My Sister Celia (20 page)

And, “Of course,” said Laurence Clumber in a
f
a
intly
bored tone, as though he had really had quite enough of this engagement already.

He
’
s not the only one, thought Freda, in rather irritated parenthesis.

“Very well, then,” said Brian, in the tone of a man being convinced against his better judgment, “we
’
ll leave it at that for the present.”

At this point Celia produced her slightly strained smile again and said,

“I suppose you want to sit up and talk to each other for some while longer, and I
’
m sure Larry will willingly give you house-room for the purpose. But, for my part, I
’
m beginning to feel the effects of a very early start and a pretty heavy day, and I
’
m going to get you to drive me home, Larry. The thought of my own bed, in my own little cottage bedroom, is the most attractive thing in the world to me just now.”

The thought of her own bed, m her own little cottage bedroom, sounded remarkably attractive to Freda too. But she had to go on being the happy
fiancée
who could hardly tear herself away from her beloved.

So Laurence brought round his car, and Celia said a casual good night to Brian and Freda, and they went off together.

For some minutes after the sound of the car had died away there was silence between the other two. Then Brian said,

“Thank you, Freda. You backed me up splendidly.”

“I
’
m glad you think so.”

He glanced at her.

“I
’
m sorry. It was quite a heavy strain for you, I
’
m afraid.”

“Yes. It was rather.”

He smiled lightly.

“How are you feeling now?”

“An absolute worm,” said Freda angrily. “I don
’
t know why on earth I ever let you persuade me into this horrible position. I just
loathed
myself when I saw the tears come into her eyes. I wish, I wish I
’
d never agreed to do this.”

“But it
’
s worked, Freda,” he said quietly.

She stared at him.

“Do you think so? Already?”

“I have no doubt of it.” He was the calm, quiet, good-humoured Brian once more. “I loathed it too when I saw tears in her eyes. But she
’
d better shed a few now, for a non-existent reason, than cry unavailingly when it
’
s too late to help her.”

“Well—yes, of course,” agreed Freda uneasily. “But you needn
’
t talk as though, if she married Larry, she
’
d be a wretched, down-trodden sort of wife. I reckon he could make most women happy.”

“
The wrong man has never made any woman happy,” retorted Brian drily. “Reasonably contented for a while maybe. But not happy, in the real sense of the word.”

“I suppose you
’
re right. At any rate, for the purposes of the argument, we
’
ll say you
’
re right,” Freda conceded. “And you really think the sheer announcement of our engagement was enough to make her see daylight?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then why don
’
t we tell her the truth now?” Freda sprang to her feet.
“We
’
ve let her go off alone to the cottage, feeling perfectly miserable, when all
the time
—”

“Wait a minute.” Brian put out a hand, as though literally to detain her. “What do you think you can tell her at this stage?”

“Why, the truth, of course!”

“Nonsense. You can
’
t do any such thing. And don
’
t be melted into a mood of contrite confession when you
’
re alone with her in the cottage, either,” he warned. “If she really knew we
’
d practised this—this deception on her, she
’
d be furious. And rightly so.”

“I don
’
t understand you.” Freda came back slowly to where he was sitting. “When
are
we going to tell her?”

“Never—if you mean the exact story of this evening
’
s masquerade,” he replied firmly. “At least” —he smiled reflectively—
“
I might tell her when I
’
ve been married to her for five years. But, as it is, we must go through the stages of finding this engagement
was a mistake and
—”

“But that could take
ages
!”
wailed Freda.

“Not so long,” he assured her soothingly.

“It
’
s going to spoil the whole week down here, anyway,” she retorted gloomily.

“Not so thoroughly as it would have been spoiled if she had announced her engagement to Laurence Clumber,” he pointed out.

The truth of that struck Freda so forcibly that she was silent for a moment. Then another cause for shame presented itself to her, and she said, “We
’
ve behaved pretty badly to him, too.”

“Have we?” Brian, perhaps understandably, looked only mildly interested. “In what way?”

“Well, if he was really hoping Celia would fall for him
—”

“There always has to be a loser,” Brian said philosophically.

“And it
’
s all right so long as it isn
’
t you, I suppose?” returned Freda crossly.

“My dear girl, I
’
ve loved Celia since the days when I used to do her homework for her. He
’
s known her for a matter of weeks.”

Again Freda saw the force of his argument. But she felt bound to say defensively,

“It isn
’
t always just a question of time.” Smiling, Brian got up and ruffled her hair, in the casual, brotherly way that was so much more acceptable than any assumed lovemaking.

“Freda dear. I
’
m not shedding any tears for Clumber,” he said firmly. “That
’
s asking too much of me.”

She laughed a little vexedly. And then suddenly she smothered a yawn.

“I
’
m sorry. But I too had a pretty early start,” she explained.

“And a rather taxing day. Would you like me to drive you home now?”

“There
’
s nothing I
’
d like better. But I suppose Laurence ought to find us here, rapturously discussing our future plans. I
’
m surprised he
’
s not back yet.” And she glanced at the elegant French clock on the mantelpiece, which had ticked away sedately in Miss Clumber
’
s time and now seemed, in Freda
’
s imagination, to be registering well-bred disapproval of all which had happened in the last hour it had recorded.

“I expect he
’
s tactfully driving around the countryside, leaving us to our own devices,” Brian said, with a smile. “But, if you
’
re tired, my dear, you can certainly call it a day now, without anyone supposing that we
’
ve quarrelled.”

“Very well. I
’
d really be glad to go,” Freda confessed. For she felt suddenly that she simply could not start putting on her engagement act again as she expressed it to herself, for the benefit of Laurence when he returned. “Just tell Larry I was tired, and thank him on my behalf for a very pleasant evening.”

Somehow they both found they were able to laugh at that, and Brian added drily,

“At least it
’
s an evening that neither of us is ever likely to forget.”

As Freda stood in the hall, waiting for Brian to bring round the car from the garage, Ada came from somewhere in the back of the house.

“Why, Miss Freda
—”
she stopped in surprise.
“What are you doing all alone there? Where
’
s everyone gone?”

“My sister was tired, and Mr. Clumber took her home early,” Freda explained. “And now I
’
m waiting for Mr. Vanner to bring round his car to take me home.”

“A very nice gentleman,” commented Ada, whose natural propensity for mild gossiping had been so ruthlessly subdued in Miss Clumber
’
s time that it was inclined to break out a little freely now.

“Yes, isn
’
t he?”

“He would do very nicely for your sister, Miss Freda,” observed Ada, overstepping what Miss Clumber would have called The Mark by a long way.

“Do you think so, Ada?” Freda couldn
’
t help being amused by this sign of instinctive knowledge. “You don
’
t think he
’
d do nicely for me?”

“Oh, Miss Freda! I had thought—otherwise for you,” Ada confessed somewhat primly.

“Had you?” Involuntarily Freda sighed.

“And
the
odd thing is that when Mrs. Maude”— Mrs. Maude was the cook, who had also been there in Miss Clumber
’
s time—
“
when Mrs. Maude read our teacups this afternoon, there was an engagement in
both
our cups.”

“But doesn
’
t that mean an engagement for
you
?”
enquired Freda, curious in spite of herself.

“Oh, no, Miss Freda,” Ada laughed. “Our time for that sort of thing
’
s been over for many a long day. It means an engagement
in the house
.”

Or in the garden, thought Freda, with a gleam of humour, and she felt quite tempted to tell Ada that she reported more accurately than she knew. However, of course, she restrained the impulse. And as Brian appeared in the doorway just then, she bade Ada good night and went out to the car.

“Ada and Mrs. Maude both had an engagement in their teacups this afternoon,” she informed Brian, as the car slid almost silently down the drive.

“They had
what
?”

“A clear indication, judging by tea-leaves, that there was going to be an engagement in the house,” Freda amplified obligingly.

“Well, I
’
m dashed!” Brian laughed. “Did it look a phoney engagement or a real one?”

“I didn
’
t like to ask too much about it,” Freda said. “But Ada thinks you
’
re a very nice gentleman and that you
’
ll do very well for my sister.”

“The deuce! How does she know as much as that?”

“She doesn
’
t. She just has a natural instinct for these things.”

“And what,” asked Brian, curiously, “does her natural instinct tell her about you?”

“Oh”—Freda laughed and was glad that the darkness covered her sudden flush—
“
she just thinks I
’
d make a good wife for someone.”

“She
’
s right, too,” Brian declared heartily, as they came in sight of the cottage. “Hello—the lights are all out. Celia evidently went straight to bed.” “She said she was tired,” Freda reminded him. But, with a sudden heaviness of heart, she knew that her sister was trying to avoid any intimate discussion.

Just as well, of course. The last thing Freda wanted was to have to retrace the details of her nonexistent engagement. But it hurt her to remember how much she had looked forward to that first night in the cottage with Celia. They should have rounded off a happy day with a cosy gossip in dressing-gowns. Now she wondered if she and Celia would ever be on those terms again.

Having said a brief and unromantic good night to Brian, she quietly let herself into the cottage. If Celia were asleep—or even pretending to be asleep—she must respect the fact. Either she was truly worn out or hiding her unhappiness behind a barrier of pretence. Whichever it was, the last person she would want would be Freda.

Still moving very quietly, Freda set about putting the table ready for breakfast next morning, wondering, as she did so, how on earth they were going to face each other across that same table and make normal conversation.

“It
’
s all spoiled,” thought Freda, and surreptitiously she licked away a salt tear which trickled down towards the comer of her mouth.

It was all very well for Brian to say
he
must decide when Celia should be told the true state of affairs. That didn
’
t take into account the embarrassment and unhappiness of the next few days. And this was Freda
’
s holiday! The lovely, lovely time she had anticipated, in her own house, with her own sister for company.

“If Celia doesn
’
t hate me by the end of all this, I
’
ll be lucky,” she muttered angrily as, having finished her preparations, she softly mounted the stairs to her bedroom.

The stairs gave companionable little creaks, in the manner of old stairs, but Celia did not call out or make any other sign of her presence. And, although her door was ajar, something forced Freda to go past it without any attempt at speech.

“She
’
s asleep,” she told herself. But the conviction grew upon her that Celia was not asleep at all. She was probably lying there, tense, in the darkness, hoping that Freda would soon shut her door, so that she could cry in peace.

“But she didn
’
t shut her own door,” thought Freda suddenly. “Did she leave it open in the hope that I would say something? Is she waiting for me to say something—anything—that will give her some comfort? And w
h
at can I say, anyway?”

She was undressed by now, and she stood there in her nightdress, unable to go to bed and yet unable to think what to do next.

Brian had said she was not to tell Celia the truth yet—and Brian probably understood Celia better than anyone. And yet—