“I can.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, when they had measles,” Becky said, nodding. “They were all as cross as cross could be. There was no pleasing any of them.”
“But they haven’t got measles now, so—”
“They’re in love,” said Becky.
“They can’t all be in love.”
“Can’t they?”
“No, of course not. Even Debbie is a little impatient—she can’t be in love. Edith and Joyce quarrel all the time; Mark is sulky. It’s very unpleasant.”
“It will wear off,” Becky said comfortingly.
“But what’s the reason for it?”
“I told you—”
“You don’t really mean they’re all in love, do you?” Alice asked in some alarm. “It was just a joke, wasn’t it, Becky?”
“Yes, just a joke.”
“You frightened me,” declared Alice, lying back on her pillows. “You frightened me horribly. I couldn’t bear it if they were all in love at the same time and Humphrey not here. You know, Becky, I can’t cope with them now. They don’t tell me things. It was so much easier when they were small.”
“It always is. Tantrums and stomach aches are soon cured.”
“Gregory’s mixture,” agreed Alice, nodding. “I believe it would do them good now, but of course they wouldn’t like it if I suggested it.” She sighed and added, “I wish Humphrey was here.”
“So do I,” said Becky.
“Do you think Mark is fond of Tessa?”
“It looks like it, I must say.”
“She’s a sweet girl,” said Alice. “Pretty and clever and sweet.”
“I don’t care for sweets much, myself,” Becky said in an undertone.
“What did you say, Becky?”
“She’s not good enough,” said Becky.
Alice smiled. She said, “Of course you think there’s nobody good enough for Mark, don’t you, Becky?”
Becky did not reply.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Humphrey
Humphrey managed to get leave. He walked into the drawing room one evening when they were all sitting around the fire.
“I thought I would surprise you,” he said.
“Humphrey!” cried Alice, rising and upsetting her work basket onto the floor. She was in his arms in a moment, half laughing and half crying.
They were all here—all the family—Humphrey seized his daughters and kissed them; Celia clung around his neck; over her head Humphrey’s eyes sought Mark’s—and they smiled.
“This is splendid!” Humphrey said. “This is what I like—all being together—”
“How did you manage to get away?”
“How did you come?”
“Have you had dinner?”
“How long can you stay?”
He laughed and said, “Have pity on me! I flew from Marseilles and I’ve got two months’ leave.”
“Lovely!” Alice said blissfully.
“Yes,” agreed Humphrey. “It’s about time I had some leave. It’s about time I came back to look after my family. What’s all this about a wedding?” He smiled at Edith as he spoke, but she did not smile back.
“He’s such a dear,” declared Alice. “He’s so quiet and easy to understand. You’ll like him, Humphrey.”
“I hope so,” Humphrey said, smiling more broadly than before.
“Of course you’ll like him,” said Alice. “There’s something about him. He’s a little shy but charming when you get to know him!”
Humphrey laughed. “He seems to have charmed Edith very successfully.”
As usual Humphrey was feeling the strangeness of being at home, of being at Dunnian in the midst of his family, of hearing the light voices of his womenfolk. He felt even more strange than usual this time, more out of touch with their lives, but perhaps that was due to the fact that he had not been home for so long. They were grown up now, thought Humphrey, looking around the circle of faces. They were men and women. Billy was independent and self-confident, well started on his career.
Only Celia was still a child, and even she had grown and developed since he had seen her last. She was different from the others, of course, for she was small and neatly made. She was more like Aunt Celia than ever. Humphrey was proud of his daughters, and he had reason to be proud, for they were all remarkably good-looking: two large and fair and blue-eyed—like Alice—and one small and dark and merry. What a stir they would create if he could transport them to the wardroom! Parker was supposed to be an authority on women. What would Parker think of his daughters, Humphrey wondered.
“Such a lot to arrange,” Alice was saying. “The date hasn’t been fixed. We were just waiting to hear from you before fixing the date—”
“Dad,” said Billy. “Dad, I want a tailcoat. I want to be an usher. I’m not too young, am I?”
“Daddy,” said Joyce. “Don’t you think pink would be nice for the bridesmaids’ dresses?”
“You’ll have to get a new topper, Dad.”
“You’ll have to give away the bride, you know.”
“The reception must be here, of course.”
They were all talking at once and Humphrey found some difficulty in keeping track of all the suggestions and demands. He managed to disentangle one of the suggestions and to answer it. “Of course the reception must be here,” said Humphrey, raising his voice slightly. “There hasn’t been a wedding at Dunnian for something like eighty years. Isabel was the last Miss Dunne to be married from the house—Debbie’s great-grandmother.”
Deb was smiling at him across the room. (He thought, She’s improved enormously. She’s pretty in her own quiet way and there’s something very attractive about her…but she doesn’t look well…)
“That’s very interesting,” Mark said.
“Quite a lot of presents have come already,” said Alice. “We put them in the east bedroom. Edith will show them to you—such lovely presents, Humphrey!”
“Lucky girl!” said Humphrey, smiling at his daughter.
Once again Edith refused to smile back.
(I’m out of touch, thought Humphrey. I mustn’t tease Edith. People are often a bit prickly when they’re in love.)
“Daddy,” Celia said suddenly. She was sitting on a stool beside him and leaning against his knee. “Daddy, I want to ask you something.”
“What do you want to ask?” inquired Humphrey, smiling at her affectionately.
“I needn’t go to school, need I?” Celia said.
“She ought to go to school,” declared Edith. “Joyce and I went to school, and Celia ought to go. She’s getting spoiled at home.”
“Celia isn’t spoiled,” Alice said quickly.
“I don’t want to leave Dunnian,” Celia explained. “I wouldn’t mind going to school if I could take Dunnian with me.”
The others laughed at this, but somehow or other Humphrey understood. “We’ll see,” he said. “Mummy and I will talk it over. We won’t send you away from Dunnian if you feel very strongly about it.”
“I feel very strongly about it,” Celia said gravely.
“If only you could have been here for the play!” exclaimed Billy. “Gosh, you would have liked it, Dad. I was Bottom, you know. It was tremendous fun.”
“I was Puck,” said Celia.
They all began to talk at once and to tell him about it.
The evening passed pleasantly, but all the same Humphrey was glad when “the women and children” went to bed and he and Mark were left together for a quiet chat. Mark had opened the door for his mother. He came back to the fire and stood on the hearth rug looking down at Humphrey.
“Sit down,” said Humphrey. “I can’t talk to you up there. You’ve grown into a perfect giant.”
Mark sat down with
out speaking.
“This is nice,” said Humphrey. “This is like old times. Is everything all right?”
It was the usual question. It was the question Humphrey always asked when he came home from sea. Long ago, when Mark was quite a small boy, he had been given to understand that it was his business to look after the family in his father’s absence. Mark had liked it. He had felt important and responsible. It had been one of those things that had bound them closely together. (“Is everything all right, Mark?” “Yes, Dad, everything’s fine.”) But tonight Mark did not make the usual reply. He hesitated.
“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” Humphrey asked in sudden anxiety.
“I’m not sure,” said Mark.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not sure,” repeated Mark. “It may be nothing at all. It’s about Edith really. I can’t help wondering if she really likes Rewden.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“Not awfully,” Mark said uncomfortably.
“What’s wrong with the fellow?” It was Humphrey’s quarterdeck voice, crisp and incisive, a voice that demanded a plain answer to a plain question, and this was what Mark could not give. There was nothing wrong with Rewden—not really.
“He’s sort of—colorless,” said Mark vaguely.
“I don’t know what you mean. If Edith likes him—aren’t they fond of each other?”
“I don’t know. That’s the whole trouble,” said Mark.
“You’ll have to explain.”
“I can’t. I don’t want to say too much. It’s just…well…Edith doesn’t behave as if she is very fond of him.”
“I can’t bear people mooning and making eyes at each other in public.”
Mark laughed, but it was not a very mirthful sound. “Mooning!” he exclaimed. “You won’t see much mooning there.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know,” agreed Mark, “but there is a sort of medium.”
Humphrey was worried when he went up to bed. He was worried not only about Edith and her “colorless” young man, but also, strangely enough, about Mark. There was something missing in Mark. That gaiety of spirit that lay beneath his quiet manner was slightly dimmed, and somehow Humphrey had not felt that close companionship with Mark. He had felt as if something stood between him and his son, shutting them off from each other. Debbie too had seemed unlike herself…and Joyce was not as spontaneously gay as usual. Of all the family only Alice was the same. Alice was always the same—his dear, beautiful Alice.
She lay in his arms with her head on his shoulder.
“Alice, is everything all right?”
“Yes, darling, of course. I’ve missed you horribly, but everything’s all right now you’re home. We won’t send Celia to school, will we?”
“Not unless you think she should go.”
“I don’t,” said Alice. “Dunnian is hers really—it will be hers when you and I are dead—so I don’t think it’s right to send her away, do you?”
“Perhaps not.”
“She doesn’t know, of course.”
“She mustn’t know until she’s twenty-one,” Humphrey said firmly.
There was a short silence and then Humphrey said, “Alice, you’re quite pleased about this marriage, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course, darling.”
“Do you think Edith is fond of him?”
“Yes, of course, darling. I told you in my letter—”
“I know.”
“I always tell you everything, Humphrey.”
“I know. I love your letters. They’re a part of you—”
“And your letters,” Alice said sleepily. “Darling letters, Humphrey—”
• • •
Douglas Rewden came over to Dunnian the next morning, and Humphrey interviewed him in the library. Humphrey had not intended the interview to be formal, but somehow or other it was. They were both shy and embarrassed. Rewden did not smoke and he refused a drink, saying that, although he was not a teetotaler, he had not much use for the stuff.
“Oh, well…” said Humphrey. He felt he ought to be glad that his future son-in-law neither smoked nor drank, but somehow he was not. It would have been easier if they could have had something together. It would have made things easier.
“You and Edith seem to have—er—fixed it up,” Humphrey said, smiling in what he hoped was a friendly manner.
“Er—yes,” agreed Rewden. “Edith and I—er—er…”
“Yes, quite,” agreed Humphrey.
“Mrs. Dunne said you were pleased.”
“Yes—oh, yes, of course. I mean, if you and Edith—”
“Yes,” said Rewden.
There was a short silence. Humphrey began to feel quite desperate. “Are your people pleased?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Rewden said without enthusiasm.
“That’s all right then.”
“Of course my mother is a little—er—er—but she knows I’ve got to marry sometime.”
“Perhaps she’s sorry to leave Sharme.”
“She isn’t leaving,” replied Rewden. “I’m letting her stay on at Sharme. Edith and I will spend most of our time in London.”
“Business?” asked Humphrey.
“Er—no. As a matter of fact I don’t—er—care for business. I’ve got a house in London, of course.”
“I see,” said Humphrey. He was disappointed, for he had hoped Edith would be settled near Dunnian. Sharme was only thirty miles from Dunnian.
“I like London,” Rewden said. “You get good bridge in London.”
“I shouldn’t care to live in London myself.”
“Why not?” inquired Rewden, raising his fair eyebrows in surprise.
“It doesn’t matter,” Humphrey replied hastily. “I mean, if you and Edith—well, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” said Rewden.
There was another silence, a very embarrassing one. Humphrey searched about in his mind for something to say, but he could find nothing.
“What about the wedding?” Rewden asked at last.
“The wedding?”
“Yes, we were waiting for you, but now you’re here. There isn’t any sense in waiting, is there? Can’t we fix the date?”
“That’s for Edith to decide,” said Humphrey.
“We were waiting for you,” Rewden repeated in a tired voice. “There’s no sense in putting it off. I should like it to be next month.”
“That doesn’t give much time!” exclaimed Humphrey.
“It’s better to get it over,” Rewden said.
This was a queer thing to say…or perhaps it was only a natural thing badly worded. Humphrey gave Rewden the benefit of the doubt. He remembered that when he was engaged to Alice he had been very anxious to hasten on the wedding. It was natural for a man to be impatient, but somehow Rewden did not give one the impression of an impatient lover, eager to be married to the woman of his choice. He seemed tired and slightly bored; his voice was flat and uninteresting. Humphrey had not understood what Mark meant when he said Rewden was “colorless” (it had seemed a stupid word to describe a man), but now he realized that it was a strangely apt description.
“You’ll have to talk to Edith about the date,” Humphrey said.
“Yes,” agreed Rewden.
Silence fell again. Humphrey felt restless. He had to get up and do something, anything, as a relief and a distraction. But Humphrey knew he couldn’t get up and just wander around.
“Is that all you wanted to say?” asked Rewden.
“No,” said Humphrey, pulling himself together. “No, not quite. I’m afraid there’s no money, Rewden.”
“I know,” replied Rewden. “Mrs. Dunne told me. It doesn’t matter. You can’t have everythin
g.” He conveyed the impression that it mattered a good deal and that he was being magnanimous.
Humphrey did not like it.
“Women with money are usually plain and uninteresting,” added Rewden.
This sounded better—by implication—but Humphrey was still a bit ruffled. He remembered his interview with Alice’s father; how respectful he had been! How anxious to make a good impression!
“I hope you’ll settle something on Edith,” Humphrey said. It took a good deal of nerve to say it, but Mr. Wanlock had told him he must.
“Oh!” Rewden said in surprise. “I was going to give her an allowance, of course, but—”
“I would prefer a settlement.”
“Oh, well—if you want it, I’ll speak to my lawyer. It seems a bit unnecessary.”
“I would prefer it,” Humphrey repeated firmly.
When Rewden had gone, Humphrey sought for Edith and found her in the east bedroom arranging her presents on a large table that had been put there for the purpose. Humphrey felt that it was his duty to speak to Edith, but it was not a pleasant duty. It was because he dreaded it that he rushed upon it with undue haste.
“Edith, I want to speak to you very seriously,” he said.
She looked up and he saw from her face that she was alarmed. Perhaps he had spoken too sharply.
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
“You’ve seen Douglas,” she said somewhat anxiously. “What did he say?”
“Nothing very much,” replied Humphrey. “He wants the wedding to be soon—but that’s for you to decide.”
“There’s no hurry, is there?”
“No, of course not.”
“Was that all Douglas said? He didn’t say anything about the play, did he?”
“Not a word,” replied Humphrey.
She looked relieved. She was smiling. Humphrey hesitated and then he said, “I suppose you’re quite sure you want to go on with it?”
“Go on with what?” asked Edith.
“You’re sure you want to marry him?”
Edith hesitated, but only for a moment. The hesitation was scarcely perceptible—she covered it with a laugh. “Of course I do,” she said. “What a funny question!”
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