Celia's House

by D. E. Stevenson

  Mark was silent. He watched Becky’s nimble fingers. Her needle flashed as it went in and out of the soft fine fabric she was sewing.

  “What’s that you’re making?” Mark asked at last.

  She shook it out and held it up before his eyes. It was a dress of fine white gauze trimmed with silver, with a silver girdle around the waist.

  “It looks like a fancy dress!” Mark exclaimed in surprise.

  “It was a fancy dress, but I’m altering it. I’m making it into an evening frock for Celia. It’s doing no good lying there in the cupboard.”

  “I don’t remember seeing it before.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Becky replied dryly. “It’s never been worn. It’s the dress Miss Deb was going to wear in the play.” She hesitated for a moment and then added in a lower tone, “It was not like you to turn her out of the play, Mr. Mark.”

  “Turn her out of the play!” Mark cried in amazement.

  “That’s what I said. It wasn’t like you. It wasn’t fair. It was a shabby thing to do.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Becky. We didn’t turn her out, as you put it. She turned herself out. She funked it at the last moment; that’s what happened. She couldn’t learn her part.”

  “Her part was learned. She said it to me over and over; she had it all off by heart—every word—and her dress was ready. She made it herself, every stitch.”

  “Then why—” Mark began in bewildered tones.

  “She was looking forward to it,” Becky told him. “She wasn’t frightened of it. Why should she be frightened?”

  “But, Becky, she told Tessa she was frightened—”

  “No, Mr. Mark.”

  “Yes, honestly.”

  “I was here,” said Becky, raising her eyes and looking Mark straight in the face with her level gaze. “I was here in this very room when Miss Skene came in. She sat on that table and she laid down the law. You wanted Miss Angela in the play—that was what she said—and there was no part for her unless Miss Deb would give up Titania. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she said; those were her very words.”

  “Becky!”

  “Of course Miss Deb minded. She’s only a young thing for all her old-fashioned ways. ‘We don’t need you now,’ said Miss Skene. Then Miss Deb said, ‘Did Mark say that?’ ‘Yes, of course,’ said Miss Skene.”

  “Oh, Becky, I can’t believe—”

  “You think I’m lying to you?” asked Becky, who never minced her words.

  “No,” Mark said unhappily.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you—even for your good,” declared Becky, and with this somewhat enigmatic statement she took up the dress and began to sew.

  “It’s dreadful,” Mark said at last. “It’s so mean and petty. She let me go on thinking that Deb had let us down. How could she do that?”

  “That’s the worst bit of it,” Becky agreed in a cheerful tone.

  “Of course it is. It was bad enough to take the part away from her. I wanted Deb to play it; I thought it would be good for her—”

  “So it would have been.”

  “—but it was far worse to let me think that Deb had let us down.”

  “Far worse,” Becky agreed, more cheerfully still. “A person who could do that could do almost anything.”

  Mark got up and went away, for he was so upset that he could not discuss it further. At first he clung to the idea that there must be some mistake, and he cast his mind back and tried to remember what Tessa had said to him about it. He remembered that he had been studying in the library and Tessa had come in and perched herself on the arm of the chair. “I’m afraid Debbie has got cold feet,” she had said, looking down at him with a worried expression on her face. “Poor little Debbie, we can’t make her go on with it, Mark.” Mark remembered that he had risen and said he would speak to Deb, but Tessa had prevented him. “Don’t do that,” Tessa had said. “You’ll only make her unhappy. She’s shy and frightened—she can’t help it, you know—and she’s so afraid you’ll be angry with her. I said I’d put it all right with you.” “But, Tess, what are we to do? She must go on with it,” Mark had said. Tessa had shaken her head at that. “No, Mark,” she had said. “It would be unkind to make her do it when she dreads it so much; besides, she would probably let us down on the night.” Mark had been angry and disappointed in Deb—it was rotten of her to let them down like this—and Tessa had taken Deb’s part and stood up for Deb. “She can’t help it,” Tessa had reiterated.

  Oddly enough, Mark remembered every word of the argument and of the discussion that had ensued as to who could be roped in at the last minute to take the vacant place. He had suggested Angela, and Tessa had clapped her hands and exclaimed, “Of course! Angela! She’s the very person!”

  There was no mistake possible, no shadow of a mistake. It was almost past belief that anyone could have been so deceitful, could have acted the abominable part with such conviction, but Tessa was a very good actress and Tessa had acted it. Why had she done it? Why had she wanted Deb out of the play? It seemed senseless to Mark. It was not as if Angela had played the part better; Angela was no actress and her memory was poor, and she had been the weak link in the play…but that was all over now, that didn’t matter. What mattered was the discovery of Tessa’s nature. “A person who could do that could do almost anything.” Yes, it was perfectly true.

  It took Mark all night, turning and twisting in his bed, before he could face the thing squarely, but once he had managed it he felt a good deal better. The only thing to do was to take Tessa right out of his life and make up his mind to forget her. This seemed difficult, but it was not quite so difficult as it seemed because the Tessa he had worshipped was not a real person but merely a figment of his imagination. The flaws he had found in her and for which he had found excuses were part of her nature. She was rotten to the core.

  In one way, at least, Mark found instant relief: Tessa had accused him of deceiving her and this had worried him a good deal, but, whereas he had deceived her unwittingly, Tessa had deceived him with deliberate intent; he need distress himself about that no more, thought Mark with a wry smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Mark’s House

  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 t
he 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 u
se 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.