“I’d rather be Demetrius,” Douglas said with a glance at Edith.
“Demetrius!” Tessa exclaimed in alarm. “But Demetrius is the most important part in the play. Have you had much experience of acting?”
“Er—no,” replied Douglas. “But if Edith is going to be Helena I’d better be Demetrius—”
“It’s a big part,” said Tessa.
“It’s only a play, Douglas,” said Edith.
“There’s a tremendous lot to learn,” said Oliver.
Douglas looked from one to the other with a doubtful sort of air.
“Of course, if you insist,” Oliver said casually. “If you really insist upon it the part is yours…but I warn you there’s a tremendous lot of stuff to learn.”
“And you’re so busy,” added Edith, smiling at him.
“Oh, well,” Douglas said helplessly. He saw that everyone was against him—even Edith—so it was no use pursuing the matter further.
Several days passed. The discussions and the arguments went on and on, but gradually something began to emerge from the chaos, something rather exciting, Deb found. Deb had learned her part quite easily—she was word perfect—and, as Billy knew his part already, they began to practice together and had great fun.
The others were rehearsing too, for they all had a great deal to learn in spite of Tessa’s blue pencil. They went about with rapt expressions upon their faces, muttering their lines over and over. Tessa was not only the editor and one of the principal actors, she was producer as well, and she ruled her small company with an iron hand.
“Don’t stand there,” she would say. “Come forward and speak clearly. Remember it’s the open air and people won’t be able to hear…that’s wooden, Joyce. Do it like this.” And Tessa would step forward and show how the thing should be done.
Sometimes her decisions were questioned by the other actors, who had their own ideas of how their parts should be played, but Deb noticed that, after the point had been discussed and debated, the others usually gave in and allowed Tessa to have her way, and Deb was obliged to admit that Tessa was usually right. “That’s settled then,” Tessa would say—and somehow or other it was.
• • •
Gradually the play took shape; the date was fixed and notices were sent out to be displayed in the shop windows in Ryddelton. Tickets began to sell almost at once, for a great many people thought it would be amusing to go over to Dunnian and see the young people acting. It was well worth a shilling, including the bus fare. People were coming from the big houses as well: the Farquhars and the Murrays from Timperton, the Johnsons from Carlesford, and all the people from around about Ryddelton.
No scenery was needed, for nature had provided that, but dresses had to be made or altered to suit the wearers and Becky sewed industriously in the old nursery at the top of the house. Deb went up and helped her whenever possible, for there was a good deal to do, and, besides, she liked to help Becky. It was quiet and peaceful in the old nursery. They sat there together for hours on end, chatting about one thing or another or sitting in silent amity. Every now and then one of the actors would pop in to see how they were getting on, to try on a doublet or make suggestions about a dress.
One afternoon, when Deb and Becky were hard at work, the door opened and Tessa walked in. She was the person who had given the dressmakers more trouble than all the other members of the cast put together. Her dress had been altered half a dozen times.
“What’s wrong now, I wonder,” Becky murmured in an undertone.
Deb smiled, for these sotto voce remarks of Becky’s always amused her. They were so characteristic of Becky. Sometimes the subject of the remark was intended to hear it, and sometimes not, but if Becky were asked to repeat the remark she usually said something quite different.
Tessa took no notice of Becky—there was no love lost between them. “Hello, Debbie!” she said in a cheerful tone.
“Hello!” Deb responded without enthusiasm.
“I’ve been looking for you, Debbie,” Tessa said.
“Have you?” Deb asked in some surprise, for as a rule Tessa took very little notice of her.
“Yes, I wondered where you were,” said Tessa, perching herself on the edge of the table and swinging her legs.
“Miss Deb is here most afternoons,” said Becky. “It’s a pity other people can’t do a bit of sewing sometimes.”
Tessa made no reply to this except to glance at Becky with a supercilious air.
“I want to talk to you,” she said to Deb. “It’s about the play, of course. We want Andrew Raeworth to take the part of Egeus, and we can’t very well ask Andrew without asking Angela. You see that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Deb.
“Of course Mildred is going to be the fairy—but we haven’t got a suitable part for Angela.”
“Couldn’t Angela be the fairy?” asked Deb.
Tessa laughed. “Can you see her!” she exclaimed. “She’s far too big, for one thing.”
Deb said nothing.
“You aren’t particularly keen, are you?” Tessa inquired.
Deb hesitated and then she said slowly, “You mean you want Angela to be Titania?”
“You don’t mind, do you? I mean, you just took the part because Mark said we needed you, but now we don’t need you.”
“What does Mark think about it?” asked Deb.
“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.
Chapter Twenty
Midsummer Night’s Dream
“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,” A
lice 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.”
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