Celia's House

by D. E. Stevenson

“No, Mark, please. Please understand—”

  “I’ve been the most awful fool—”

  “No, you haven’t—”

  “Yes, I have,” he cried. “Yes, I’ve been the biggest fool in creation. Deb darling—dearest Deb, can you ever forgive me for being such a fool? Of course I love you! Of course I want you! I’ve been wanting you every moment. I’ve been miserable without you, utterly miserable, and I never realized what was the matter with me. Did you ever hear of a man being such a fool?” He knelt down beside her on the floor and put his arm around her very gently.

  “No, Mark,” said Deb. “Please don’t…I didn’t mean…” And she pushed him away. She had one of his socks over her hand, a gray woolen sock with a large hole in the heel of it. Mark took the hand, sock and all, and squeezed it tenderly.

  “It isn’t the slightest use saying ‘no’ to me,” declared Mark. “Not the very slightest. It isn’t any use trying to push me away either. You may as well make up your mind to that.”

  “Oh, Mark, I shouldn’t have told you!”

  “No, you should have let me go on being miserable,” agreed Mark. “Perhaps, in two or three years’ time, I might have realized what was the matter with me—unless I had died in the meantime, of course.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Deb, smiling through tears.

  “I can’t help being silly,” Mark replied gravely. “I must have been born silly, I’m afraid. Fancy being madly desperately, crazily in love and treating yourself for indigestion! I can’t think of anything sillier, can you?”

  “Oh, Mark, aren’t they feeding you properly?” Deb asked with sudden anxiety.

  At this moment, before Mark could reply, there was a thump on the door; it sounded as though some heavy wooden object had been thrown against the panel. Deb looked up in alarm, but Mark knew what it portended; he sprang to his feet and stood with his hands in his pockets looking out of the window. “Yes, it’s a beautiful afternoon,” Mark said loudly.

  In came Clara with the tea tray; she shut the door behind her with her foot and dumped the tray on the table, breathing heavily the while.

  “The milk’s not come,” she said in a hoarse voice. “Will ye wait on it or take yer teas noo?”

  Mark was about to reply that they would wait, but Deb got in before him.

  “Bring a lemon, please,” Deb said sweetly. “Dr. Dunne likes his tea with a slice of lemon in it…and please change your apron; it’s very dirty.”

  She saw that Mark was laughing silently, his shoulders heaving with the stress of emotion, but she managed to keep a straight face until Clara had retired. Then they both laughed together, uproariously, and they were still weak and hysterical when Clara returned, clad in a clean apron with a teapot in one hand and a lemon in the other. She put the lemon and the teapot on the table, side by side, and went away.

  “I really don’t know what we’re laughing at,” Deb said at last, mopping her eyes with her handkerchief.

  Mark gasped. “Don’t you? The answer is a lemon—that’s all.” And he laughed again, louder than before.

  After a little while they became more sensible. They drank their tea with slices of lemon in it and talked of all sorts of things: of the time when they were children together and of all the things they had done and said. Deb reminded Mark of their first walk in the woods when they had seen the ruined cottage and found the silver spoon. She still possessed the spoon; she had cleaned it and hidden it away in a drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. It was one of her greatest treasures and always would be.

  “We loved each other then,” declared Mark. “We’ve always loved each other, Deb, only I never knew it. The maddest thing I ever did was to try to persuade you to marry Oliver. It was a crazy thing to do. The fact was I wanted you to be settled near Dunnian so I could see you sometimes—”

  “No, Mark,” said Deb, interrupting this ingenious explanation with a decided air. “No, Mark, that wasn’t the reason at all. Why should we invent things? You didn’t love me then; you were fond of me, of course, but it was Tessa you loved. Don’t let’s pretend; let’s face it, Mark. As long as you’re sure you love me now, that’s all that matters.”

  “Dearest,” Mark said earnestly. “Dear, dear Deb, I’ve loved you all the time.”

  “No, Mark.”

  “Yes really. It was poppy dust in my eyes that made me think I loved Tessa—just poppy dust.”

  • • •

  It was time now for Deb to go home. Downie was waiting for her with the car and Deb was too considerate to keep him waiting long. She picked up her hat off the chair and Mark helped her on with her coat.

  “I’m afraid Clara will leave,” Mark said apprehensively. “I could see she was annoyed…”

  “Of course she’ll leave,” Deb said calmly, “and the cook can go too—those scones were a perfect disgrace. It will be better to have one really experienced maid; we shall be much more comfortable.”

  Mark saw her off in the car and then he went upstairs; he took the bismuth mixture off the shelf and emptied it into the sink, then he stretched his arms above his head and laughed for sheer happiness. His supper was ready by this time and he ate it with relish; he ate it thinking of Deb. Dear Deb, how sweet she was, how pretty and kind! He had always loved Deb; he was sure of it. They suited each other perfectly. There was nothing in Deb to excuse or overlook; he knew her to the depths of her soul and she was pure gold all through. Every now and then during the evening, Mark raised his head and looked at Deb’s chair…and smiled happily. He was still restless, but it was a different kind of restlessness. He was restless because he was full of joy. Mark felt he wanted to sing and dance, he wanted to rush out into the garden and shout at the top of his voice…but he managed to curb these peculiar impulses. He sat and looked at the fire, thinking of Deb and smiling fatuously—then he thought of himself, and of what a fool he had been, and chuckled aloud. Mark was still chuckling when he went upstairs to bed.

  But after he had been lying there for a little while, an uncomfortable thought crossed his mind. He and Deb had talked of all sorts of things. They had straightened things out between them and cleared up every vestige of misunderstanding, but he could not remember asking Deb to marry him. He had never once put the all-important question into plain words. Did Deb really understand? Did she realize that he wanted to marry her at once, as soon as possible, that he could not possibly live without her? Mark sat up in bed and tried to think. He went back and tried to remember all that had been said…

  Yes, it was all right, thought Mark with a sigh of relief. Yes, it was perfectly all right. Deb had used the word we. She had said, “We shall be much more comfortable.” Mark lay down and went straight off to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Christmas 1932

  Billy was on his way home to Dunnian on leave. It was four years since he had been home, and during that time he had been in a gunboat on the Yangtze River chasing Chinese pirates. It was an exciting life, in some ways a good life, and Billy had quite enjoyed it. He was now twenty-five years old, but he felt a great deal older. Billy had not informed his family that they were to have the pleasure of seeing him, for he thought it would be fun to walk in and surprise them, but when he reached Ryddelton Station and saw what the weather was like he began to wish he had informed them of his arrival. It was snowing hard; great white flakes were drifting down from a leaden sky and settling comfortably upon the white ground. Billy descended from the train with several bags and cases and stood upon the little platform looking around and shivering.

  “Are ye being met?” the station master asked, approaching him in a friendly manner.

  “No, Mr. Grieve,” replied Billy, grinning. “I never told them I was coming.”

  “Master Billy!” Grieve exclaimed in amazement. “Master Billy, I never knew you! It’s a sight for sore eyes to see you after all these years. Co
me away into the lamp room—I’ve a nice fire there.”

  “I think I’ll be getting on my way,” replied Billy. “I’ll leave my luggage here and walk home. I want to surprise them, you see.”

  Mr. Grieve was doubtful as to the wisdom of this course. It was three miles to Dunnian by the footpath—and the storm was increasing. He advised delay and offered to ring up the house and ask for the car to be sent, but Billy was determined to carry out his plan and surprise his family. He chatted for a few minutes to Mr. Grieve and learned some of the local news, and especially the news of Dunnian. Mr. Grieve’s daughter was head housemaid at Dunnian, so he knew all there was to know.

  “Aye, the admiral is well enough,” said Grieve. “He was sair forlatten when Mrs. Dunne went—she was as nice a lady as ever stepped, with a kind wurrd for everybuddy—but he’s better the last wee while and taking mair interest. Miss Celia looks after him weel—she’s as capable as she’s bonny and that’s saying a guid deal. It’s a small household noo—just the two of them—but the family is expected hame for Christmas, Jean was saying.”

  “All of them!” exclaimed Billy. “It will be fun to see them all again!” His words sounded cheerful, but Billy did not feel quite as cheerful as he sounded, for one person would be missing from the gathering. Dunnian would feel very queer without Mother—very queer indeed.

  Billy said good-bye to Mr. Grieve and started on his way. He had a moment of indecision as he walked out of the station yard and felt the bitterly cold wind in his face. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon but already the light was fading. The station looked cozy; the firelight was flickering in the lamp room, lighting up the little window with a rosy glow. Ahead of him lay the moors, bleak and white and windswept. However, Billy had a stubborn nature; he had made up his mind to walk and he would stick to his purpose. The first part of his walk was along the road, which had been cleared by the snowplow, so it was easy walking, but when he reached the stile where the footpath began, he saw that he might have more difficulty. The snow was deep. It spread over fields and hedges and moors like a thick, white counterpane obliterating the landmarks. Billy knew the way well. He climbed the stile and mounted the hill. When he reached the top he felt the full force of the wind. It was laden with powdery snow that stung his cheeks and crusted upon his eyelashes. He wrapped his coat about him, turned up his collar, and struggled on courageously. The snow was drifting here, sweeping across the moor, piling itself against the dry stone dykes. It was difficult to see where the path should be, and every now and then Billy lost it and floundered into drifts that came well above his knees. There was something eerie about the moors, the sky was dark and ominous, the world was white and deserted by man and beast…

  This was the worst part of his journey, for it was high and exposed. After a little while, Billy reached the shelter of the Dunnian Woods and paused to take breath. He was warm after his battle with the storm and he felt a strange elation now that he was on Dunnian soil. The woods were all white; there was not a sound in the woods, not a sign of life. The crisp snow crunched beneath his feet as he plodded on. A few minutes more and he had reached Dunnian garden and the path up to the house.

  Billy opened the hall door very quietly; he peeled off his coat and knocked the snow off his boots. Dunnian was just the same, warm and welcoming. How odd it was to be here! How it took Billy back to his childhood! The old clock was still ticking—ticktock, ticktock—it had been ticking all these years when Billy had been chugging up the Yangtze, when Billy had been celebrating in Shanghai—ticktock, ticktock—what an astounding thought! The floor was as shiny and polished as ever. Billy remembered that he and Celia used to take off their shoes and slide across it from end to end, and he remembered how angry Becky had been when she discovered the reason for the enormous holes in the soles of their socks! Becky had gone too, thought Billy with a sigh. He wouldn’t see dear old Becky either…

  He tiptoed across the hall and opened the drawing room door as quietly as he could. His father and Celia were sitting at a table drawn up in front of the fire, having tea. Celia was just raising the teapot to pour out a cup of tea when she saw him. She put the teapot down with a bang.

  “Billy!” Celia exclaimed incredulously.

  Humphrey turned in his chair. “Billy!” he cried.

  They said no more but sat and gazed at him as if he were a visitor from Mars.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Billy said, laughing delightedly. “I thought I’d give you a shock. I just got in yesterday and managed to get leave right away…”

  The next moment they were all talking at once, all laughing, all asking questions. Celia was hugging him; Humphrey was thumping him on the back.

  It was some little time before the excitement died down and Celia was able to collect her wits and give her brother some tea.

  “You don’t mean to say you walked from the station?” asked Humphrey.

  “Your feet are soaking wet,” Celia said in dismay.

  “I’ll change afterward,” Billy said. “I want my tea first…the same dear old cake,” he added, helping himself to a large chunk as he spoke.

  “The same dear old appetite,” said Celia, looking at him fondly.

  There were all sorts of things Humphrey wanted to ask, but they could wait. He was not going to pester the boy with questions. He lay back in his chair and watched Billy with satisfaction and pride. Billy had grown into a splendid young fellow, fit and hardy and full of self-confidence.

  “We’ll all be together for Christmas,” Celia was saying. “Mark and Deb are coming tomorrow, and Edith and Douglas and their little girls, and Joyce and Charles and their two little boys. It makes it ten times nicer having you here—”

  “Will there be room?” Billy asked anxiously.

  “Room!” Celia echoed in amazement. “There’s your own room, of course.”

  “Good,” said Billy, smiling. It was lovely to know that his old room was still his and that it was waiting for him.

  It was late when Billy went up to bed. He and his father had had a long talk, sitting at the library fire, toasting their toes and smoking. He realized he had never appreciated his father before. Humphrey had been away so much and, when he was at home, there were so many people—all claiming his attention—that Billy had never gotten to know his father properly. Tonight there had been nobody else and they had talked for hours, delving into each other’s minds. Humphrey was sound (thought Billy); he was wise and kind and very clear-sighted. Billy had lived for so long with other men who, although friendly and pleasant, were really only strangers that he was almost surprised at his father’s interest and solicitude. It was marvelous to have someone “like that,” thought Billy as he got into bed; it was marvelous to have someone who was deeply, vitally interested in all one’s doings, who was (so to speak) on one’s own side of the wall. It gave one a warm, comfortable feeling, thought Billy, as he put his head on the pillow…and shut his eyes.

  • • •

  Billy had been away so long that he was able to look at each member of his family dispassionately, with unprejudiced eyes. He saw Edith as a slightly discontented young woman, very pretty, of course, and exceedingly smart but not particularly happy. If Edith did not look out, those lines of discontent would write themselves permanently upon her face. Edith’s two little girls were like their father, fair and quiet and uninteresting. (Billy was fond of children, but he could not make any headway with his nieces.)

  Joyce was a very different case, for she had all she wanted; her Charles was a good sort, and her two little boys were full of vim and vigor. Joyce had become more human, more kindly, more interested in other people. She had improved a good deal, as people sometimes do when they are innocently happy.

  Mark and Deb were devoted to each other—it was easy to see that. They did not parade their devotion, and they were pleasant and cheerful with everyone, but they were conscious of each o
ther all the time. They had no children and, as they had now been married for about eight years, it did not look as if they were going to have any. Unless Billy got married and produced a son, their branch of the Dunne family would peter out—it seemed a pity.

  They were all very pleased to see Billy again, and they all wanted to hear the story of his adventures. Billy was quite willing to oblige. His adventures had been pretty hectic in parts, pretty hair-raising, for the Chinese pirates had little regard for human life and some of their customs were curious, to say the least of it. He toned down his story for the benefit of the women, but, after dinner, when the women had gone and the port was circulating, he let his audience have it straight. It was amusing to watch the four faces, Billy found, and to see their different reactions to the more highly colored portions of his narrative. Humphrey saw the whole thing from a service point of view (his view was almost identical with that of the narrator), Mark took a doctor’s standpoint, and Charles saw it from the angle of a man of the world. Douglas Rewden was the only member of the audience who was shocked at Billy’s revelations—his face of hurt disapproval goaded Billy to further efforts.

  “What’s happened to the Skenes?” Billy asked at last when he had talked himself hoarse.

  “They’re both married,” Mark said shortly—and that was all. There was such an air of finality in Mark’s reply that Billy did not inquire further. He would get all the information he wanted from Celia. As a matter of fact, there were various matters upon which he wanted information, but the house was so full and Celia was so busy looking after the comfort of the guests that it was impossible to get her alone for a moment.

  Billy’s old room gave him a great deal of pleasure. He liked pottering about in it when he went up to bed. He had always liked “pottering,” but, in the old days, there had been the danger of Becky suddenly appearing at the door and asking why he was not in bed and making inquiries as to whether he had washed. Now, he could potter to his heart’s content. It seemed rather odd somehow. The room was not very large and the ceiling was low and concealed. There were pictures of ships on the walls, colored photogravures Billy had cut out of illustrated papers, pasted onto boards, and varnished with his own hands. There was a bookcase full of books of travel and adventure, and there was a glass case with birds’ eggs in it. The window was almost square with wavy glass in the small square panes. Billy pulled up the blind and looked out upon a magic world of moonlight and snow, of silver light and velvet-dark shadows. The trees were bowed with glistening snow; the ground was white and untrodden. He remembered suddenly that he had had an arrangement of mirrors whereby he could see the garden when he was lying in bed. He had made the arrangement when he was laid up with chickenpox and was extremely bored with his isolation. Three mirrors were needed, two on the walls and one on the ceiling above the window—and there they were, hanging in their accustomed places. One of them was slightly crooked and another required a little wedge on the left side. Having made the necessary adjustments Billy got into bed…yes, it worked. He could see the garden—a small piece of bright glistening white lawn, and the trees beyond. He lay there enjoying it, smiling to himself at his childishness.