Celia's House (21 page)

It was almost worthwhile going away from Dunnian to have the pleasure of coming back—so Deb thought the morning after her arrival as she leaned out of her bedroom window and looked at the trees and the hills and heard the gentle murmur of the Rydd Water. She had enjoyed Bournemouth—Grannie had been very kind and sweet—but Dunnian was her real home.

Deb dressed quickly and ran out into the sunshine. She drew in long breaths of the sparkling air. She was home again and everything was all right. Aunt Alice had been delighted to see her—so much delighted that Deb felt quite guilty at having stayed away so long—and Mark had been just like his old self, friendly and kind and smiling. There had been no mention of Oliver, no talk of marriage. Everything was comfortable again.

Old Johnson was weeding the herbaceous border in front of the house and Deb saw that he was smiling at her, so she went across the lawn and shook hands with him.

“It's easy to see you're glad to be home,” Johnson said.

“I expect I looked silly,” said Deb, blushing.

“You looked happy, Miss Debbie. I'm aye happy myself when I've been away to Hawick to see my brother and I get home again. There's worse places than Dunnian.”

“I haven't found any half as good.”

“That's fine,” said Johnson, nodding. “You're needed here. It's a quiet house these days and it'll be quieter than ever when Mr. Mark goes off to Timperton.”

Johnson was an old man now, but he still loved a chat—or a crack as he called it. He leaned on his hoe and they discussed all that had happened while Deb was away. Deb often wondered how Johnson obtained all his information; there was nothing that went on in the family that Johnson did not know.

“Miss Joyce ought to be home,” Johnson said. “Och, yes, I know she's to be married. It's a London businessman, they're saying, so she'll be settled in London near Miss Edith—Mrs. Rewden, I mean. I've only been to London once in my life and I was glad to get away with a whole skin. Them taxis!” said Johnson, shaking his head gravely. “Them buses, with their screeching brakes! I was all but run down in yon wide street—Pawl Mawl, they call it.”

“Were you really!” Deb exclaimed with suitable dismay.

“All but run down,” repeated Johnson. “And the queer way the folks talk! I couldn't make out what they were saying half the time! Aye, it's a queer place, London… They were saying that Mr. Mark has taken a wee house at Timperton,” continued Johnson after a barely perceptible pause. “You'll be going over to see it, no doubt.”

“Yes,” agreed Deb. “We're going over this afternoon. I've promised to help him settle in.”

“And Miss Skene,” said Johnson. “Miss Skene is away—and Mr. Skene as well.”

“They've gone to London on business,” said Deb, for this was what she had been told.

“Hmm,” said Johnson—and that was all—but he managed in this one syllable to express scorn and disbelief and suspicion. Johnson had no use at all for the Skenes.

They were still talking, discussing the dogs and the garden, when the breakfast gong was sounded and Deb had to go in.

• • •

Deb had been away so long that there were scores of household problems needing her attention, but she put them aside in the meantime, for she wanted to go to Timperton with Mark. The linen cupboard was in a muddle—but it had been like that for weeks, so if it remained in a muddle for a few days longer it would do no harm. Mrs. Drummond, who was still ruling the kitchen, had several complaints to make—she wanted a new kitchen maid and new pans, and she wanted Miss Debbie to go through the store cupboard with her—but Deb was determined not to be drawn into a whirl of domestic duties. All that must wait until Mark was settled.

“It's awfully good of you,” Mark said as they got into the little car together and drove off. “I thought I would be able to manage all right, but I don't seem very good in the domestic line. The Misses Anderson have found me two maids, but they aren't coming till next week, so I've got a woman to come in every day and do a bit of cleaning.”

“I'm delighted to help you,” Deb replied—and so she was. It seemed odd that Tessa had not stayed to help him, but perhaps it was not so very odd after all (thought Deb), for Tessa did not like doing troublesome things; she preferred to have them done for her by other people.

Mark drove quickly but carefully; he was intent on his business and they did not talk much. Deb glanced at him once or twice and wondered if he had spoken to Tessa, if he and Tessa were officially engaged. His face puzzled her a little, for it was neither the blissfully happy face of a newly engaged lover nor the slightly anxious face of a lover who has not yet put his fate to the test. Mark's face was cheerful and calm and friendly.

The house was charming—Deb fell in love with it at once—it was so bright and airy, and the rooms were well shaped and exactly the right size. She liked the plain wood and the cream paper and the self-colored carpets and the few good etchings that hung on the walls. It was a dear little house, but it had been badly kept. A thorough cleaning was what it needed. The dining room and the sitting room faced south, opening onto the garden, but the room Mark had begun to call his consulting room faced north and was badly lit and inconvenient.

“I know it's a horrid room, but what can I do?” Mark asked. “Do you think if I had the walls repapered with very light paper it would cheer it up a bit?”

“No,” replied Deb. “No, it won't do at all. You must use the dining room. It's horrid for patients to be shown into a dark, gloomy room when they come to see you.”

“Use the dining room!”

“Yes, we'll change the furniture. This room will do quite well as a dining room, won't it?”

“How clever of you, Deb!” exclaimed Mark. “I never thought of changing the rooms about—it's an absolute brain wave. There will be far more space for my bookcase in the bigger room—”

They started to move the furniture at once, helped by the daily woman (Mrs. Craig by name) and the gardener. It was a difficult business, for the house was small, and at one moment the hall was so full of furniture—some coming and some going, as Mark put it—that Mark was obliged to climb over the top of the sideboard before he could open the dining room door. Deb began to wonder, somewhat anxiously, whether the furniture would all fit in, but they managed it somehow and stood back to view the results of their labors. Mark's new consulting room was delightful; the new dining room was not so good.

“Oh dear, I hope Tessa won't mind!” Deb exclaimed in sudden anxiety.

There was a short silence and then Mark said, “Tessa isn't coming to live here.”

“Oh!” Deb said, trying to hide her surprise.

Mark took up a duster and began to rub the table. He said, “No. I meant to tell you. It was all a mistake.”

“Oh!” Deb said again.

“She found she didn't—didn't love me enough,” Mark continued in a gruff voice, polishing the table as if his life depended upon it. “That was all really…so I shall be living here by myself…so the dining room will be quite big enough, you see.”

“Yes,” said Deb. It was difficult to know what else to say. Mark's attitude did not invite sympathy.

Mark hesitated for a moment and then continued, “There's something else I want to tell you, Deb. It's about the play. Tessa said we didn't need you…well, it wasn't true.”

It seemed so long ago and so much had happened to Deb since the play that she had almost forgotten the incident—almost, but not quite. “Oh, you mean Titania!” said Deb. “It didn't matter; it was perfectly all right.”

“It wasn't all right,” Mark said gravely. “It was very much all wrong. Tessa told you that I said we didn't need you, but that wasn't true. I wanted you to be in the play, Deb.”

“It was because Angela—”

“Listen,” said Mark. “I want you to understand. Tessa told me that you had backed out of it at the last minute and let us down.”

“Did she?” asked Deb.

“Yes, wasn't it dreadful?”

Somehow or other Deb did not feel very much surprised or shocked at this revelation of Tessa's duplicity. She thought in her own mind that it was just the sort of thing Tessa would do.

“I was horrified when I found out about it,” said Mark. “Simply horrified.”

He looked so distressed that Deb sought to comfort him. “Never mind,” she said. “It's all over long ago. It was a small thing, Mark.”

“It wasn't a small thing,” he declared. “She said you had let us down and I was angry with you, Deb—that's the horrible part.” He looked at her as he spoke and she saw real distress in his face. “I was angry with you, Deb,” he repeated in a low voice.

“It's all over. It doesn't matter—now.”

“Oh, Deb, it was so stupid of me. I should have known you better; I should have gone to you straight off and asked you about it. Instead of that I behaved like a bear with a sore head—what can you have thought of me!”

“I knew you were annoyed with me, but of course I didn't know why,” Deb said slowly.

“You'll forgive me, won't you?”

“There's nothing to forgive,” Deb declared with a brilliant smile, for all at once she felt very, very happy. “It's all over and done with long ago. Don't think about it anymore.”

“Why did she do it?” asked Mark, disobeying the injunction. “Why on earth did she take all that trouble? Why did she want you out of the play? Angela was no use at all…”

Deb did not reply. Tessa's motive was fairly obvious to her, for she had watched Tessa at work and knew Tessa's methods. Tessa was as clever as paint and she nearly always accomplished what she set out to do, so if you wanted to discover her motive for an apparently senseless action, you had only to look at the results obtained. In this case, of course, the result of Tessa's action had been a breach between Deb and Mark. It was too simple, thought Deb, smiling.

Mrs. Craig brought a tray of tea and bread and butter into the sitting room, and Deb and Mark sat down together comfortably. Deb lay back in her chair. She was wan and disheveled and there was a streak of dust across her forehead, but none of this detracted from her appearance in Mark's eyes, for it was in his service that she had gotten dirty and tired. He looked at her with deep affection and noted several interesting things about her: her slim figure was not so flat and boyish as it used to be (she had filled out a little while she was at Bournemouth). There were feminine curves in her figure now—very slight curves, of course, but quite perceptible to the eye of affection. Her slim legs were more shapely, and this made her ankles seem finer and her feet smaller and more delicately arched.

“I shouldn't have let you wear yourself out,” Mark said in sudden solicitude.

“I'm not worn out—just pleasantly tired.”

“You're ever so much stronger than you used to be.”

Deb nodded. “Oh yes, my visit to Grannie did me a lot of good. I enjoyed it tremendously, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” Mark said. “You haven't told me anything…”

Deb was in good spirits in spite of her fatigue and she made a very amusing tale of her visit to Bournemouth. She told him all that she thought would interest him, about the place and about the people she had met. “You would love Henrietta,” she declared. “She's the dearest little old lady, wise and witty and kind.”

“Who else did you meet when you were there?” Mark asked with sudden urgency, for it had struck him that Deb might have met an attractive man and fallen in love with him. That would account for the new liveliness in Deb, the new assurance and poise.

“I've told you,” Deb said, smiling. “I met scores of people.”

“Mostly old people, I suppose.”

“Old and young and middle-aged,” she replied with a little gleam in her eyes. “Henrietta knows everybody; she's tremendously popular.”

“Did you call her Henrietta?”

“Sometimes,” admitted Deb. “Everybody calls her Henrietta—it suits her so well. She rather liked it when I was cheeky to her. We got on splendidly.”

Mark sighed. He tried to think of a leading question.

“You must have been sorry to come away—” he began.

“Oh, no!” cried Deb. “Oh, no! I was very glad to come home. Very glad indeed.”

“Good,” said Mark, nodding.

Deb chattered on, and now that his fears were at rest, Mark found it delightful to sit back and listen to her. She had such a soft, low voice, such an infectious, rippling laugh. It was delightful to look at her too, to see her sitting opposite him in one of his own chairs, pouring out his tea.

“I wonder,” Mark said at last in a thoughtful manner. “I wonder if Mother could possibly spare you for a bit—just until I get properly settled. It would be such a help to have you. I've got to start work the day after tomorrow, and there's still a lot to do in the house.”

Deb hesitated, but only for a moment. “I should like to help you,” she said slowly.

“Mother has got Becky, hasn't she?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Would you
like
to come?” Mark asked, for he had a feeling there had been a slight reluctance on her part to accept the invitation.

“Yes,” replied Deb. “If Aunt Alice says it's all right I'd like to come.”

“Mother has got Becky,” repeated Mark. “Mother will be perfectly all right with Becky—just for a few days.”

They returned to Dunnian that night, locking up the little house behind them. Mark was full of his plan to have Deb to stay with him, and his mother offered no objections.

“You need her more than I do,” Alice said in that vague sort of voice Deb found so pathetic. “Of course she must help you, Mark; you can't live in the house by yourself.”