Celia's House

by D. E. Stevenson

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Conversations

  Mark woke with a feeling of flatness. It was all over. He had not expected to enjoy it, but it had been tremendous fun. They had all worked together and they had made something. It was not perfect, of course, but it was worthwhile. Now the cord that had bound them all together was broken and they were scattered. That was what Mark felt. It had been lovely saying those words to Tessa… “How now, my love, why is thy cheek so pale”…“Gentle Hermia, may I marry thee?” Somehow he knew she had understood that he really meant the words, that they expressed his own deepest feelings.

  Mark leaned out of his bedroom window. It was very early, but the birds were awake, twittering in the bushes, singing in the trees. Mark’s heart sang with them. “My love…my fair love…may I marry thee?”

  He was going to see her this afternoon, for she and Oliver were coming over to tea. He must get her alone and find out if she really understood. Of course he could not say anything definite to Tessa yet. He was not even qualified; he had nothing to offer her, but they were both young. Tessa would not mind waiting. He would work like a Trojan and pass his exam with honors. He would work ten times harder than ever before…

  It was not very difficult to get Tessa alone, for the others were busy adding up the money and congratulating themselves upon the large pile of shillings that had been taken by Johnson at the gate.

  “I’m no good at arithmetic,” Tessa said, and she walked out into the garden.
Mark followed her and, together, they went down the path between the trees.

  “It was fun, wasn’t it?” said Tessa. “I enjoyed it terribly much.”

  “So did I,” said Mark. “It was even rather fun pretending to hate you, Tessa.”

  She smiled up at him. “Was it pretense?”

  “You know it was,” he said.

  There was a short silence and then Tessa said, “We’re going away tomorrow.”

  “Going away!”

  “Yes, Oliver and I ought to have gone back to London last week, but of course we waited for the play.”

  “I see,” said Mark. It was a great temptation. He would have given anything to be able to say, “Gentle Hermia, may I marry thee?” The words were there on his lips, but it would not be right. It would not be fair to bind her. He must wait.

  “Will you miss us?” Tessa inquired. “I hope you’ll miss us. It’s nice to be missed.”

  “I shall miss you horribly.”

  Tessa sighed. She said, “I hate leaving this place. I would like to settle down and live here forever and ever. It’s so lovely.”

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Mark. “I feel just like you. Dunnian seems like a part of me, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I wish that Dunnian—”

  “Oliver is sorry to leave here too,” said Tessa, interrupting him. “There’s a very potent attraction at Dunnian. Perhaps you’ve noticed it.”

  “You mean—Joyce?” Mark asked in surprise.

  She laughed but did not answer.

  Presently they began to talk of the play. It was an inexhaustible subject of conversation. “You do think it was a success, don’t you?” Tessa asked. “You aren’t sorry I persuaded you to have it.”

  “It was splendid,” Mark replied. “I enjoyed every moment of it.”

  “Everyone played up like anything, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, the only flop was Angela—but of course it must have been difficult for her, being dragged in at the last moment.”

  “Poor Angela!” Tessa exclaimed, laughing. “I’m sorry for Angela, you know. Her one ambition in life is to grab a husband—anything in trousers would do. She pursues her game madly and rolls her eyes; no wonder the men sheer off!”

  “Oh, I say,” Mark said uncomfortably.

  “It’s perfectly true.”

  “No—honestly. Angela is rather a dear. I’ve known Angela for years and years. We used to do our sums together. She isn’t a bit like that.”

  “Have it your own way,” Tessa said casually.

  Mark was silent. He could not bear to hear Tessa talk in this fashion; it was not worthy of her. But he comforted himself with the reflection that this kind of talk was not really natural to Tessa but was “put on”—just as her dress was “put on.” Her dress might be unbecoming, but that did not alter her nature nor make him love her less.

  • • •

  Mark began to work harder than ever now. He worked late at night, poring over his books and making copious notes in his neat, small writing. He was thus engaged when Deb opened the library door and looked in.

  “Shall I take the dogs out?” she asked.

  “No, come talk to me,” replied Mark, flinging down his pen. “My head is buzzing; I can’t do any more tonight.”

  She sat down on the hearth rug and held out her hands to the fire. “It’s cold tonight,” she said. “The wind has gone into the east.”

  “I want to talk to you about things,” said Mark.

  She smiled and waited. It was nice that Mark wanted to talk to her. Mark had been…not quite so friendly lately, but now he was smiling at her in the old way, so everything was all right.

  “It’s about Oliver,” said Mark. “Oliver and Tessa have gone.”

  “Yes,” agreed Deb. She tried to make her voice sound regretful, but it wasn’t easy.

  “It’s funny,” Mark continued slowly. “It’s funny really. I thought—I don’t know if you noticed—I thought he was fond of Joyce.”

  “Joyce?” asked Deb.

  “Yes, I thought so. Didn’t you?”

  “I thought—” Deb began and then she stopped.

  “What did you think?” asked Mark.

  “I didn’t think he was fond of Joyce.”

  “Well, I did,” declared Mark, “and what’s more I think Joyce is—is fond of Oliver. She’s rather under the weather, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think can have happened?”

  Deb did not answer. She had taken up the hearth brush and was busy sweeping the grate, making it neat and tidy.

  “I don’t know what to do,” continued Mark. “If Dad were here—but of course he isn’t. Oliver is a good fellow, isn’t he?”

  “He’s very good-looking,” Deb said after a short pause.

  “I mean, he wouldn’t do anything shabby, would he?” Mark asked a trifle anxiously.

  “You know him much better than I do,” Deb replied.

  Mark sighed and lay back in the big chair. He said, “I wish I knew what to do. It’s a comfort to be able to talk to you about it. I can always talk to you about things. You’re my favorite sister, Deb.”

  Once, long ago, these words had filled Deb with delight, but they sounded different now. She did not want to be Mark’s favorite sister.

  “I can talk to you about anything,” repeated Mark, “You always understand. I wonder if you understand what I feel about Tessa.”

  “I think so,” Deb said in a very small voice.

  “Wasn’t she marvelous as Hermia?”

  “I thought you were marvelous as Lysander.”

  “I wasn’t really acting,” said Mark.

  Deb had known this, of course, but to hear him say it made it more definite, more real, more painful. Deb told herself that if only Mark had set his heart upon someone else she would not have minded—if it had been Angela or Jean or any of the other girls—but Tessa was the wrong person for Mark. Tessa was ruthless. She was selfish and deceitful; she was no more like Mark’s conception of her than a tiger is like a kitten. Someday Mark would find out what Tessa was really like…but he would find out too late. Oh, Mark, why are you so blind? She will break your heart!

  Fortunately Deb had the sense to know that it was useless to say anything. She held her peace.

  “She’s so sweet,” Mark continued. “There’s something about her. She’s so beautiful and good and kind. Of course I haven’t said anything to her yet, because—well—because I must have something to offer her, but I’m almost sure she likes me. I think it will be all right, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Deb. She was quite sure Tessa intended to marry Mark. Her intention had been obvious from the beginning.

  Mark smiled. He said, “You see everything, quiet little mouse that you are!”

  • • •

  There were other conversations going on in Dunnian that evening. The house seemed to be listening to them. The voice of the Rydd Water was very soft and low.

  “I don’t think it’s fair,” Joyce was saying. Joyce had come into Edith’s bedroom to say good night and she had stayed to talk.

  “What isn’t fair?” Edith asked with a yawn.

  “You have everything,” Joyce replied. “You take everything and leave nothing for me. You’ve always done that.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You do know,” Joyce declared in trembling tones. “You know quite well. You’re engaged to Douglas—almost married—why can’t you be content with that?”

  “Content?” asked Edith. “I never said I wasn’t content—”

  “Oliver has always been my friend,” Joyce said tearfully. “He always liked me best—and then you—”

  “I can’t help it if people like me,” Edith said, smiling. She was sitting in front
of her mirror and, as she spoke, she took up her brush and began to brush her hair. It was thick and golden, the color of ripe corn, and she gave it a hundred strokes with the brush every night of her life.

  “One…two…three,” said Edith, drawing the brush through her hair.

  “I wish you’d listen,” said Joyce.

  “I am listening. What do you want to tell me?”

  “You might let me have a chance now and then,” said Joyce, trying to control herself and speak naturally. “You’re so selfish and—and unkind. I should have been Helena in the play.”

  “Oliver said—”

  “I know, but you could have refused. It wasn’t right for you to take the part. Douglas didn’t like it, and I don’t wonder.”

  “It was only a play, silly.”

  “People are talking.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Douglas cares.”

  “I’m not married to Douglas yet.” There was a queer expression in Edith’s eyes as she said these words.

  “You don’t mean—” Joyce began in dismay.

  “I don’t mean anything,” Edith declared hastily. “As a matter of fact I’m so sleepy that I don’t know what I’m saying. You had better go to bed.”

  Joyce went toward the door and paused with her hand on the handle. “Edith,” she said. “Have you had a letter from Oliver?”

  “No, why should he write to me?” said Edith.

  • • •

  In Alice’s bedroom a third conversation was taking place. Becky was there. She was heating some milk on the electric radiator. Alice always had a glass of hot milk before she went to sleep and Becky usually had some too. They both enjoyed the little quiet time together, sipping their milk and talking about the day’s doings. It was a habit that had originated when Celia was born and had never been abandoned.

  “They’re all so cross,” Alice complained. “I suppose it’s the reaction or something. I never remember a time when they were all cross, Becky.”