Celia's House (17 page)

“You looked marvelous,” Joyce said as she unpinned the veil. “Everyone said so. Wilfred Rewden said he had no idea he was getting such a beautiful sister.”

“You seem to get on with him.”

“He's rather nice—rather fun really. He said he was going to stay with you in London.”

“So are you,” said Edith. “Don't forget that.”

“Is it likely!” Joyce exclaimed.

“We'll have a marvelous time,” Edith said as she slipped out of her dress. “Balls and operas and everything. You can stay the whole winter if you like.”

“Edith!”

“It will make it easier for me,” Edith said thoughtfully. (She never bothered to pretend her motives were altruistic.) “Yes, you had better stay the whole winter if they'll let you.”

“I'll
make
them let me,” Joyce declared.

The dressing went forward apace and, when Deb looked in to say that Douglas was ready and the car was at the door, Edith had reached the stage of putting on her hat, arranging it carefully on her shining hair in front of the looking glass.

“Oh, Debbie, have you got a needle?” cried Joyce. “Quick, Debbie, there's a button off her glove.”

Deb seized the glove and ran away to find a needle and thread. She almost collided with Alice in the doorway.

“Darling, are you ready? How sweet you look!” said Alice, coming in.

“Mother, I told you not to come!” exclaimed Edith.

“I
had
to come,” said Alice, going forward and kissing Edith fondly. “I had to see you just for a moment, my darling. Oh, I do hope you'll be happy, Edith. I'm sure you will. Douglas is so—”

“I told you not to come!” Edith said in a trembling voice.

“But why—”

“Because I can't bear it, of course,” said Edith, and suddenly she sat down on the bed and burst into a flood of tears.

“Edith, darling—”

“I knew I couldn't bear it,” cried Edith, wringing her hands. “The only way I could—could go through with it—was not to think about it.”

“Edith!”

“I can't,” cried Edith, weeping as if her heart would break. “I thought I could, but I can't—I can't go away—with
him
.”

It was a frightful moment, but Alice was perfectly calm. “Darling, I know what you're feeling,” she declared, wiping Edith's tears and motioning Joyce away. “Darling, I know so well. I felt
just
the same, darling—”

“Mummy, Mummy!” Edith cried, clinging to her. “I can't go—what
ever
shall I do!”

“Poor lamb,” said Alice. “Of course you're a little upset at the idea of leaving home—it's quite natural—but you'll be so happy with dear Douglas that you'll forget all about us. There, now, be a brave girl and dry your eyes. I felt
just
the same, darling.”

“You didn't,” sobbed Edith. “You don't understand a bit. I hate him—he bores me to distraction—how can I go away with him—alone! Oh, Mummy, why did I ever say I would marry him!”

Joyce, surveying the scene, wide-eyed with dismay, understood a good deal better what Edith was feeling. “But, Edith, it's too late now—” she began in horror-stricken tones.

“Hush, Joyce,” said Alice. “You don't understand at all. There, there,” she added, patting Edith's back in exactly the same soothing manner as she had patted it when Edith had a tooth out at the age of eight. “There, there, Mummy understands, but you needn't be frightened, you know. Douglas is so kind and thoughtful; it will be quite
all
right.”

“Mummy, I can't—”

“Come now, be a brave soldier,” Alice said firmly and cheerfully. “Be a brave soldier, Edith. They're all waiting for you, my precious, all waiting to see the beautiful bride. Dry your eyes, that's Mummy's brave girl; here's a clean handkerchief, darling.”

Somehow or other Edith was soothed and restored, her eyes bathed in cold water and her cheeks carefully powdered. Alice did not repeat the mistake of kissing her daughter. She pushed her gently but firmly out the door and handed her over to her newly acquired husband, who was waiting impatiently on the landing.

Alice was smiling fondly as she leaned over the banisters and watched the couple run downstairs (in a hail of roseleaves and silver-paper horseshoes) and vanish out of the door. “She has
such
a tender heart,” Alice murmured to no one in particular.

Celia and Debbie were walking across the moor with the dogs. There were always dogs at Dunnian; they were descendants of old Boris, carefully bred by Johnson: brown-and-white spaniels with long ears and silky coats that shone with daily brushing. To strangers the Dunnian dogs looked alike, but to their intimate friends they were all quite different in appearance and personality. Penny had an affectionate nature; she was always ready to be petted and loved. Peter was more independent, needing a firm hand to keep him in order. Dinah was merry and playful; she took your bedroom slippers and hid them behind the curtain, but you could not be angry with her, for it was only a joke.

“Do you remember the play?” asked Celia, pausing on the crest of the hill and looking down at the “stage.”

“Of course. It's only a year ago,” Deb said, smiling.

“Yes, but it seems much longer. Everything is so different now, isn't it?”

Deb agreed. Before Edith's marriage the house had been full of comings and goings. There were tea parties and tennis parties and young people dropping in at all hours of the day, but now Edith had vanished from the scene and Joyce had vanished too. (She had spent the winter in London with the Rewdens and there was no talk of her coming home.) Mark had qualified brilliantly and had obtained a post in a London hospital; he had not been home for months. Dunnian was very quiet now; it was a house of women. Debbie and Aunt Alice had been alone most of the time. It would have been unbearably quiet without Celia, but fortunately Celia was firmly fixed at home. She was doing lessons with a governess, who bicycled over from Ryddelton every day. Humphrey had spent the winter in the Mediterranean and had just returned looking brown and fit. He was a rear admiral now and his family was very proud of him. Deb was even more glad than usual when Uncle Humphrey came home, for she was a little worried about Aunt Alice. It had been a long, dull winter for her and she seemed languid and depressed.

“Let's go down to the Peel,” said Celia. “I want to see if the jackdaws are here this year.”

They began to climb down the bank.

“Oliver and Tessa are back,” continued Celia. “They're staying with old Lady Skene. Did Mummy remember to tell you she had asked Oliver to dinner?”

“No, she didn't,” said Deb.

“He rang up,” explained Celia. “Mummy asked him to dinner tonight. I told her not to forget to tell you.”

“It's all right,” replied Deb (who was doing the housekeeping now). “We're having quite a good dinner. Clear soup and roast chicken and a chocolate soufflé.”

“Oliver is jolly lucky,” declared Celia. “It will be nice to see him again, won't it?”

Deb did not reply. It made no difference to her whether she saw Oliver or not; he was quite outside her orbit. The two girls had reached the river by this time, and calling the dogs, they began to cross by the stepping stones, and just as they reached the other side a man emerged from the ruins and came toward them.

“Hello, talk of an angel…” cried Celia gaily.

“Hello!” exclaimed Oliver. “Does that mean you were talking about me? You were talking prettily, I hope.”

“Neither good nor evil,” returned Celia. “We were merely discussing what you were going to have for dinner.”

Oliver laughed. He shook hands with the girls in a friendly manner. He had not noticed them much last year because they had been overshadowed by Edith and Joyce, but now he saw that they were rather attractive. Celia, though still a child, was forthcoming and friendly; Deb was reserved and shy. But, all the same, they were alike—they might have been sisters rather than third cousins, thought Oliver.

“I came here to remember the play,” Oliver said. “It was good fun, wasn't it?”

“Tremendous fun,” agreed Celia.

“Everyone acted well—except Angela. We should have stuck to you,” said Oliver, smiling at Deb.

“I don't expect I would have been any better,” Deb replied.

They all began to walk along by the side of the river with the dogs careering madly up and down and roundabout. Celia was almost as ambulatory as the dogs; she was looking for birds' nests, climbing trees, pushing through the bushes. Sometimes she was ahead of the others and sometimes far behind.

“It was naughty of you to let us down over that Titania business,” said Oliver, smiling down at Deb in a friendly fashion.

“Let you down?” Deb asked in surprise.

“Never mind. It's over now. It was stage fright, that's all. I know the feeling well. Suddenly you go hot and cold all over and you feel you can't bear it.”

Deb did not understand what he meant. Tessa couldn't have told him the true facts of the affair, but it was no use raking it all up; the whole thing was over and done with.

“I shouldn't have thought you would suffer from nerves,” Deb said gravely.

“I'm very nervous really—very highly strung,” Oliver replied seriously; like many people of his temperament he enjoyed discussing himself. “You'd think, to look at me, that I was full of brass, but as a matter of fact, I'm not like that at all. I'm awfully shy. You wouldn't believe it, would you?”

Deb admitted she found it difficult to believe.

“I control myself, of course,” continued Oliver, who had begun to enjoy himself immensely. “I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. It doesn't
do
.”

Deb agreed with him there (for years she had hidden her heart successfully from all the world) and, because she could agree sincerely, she raised her head and smiled at Oliver for the first time. She had a pretty smile that lit her small, grave face like a sunbeam. Her soft gray eyes were dewy with youth and innocence.

There was a moment's silence and then Oliver went on talking. He told her about the trip to New Zealand and of some of the interesting things he had seen. “It's most awfully interesting to see new places,” Oliver declared.

“It must be,” responded Deb a trifle enviously.

Deb usually found conversation difficult—she preferred to listen while other people talked—so they got on very well indeed. By the time they reached the garden Deb was willing to admit that Oliver was improved, that—in fact—Oliver was quite nice, and she said as much to Celia as they went up to the house together.

He was nice at dinner too, cheerful and chatty, deferential to his host and attentive to his hostess. Humphrey had been to New Zealand, so they had a good deal in common. They discussed the climate, the inhabitants, and the origin of the Maoris.

“It ought to be called New Scotland,” Oliver declared. “Not only is the country very like Scotland—on a different scale—but it's brimful of Scots. I felt quite at home, more at home than in any other country I've visited.”

Humphrey had felt the same. It was all very pleasant and agreeable.

“Did you see Edith when you were in London?” Alice asked.

“Only once,” replied Oliver. “Tessa and I met them coming out of the opera—Joyce was there too—they looked very well, I thought.”

“I wish Joyce would come home,” Alice said with a sigh.

“She's having too good a time in London, I expect,” said Humphrey, smiling.

“I suppose you heard—” Oliver began and then he stopped.

“Heard what?”

“Oh, nothing much. It was just something Tessa said—”

“About Joyce?”

“She's very pretty, you know,” said Oliver, smiling. “She's been going about and meeting people, so you ought not to be surprised if you hear she has a good many admirers—one very attentive admirer. I expect you'll be hearing about it, soon.”

Naturally Joyce's parents were anxious to hear more and Oliver was persuaded to be more explicit. He knew and liked the man and assured Humphrey that he was good-looking and eligible.

After dinner they all went into the billiards room and the two men had a game—a very close and exciting game—while Deb marked for them.

“I miss the girls—and Mark, of course,” Humphrey said with a sigh. “I enjoy a game of billiards, but there's nobody to play with unless I ask Raeworth to come over.”

“Why doesn't Deb play?” Oliver inquired.

It was quite a natural question, but Humphrey could not answer it except to say that Deb had never been taught.

“Why hasn't she been taught?” asked Oliver.

Humphrey had no idea.

“I always mark,” Deb explained. “I like marking. There always used to be plenty of people to play.”

“But there aren't plenty of people now,” said Oliver, smiling at her. “Come on, Deb. I'll give you a lesson.”

Deb was a little dubious about it. She declared that she was not good at games—she would spoil the game for others, she might cut the cloth—but these excuses were swept aside as things of no account.

“It would be very nice if you could give me a game now and then,” said Humphrey. “I think it would be a good plan for you to learn.”

Deb was by no means the first girl who had received billiards lessons from Oliver, and the lessons had always been enjoyed by teacher and student alike. It was extremely pleasant (Oliver had always found) to have this admirable excuse to lean over his pupil, to take her hands in his and arrange them carefully—the left hand on the table, the right hand on the cue. Tonight was no exception to the rule. Deb's hands were soft and delicate; her hair was fragrant and shining. As he stooped over her and arranged the position of the cue, he noticed her ears, small and pink like shells.

“You must start right,” Oliver said gravely. “You must assume the correct posture. Raise your left hand a little more to make the bridge…like this, Deb.”

Deb had watched so often that she knew a good deal about the game and it was not long before she was hitting the ball fair and square and cueing it straight to the point on the cushion indicated by her instructor.

“She must learn to put on side,” said Humphrey, who had been watching the lesson with interest.

“Not yet, sir,” Oliver replied gravely. “It's most important to get her cueing perfect before she begins to put on side. I'll come over tomorrow morning and give her another lesson.”

“But I couldn't think of bothering you!” Deb cried in dismay.

“No bother at all,” replied Oliver. “I'd like to do it—and you really ought to learn. It will be so nice for the admiral if you can give him a game.”

“It
would
be, of course,” Deb said doubtfully. “But I'm sure it will be a bother for you—”

“No bother at all,” Oliver repeated emphatically.

The next day was wet. The rain came down in sheets, and Deb was sure that Oliver would not come. She was busy in the flower room, rearranging the vases and filling them with fresh water when Oliver walked in.

“Hello, have you forgotten about your lesson?” he inquired.

“No, of course not, but it was such an awful day I was sure you wouldn't come.”

“It's just the right sort of day for billiards,” Oliver assured her.

Deb dried her hands and followed him to the billiards room and the lesson began. She found it most interesting today, for she was allowed to put on side. Oliver explained the way it worked and illustrated his lecture with easy strokes.

“It's wonderful,” said Deb. “I've watched hundreds of times, but I never really
saw.
You make it seem so easy.”

“It is easy when you know how,” Oliver replied, smiling.

They spent the morning practicing nursery cannons and Oliver stayed to lunch.

On Wednesday the clouds had cleared—it was a perfect day. Oliver came over at the same time, but after they had had a little practice they decided to go out and strolled into the garden.

“I wish Ryddelton House was this size,” Oliver said regretfully. “Ryddelton is too big and the property is enormous and difficult to administer. I'm learning all about roofs and drains and whatnot, and I find it very dull.”

“It ought to be interesting,” said Deb, rather shyly.

“In what way?” asked Oliver.

“Making improvements,” explained Deb. “Going around and seeing what's wanted, building new barns. That's a lovely barn you're building near the old mill.”

“You've seen it, have you? Yes, it's quite a good barn—and we're building a silage tower on the home farm.”

Deb smiled and said, “You
are
interested really.”

“I might get interested if I had someone to help me,” Oliver said gravely. “I think the reason I find it dull is because I've got nobody to talk to—nobody who cares a rap about the improvements I'm trying to make.”

“What a pity!” said Deb.

On Thursday the billiards lessons were interrupted—Oliver had to go to Edinburgh for two nights—but Deb practiced by herself, and on Saturday, when Oliver came over to tea, he was loud in praise of her progress. There was just one thing wrong (Oliver said). She was not holding her cue quite correctly. He bent over to show her the right way…and kissed her on the tip of her ear.

“Oliver!” cried Deb, tearing herself away and gazing at him in dismay.

“Darling,” Oliver said earnestly. “Darling Deb, I'm so sorry, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't really…you're so sweet.”

“Oliver! Please!”

“You're the sweetest girl in the world. You knew I'd fallen in love with you—”

“No.”

“You must have guessed.”

“No.”

“Well, I have. Head over heels. I'm simply crazy about you.”

“Don't, Oliver,” said Deb, drawing back. “Please don't—”

“Deb, darling, please listen to me—”

“I don't want to—you've spoiled it—”

“No, Deb—”

“Yes, I thought you were different, but you're just the same.”