

“I don't really want to enlarge the room,” Humphrey replied. “It's crowded today, of course, but we don't have wedding receptions at Dunnian every day of the week.”

Mrs. Rewden looked at him in surprise. “No, of course not,” she agreed, “but it's very convenient to have a large room in the house. You needn't use it when you're alone.”

“We use our drawing room,” replied Humphrey. “We use it constantly. This is a family house, Mrs. Rewden.”

“Yes, that's what it looks like,” she said in disparaging tones.

Humphrey had come to the end of his tether now; in fact, he was in grave danger of becoming rude. He signaled frantically to Alice and she came to the rescue at once.

“Have you finished your little talk,” asked Alice, smiling sweetly. “Perhaps Mrs. Rewden would like to see the presents. Mark will take you to see them. Mark, you'll take Mrs. Rewden, won't you?”

Mark put down his tray and accepted the burden with a good grace. He had been watching his father and was aware that it was high time he was relieved from duty.

Having disposed of her most important guest Alice looked around to see if everyone else were happy—yes, everyone was talking hard, there were no stragglers. They all knew one another, of course; that's what made it so comfortable. Alice exchanged a few words with Mrs. Murray and complimented her upon Jean's appearance; she asked Mr. Raeworth if his chrysanthemums were doing well; she approached Mrs. Macfarlane and inquired after her son; she remembered that Mrs. Sprott's husband had sprained his ankle and inquired after the injured joint with solicitude. “So sweet,” said everyone, after she had moved on. “So pretty and kind. Edith is very good-looking, of course, but she'll never be as nice as her mother.”

Alice's eyes roved the room. Where was Joyce? Ah, there she was, talking to Douglas Rewden's brother! Celia was handing plates of cake—and probably eating a good deal more than her share, but it did not matter. Celia could eat anything without ill effects. Billy was nowhere to be seen, but Alice knew he could look after himself. Edith was looking a little pale—but very beautiful—perhaps it was time Edith went upstairs to change.

Joyce went upstairs with Edith. It was Joyce, Edith wanted, and no one else. “I hate a whole lot of people fussing around my room,” Edith said somewhat ungraciously. In spite of the fact that they quarreled a good deal and that Edith was apt to be selfish and demanding, the sisters were very fond of each other—they always had been.