Celia's House (14 page)

“I've told you,” Tessa replied impatiently. “We don't really need you now. You'll be quite glad to get out of it, won't you?”

“Did Mark say that?”

“Yes, of course. You don't mind, do you?”

Deb did not answer at once. She was busy making a tuck in Billy's costume, but at last she said, “No, I don't mind, Tessa.”

“That's settled then,” declared Tessa, jumping off the table.

There was a short silence after she had gone. Becky asked for the scissors and Deb passed them to her.

“It's not right,” Becky said suddenly. “You shouldn't let them do it.”

“I don't mind, not really,” Deb replied in a low voice. “If Mark wants to have Angela in the play—”

“It isn't him at all,” declared Becky. “You know that as well as I do. It's not his doing—it's hers. She twirls him around her finger.”

“I know.”

“It's not right,” Becky repeated emphatically. “It's neither good for you nor for them. Why should you be the one to take a backseat?”

Becky waited a moment, but there was no reply.

“You ought to make an effort,” Becky continued. “You ought to take your proper place. People can't see you if you always stand in the shade.”

“If they don't want me—”

“They ought to want you. They
would
want you if they had any sense. Some people don't know what's good for them.”

“But, Becky—”

“It's not only the play,” Becky continued doggedly. “It's bad enough in all conscience putting you out of the play with your part all learned and your dress made and everything—but that's not the worst. The worst is she's always putting you out and always will unless you can stand up to her.”

Deb knew this already, only too well. “I can't, Becky,” she said in a very low voice.

“No, I don't suppose you can,” agreed Becky, looking across the table at Deb's lowered head with deep affection. “You
can't
stand up for yourself. Maybe you wouldn't be you if you could do it, but it's a pity nonetheless.”

“Becky, don't say anything.”

“Of course not. It's none of my business. It beats me what Mr. Mark can see in her.”

“She's very pretty.”

“Flashy,” Becky said, somewhat unjustly. “She's flashy, and men are fools.”

• • •

Now that she was no longer in the cast Deb had more time to spare for her usual duties. She sewed with Becky, sat with Aunt Alice, and took the dogs for walks. The others were all so busy with rehearsals that she saw very little of them, but she noticed that Mark's manner to her had altered a little. He had always had a “special smile” for Deb, but now the smile was less spontaneous. He was busy, of course, working all the morning, shut up in the library with his books, and rehearsing his part in the afternoon, but Deb had hoped the evening walk with the dogs would continue, and she was bitterly disappointed when she found that the evening walks were “off.” Mark went out with the dogs by himself or else he retired to the library and left Deb to take them. She knew—or thought she knew—the reason for this change in Mark. The reason was Tessa. Tessa did not like her. Tessa was taking him away. She was taking him away completely; not even a little bit of friendship was to be left to Deb.

One afternoon Deb took the dogs and went down to the tower to watch the rehearsals. She was early and the stage was empty. It was a very hot day and she sat down on the bank in the shadow of a rock and waited for the actors to appear. How lovely it was! The sun was golden, the air clear, the grass green and cool. Down below was the little river and beyond was the stage, ready and waiting for the play. Deb was almost asleep when she heard voices and suddenly Oliver and Edith appeared on the stage. They had come to rehearse together.

“We'll go over that bit in Act II,” Oliver was saying. “We'll take it from: ‘I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.' You don't put enough fire into your part, Edith.”

“It seems so awful,” Edith said with a light laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it seems so awful for me to follow you all over the place
and
keep on saying that I love you.”

“I enjoy it,” declared Oliver.

“I don't,” she replied. “It goes against the grain when I have to say: ‘I am your spaniel and, Demetrius, the more you beat me I will fawn on you.'”

“Miss Dunne is not used to pursuing,” said Oliver, laughing.

“Oh, well, you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean, but we happen to be acting a play. You aren't Miss Dunne and I'm not Mr. Skene.”

“No,” said Edith. She hesitated and then added, “At first I thought I couldn't go on with it. Helena seemed so—so shameless and—and despicable, but of course we're both in a spell of magic.”

“Exactly,” agreed Oliver, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “It's just the poppy dust—I love you madly all the time. Perhaps you would feel better about it if you kept that firmly in mind.”

Edith laughed.

“Would you feel better?” he asked.

“I might—or I might not,” she retorted.

“I would like to try to make you feel better.”

“How would you do that?”

“We'll rehearse the part where I wake up in my right senses. That ought to do the trick.”

Oliver lay down beside a rock. He looked very odd lying there in his ordinary clothes and Deb could not help smiling. Edith looked odd too, standing in the middle of the stage waiting for him to wake up and look at her. There was a short silence and then Oliver sat up and stretched himself. He yawned and looked all around. (It was well done, Deb thought.) His eyes fell on Edith and he rose slowly, holding out his hands. His voice rang out in gladness and surprise:

“O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!

To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?

Crystal is muddy. Oh, how ripe in show

Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!

…Oh, let me kiss

This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!”

They were standing quite near each other as Oliver finished, and suddenly he stepped forward and took her in his arms…and kissed her.

“But that isn't in the play,” declared Edith, struggling feebly.

“It ought to be in the play,” Oliver replied emphatically. “When I say I'm going to kiss a girl, I always do it straight off. In fact, I usually do it without making a song and dance about it first. I could have given Demetrius some useful tips.”

“You
are
awful,” declared Edith, who was busy tidying her hair.

“We'll tell Tessa to put it in the play,” Oliver said gravely. “She's taken so many liberties with the script that one more wouldn't make much difference…and it would give me so much pleasure,” he added persuasively.

Edith laughed.

“I shall be willing to rehearse the scene as often as you like,” Oliver continued. “In fact, I think we'd better do it again now.”

“No, thank you,” said Edith, still laughing.

“Why not?”

“If there's any more nonsense I shall let Joyce take the part.”

“You wouldn't be so cruel!” Oliver exclaimed.

Edith laughed again. There was a thrill of excitement in her laughter. She said, “I know what you are, Oliver. You don't mean a word you say.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Are you sure I don't mean it? Perhaps I'm trying to find out what
you
mean. Edith, look at me—”

“Hush, someone's coming,” Edith said.

Deb had watched and listened spellbound, but now the spell was broken and she realized that she ought not to be listening to this piece of byplay, this play within a play. They did not know she was there; they had not seen her sitting in the shadow of the rock. Her mind was in turmoil. She wished she had not seen so much. She wished with all her heart that she was somewhere else. What was she to do? Should she rise and show herself, or should she stay where she was and wait for them to go away?

Fortunately, at this moment, Mark and Tessa appeared. “Hello, are you rehearsing?” Mark inquired.

“Let's do Act III, Scene 2, where we all talk together,” said Tessa, taking off her hat and putting it on a rock.

The others agreed to the suggestion and the rehearsal started without more ado.

“It's going to rain,” said Alice. She had said it at least six times and each time Deb had answered, “The glass is quite steady, Aunt Alice.” She repeated it again, patiently, for she knew exactly how Aunt Alice felt: it would spoil everything if it rained.

“I'm glad you aren't acting, dear,” said Alice. “We'll walk down together, you and I, and it will be a great help to have you. I like to have someone to help me.”

Deb smiled. She was very fond of Aunt Alice. Suddenly she felt quite glad she was not in the play. She had been disappointed at first, for it had seemed such a waste of time to have learned all the speeches, but it was not really a waste, for she would never forget the beautiful words. They would be with her always, safely in her head:

“And never, since the middle summer's spring,

Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,

By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook,

Or in the beachèd margent of the sea,

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind…”

Deb said the words over as she ran to get Aunt Alice's coat. They gave her a lovely feeling of freedom and space. She could almost feel the cool sea breeze whistling through her hair.

“You're such a comfort to me, Debbie,” said Aunt Alice as they walked across the moor. “I'm not as strong as I used to be and I daresay you've noticed I get a little muddled sometimes. I think I would feel better if Humphrey were here. Sometimes I almost hope they won't make him an admiral. It would be so lovely to have him at home all the time, wouldn't it?”

“Lovely,” agreed Deb.

“We've been married twenty-four years, but I don't suppose we've spent more than four years together, all told,” Alice continued sadly. “Children are very nice and I'm glad we have them, but sometimes I can't help being a little envious of people who are free to follow their husbands around the world.”

“It
is
hard,” Deb said sympathetically. She thought of her mother as she spoke. Her mother had handed her over to the Dunnes and had followed the drum. She was still following it and Deb scarcely ever heard from her now. Occasionally a letter came, a bald “duty letter,” conveying the information that Joan was at Peshawar or Simla or Deira Doone and was having a gay time. Even when Joan and her husband came home on leave they did not seem very anxious to see Deb. Their lives had flowed in another direction and there was no point of contact.

Aunt Alice was still talking. “You know, dear,” she said. “You know it's a very curious thing (I was just thinking about it last night): I wasn't at all anxious to have you when your mother married and went to India, and now I couldn't get on without you.”

“You've been perfect to me,” Deb said, and she gave Aunt Alice's arm a light squeeze.

“It's
very
curious,” Aunt Alice repeated thoughtfully.

By this time Alice and Deb had reached the crest of the hill and, looking down, they saw that people were arriving fast, walking up the path by the river in little groups and taking up positions on the bank.

At the bottom of the bank there were two rows of chairs, the “reserved seats” that had been sold for half a crown. These chairs were filling rapidly. It was very strange to see so many people gathered together in this quiet spot, stranger still to hear the buzz of talk and laughter. Deb wondered what the owls were thinking of it and the old jackdaws that always built their nest in the highest part of the tower.

“How do you do,” Aunt Alice said. She was nodding and smiling to her friends, to Mrs. Wilson of the fish shop in Ryddelton and to Lady Craig of Timperton Grange.

“How do you do. So good of you to come,” said Aunt Alice to each in turn. “How do you do. I hope you have brought a rug… I do hope you won't catch cold… The young people enjoyed getting it up… So lucky it's fine, isn't it?”

Deb following close at her heels and, carrying a rug and a cushion for her to sit on, said the same things—or almost the same. “So nice of you to come… I hope you'll enjoy it. Yes, we thought it would be rather fun; it's such a perfect setting for the play. No, I'm not acting in it.”

They settled into their seats, but not without a good deal of fuss. Lady Skene had disposed herself comfortably in the wrong chair with a rug wrapped around her legs and a sable cape around her shoulders. Anyone looking at her might have received the impression that she expected a blizzard to interrupt the proceedings. She was so carefully wrapped up and so securely settled that nobody had the courage to suggest that she should move, and this necessitated a good deal of rearrangement among the holders of the other reserved seats. However, after some trouble, the thing was managed and everyone was satisfied.

The audience was ready now. It sat back and waited more or less patiently for the play to begin. The stage was empty, green and silent and mysterious. Between the audience and the stage the little river pursued its way—it was like a sword (thought Deb), a shining sword, separating the world of everyday from the fairy wood, where all sorts of strange events were about to happen.

• • •

Suddenly the notes of a bell floated across the water, and almost immediately Celia appeared, dressed as Puck, followed by Mildred Raeworth as a fairy.

“How now, spirit, whither wander you?” cried Celia in her clear-ringing voice. The play had begun.

Celia was good—there was no doubt of that. She was the spirit of mischief personified. She was gay and impudent, and she was enjoying herself immensely.

The audience settled down to listen. Perhaps the audience realized from that very first moment that this was something out of the common in amateur theatricals. Deb realized it. She had watched some of the rehearsals, of course, but there was always some hitch in the rehearsals, something that broke the continuity and destroyed the illusion. There was no hitch now—the play ran smoothly; it was beautiful and exciting; there was real magic here.

The play continued. Here were Oberon and Titania. Here were Demetrius and Helena, playing their parts in the entanglement with a good deal of spirit and fire. Deb thought there was very little to complain of in the manner of Helena's wooing. It was obvious Edith had been able to overcome her scruples fairly easily.

And now, at last, here were Lysander and Hermia, wandering in together with their arms around each other's waists.

“Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood.

And to speak troth, I have forgot our way.”

It was Mark's voice, clear and vibrant and full of loving solicitude. It was Mark, not Lysander, not a puppet in a play, and Tessa was no puppet either. It was Mark who said to Tessa, “My heart unto yours is knit, so that but one heart we can make of it.” It was Tessa who replied, “Good night, sweet friend: Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end.”

They stood there, talking to each other in the little glade. They were young and beautiful and in love. Their voices were clear and yet quiet, as if they were talking to each other alone, unseen, unheard by anyone. They
were
talking to each other, heart-to-heart.

Deb's own heart seemed to turn over in her breast as she listened. It was so painful that she scarcely knew how to bear it. She had known before, of course—she had known that they were in love—but there is a difference between knowing something and seeing it enacted before one's eyes.

Later, when the poppy dust had done its work and the lovers were separated, it was no less painful. It was no comfort to Deb when Lysander declared, “Not Hermia but Helen now I love,” for this was only the magic spell, this was only midsummer night madness. It was Hermia he loved with all his heart. It was Hermia he would marry.

Deb was so enthralled by the strange painful beauty of the play that she lost all sense of time and place. The minutes flew; she felt as if she were alone in the woods watching the drama unfold before her eyes, and it was not until the very end when Puck came forward to make his valedictory speech that Deb came to herself and realized where she was.

“If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended—

That you have but slumbered here

While these visions did appear.”

Deb had slumbered—though not very peacefully—but she was awake now. She slipped away from Aunt Alice's side, for she felt she could not bear to take part in the talk, nor to listen to the congratulations that would follow. She pushed her way through the crowd, which already was on the move, rising, collecting rugs and cushions, and surging down the path. Two young men in front of her were discussing the play with complete frankness.

“It was magnificent, but it wasn't Shakespeare,” one of them was saying.

“I don't think Will would mind,” replied the other.

“No, I don't believe he would. The setting was perfect.”

“It was the Skene girl who rewrote it, I believe.”

“Must be clever.”

“Yes, and damn pretty into the bargain.”

“She didn't cut down her own speeches.”

“Not she. Hermia walked away with the play.”

“The others were pretty good too. I thought Helena—”

“The eldest Dunne girl was Helena. She's engaged, you know.”

“To Demetrius, I suppose.”

“She ought to be—”

Deb pushed on. She was behind a fat woman now. The fat woman was saying in a bewildered sort of voice, “But I always thought there were funny men in that play.”

“There was Bottom,” said her companion.

“I thought there was a man called Snug.”

“That's in another play—”

“No, I'm sure. I was waiting for the funny bits all the time and then—”

“They took the funny bits out,” said a third voice. “It was a pity really.”

“I didn't know you were allowed—” the first woman said aggrievedly.

“Perfectly lovely,” another voice said, full of warm approval. “I wouldn't have missed it for anything. That's how the play ought to be acted—by young, beautiful creatures in a real wood.”

Deb was out of the crush now. She ran up to the top of the hill. It was ten o'clock, but it was not really dark. The sky was light, the earth was gray; there were no clouds, no shadows. Deb threw herself on the ground and lay there for a long time with her face against the cool turf. Presently she must go down into the world again and take up the burden of her life, but not just yet. Somehow, somewhere she must find strength and courage to go on.