Unfinished Portrait

by Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott, Agatha

  All her life Celia never forgot her first country-house visit. Her nervousness in the train, which made pink blotches come out all down her neck. Would she behave properly? Would she (ever recurring nightmare) be able to talk? Would she be able to roll up her curls on the back of her head? Miriam usually did the very back ones for her. Would they think her very stupid? Had she got the right clothes with her?

  Nobody could have been kinder than her host and hostess. She was not shy with them.

  It felt very grand to be in this big bedroom with a maid unpacking for her and coming in to do her dress up down the back.

  She wore a new pink net dress and went down to dinner feeling terribly shy. There were lots of people there. It was awful. Her host was very nice. He talked to her, chaffed her, called her the Pink ’Un because he said she always wore pink dresses.

  There was a lovely dinner, but Celia couldn’t really enjoy it because she had to be thinking what to say to her neighbours. One was a little fat round man with a very red face, the other a tall man with a quizzical expression and a touch of grey hair.

  He talked to her gravely about books and theatres, and then about the country and asked her where she lived. When she told him, he said he might be coming down that way at Easter. He would come and see her if she would allow it. Celia said that would be very nice.

  ‘Then why not look as though it would be nice?’ he asked, laughing.

  Celia got red.

  ‘You ought to,’ he said. ‘Especially as I’ve made up my mind only a minute ago to go there.’

  ‘The scenery’s beautiful,’ said Celia earnestly.

  ‘It isn’t the scenery I’m coming to see.’

  How she wished people wouldn’t say things of that kind. She crumbled her bread desperately. Her neighbour looked at her with amusement. What a child she was! It amused him to embarrass her. He gravely proceeded to pay her the most extravagant compliments.

  Celia was terribly relieved when at last he turned to the lady on his other side and left her to the little fat man. His name was Roger Raynes, so he told her, and very soon they had got on to the subject of music. Raynes was a singer – not a professional, though he had often sung professionally. Celia became quite happy chatting to him.

  She had hardly noticed what there had been to eat, but now an ice cream was coming round – a slender apricot-coloured pillar studded with crystalized violets.

  It collapsed just before being handed to her. The butler took it to the sideboard and rearranged it. Then he resumed his round, but, alas, his memory failed him. He missed out Celia!

  She was so bitterly disappointed that she hardly heard what the little fat man was saying. He had taken a large helping and seemed to be enjoying it very much. The idea of asking for some ice cream never occurred to Celia. She resigned herself to disappointment.

  After dinner they had music. She played Roger Raynes’s accompaniments. He had a splendid tenor voice. Celia enjoyed playing for him. She was a good and sympathetic accompanist. Then it was her turn to sing. Singing never made her nervous. Roger Raynes said kindly that she had a charming voice and then continued to talk about his own. He asked Celia to sing again, but she said, Wouldn’t he? And he accepted with alacrity.

  Celia went to bed quite happy. The house party was not being so dreadful after all.

  The next morning passed pleasantly. They went out and looked at the stables and tickled the pigs’ backs, and then Roger Raynes asked Celia if she would come and try over some songs with him. She did. After he had sung about six he produced a song called ‘Love’s Lilies’, and when they had finished he said:

  ‘Now, tell me your candid opinion – what do you really think of that song?’

  ‘Well –’ Celia hesitated – ‘well, really, I think it’s rather dreadful.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Roger Raynes. ‘At least, I wasn’t sure. But you’ve settled it. You don’t like it – so here goes.’

  And he tore the song in half and flung it into the grate. Celia was very much impressed. It was a brand-new song which, he told her, he had only bought the day before. And because of her opinion he had torn it up relentlessly.

  She felt quite grown up and important.

  3

  The big fancy-dress ball for which the party was assembled was to take place that night. Celia was to go as Marguerite from Faust – all in white with her hair in two plaits hanging down each side. She looked very fair and Gretchen-like, and Roger Raynes told her that he had the music of Faust with him, and that they would try over one of the duets tomorrow.

  Celia felt rather nervous as they set off for the ball. She always found her programme a difficulty. She always seemed to manage badly – to dance with the people she didn’t much like, and then when the people she did like came along, there weren’t any dances left. But if one pretended to be engaged then the people one liked mightn’t come along after all, and then one might have to ‘sit out’ (horror). Some girls seemed to manage cleverly but, Celia realized for the hundredth time gloomily, she wasn’t clever.

  Mrs Luke looked after Celia well, introducing people to her.

  ‘Major de Burgh.’

  Major de Burgh bowed. ‘Have you a dance?’

  He was a big man, rather horsey-looking, long fair moustache, rather red face, about forty-five.

  He put down his name for three dances and asked Celia to go in to supper with him.

  She did not find him very easy to talk to. He said little, but he looked at her a good deal.

  Mrs Luke left the ball early. She was not strong.

  ‘George will look after you and bring you home,’ she said to Celia. ‘By the way, child, you seem to have made quite a conquest of Major de Burgh.’

  Celia felt heartened. She was afraid she had bored Major de Burgh horribly.

  She danced every dance, and it was two o’clock when George came up to her, and said:

  ‘Hallo, Pink ’Un, time to take the stable home.’

  It was not till Celia was in her room that she realized that she was quite unable to extricate herself unaided from her evening frock. She heard George’s voice in the corridor still saying good nights. Could she ask him? Or couldn’t she? If she didn’t she would have to sit up in her frock till morning. Her courage failed her. When the morning dawned Celia was lying on her bed fast asleep in her evening dress.

  4

  Major de Burgh came over that morning. He wasn’t hunting today, he said, to the chorus of astonishment that greeted him. He sat there saying very little. Mrs Luke suggested that he might like to see the pigs. She sent Celia with him. At lunch Roger Raynes was very sulky.

  The next day Celia went home. She had a quiet morning alone with her host and hostess. The others left in the morning, but she was going by an afternoon train. Somebody called ‘dear Arthur, so amusing’ came to lunch. He was (in Celia’s eyes) a very elderly man, and he did not seem amusing. He spoke in a low tired voice.

  After lunch, when Mrs Luke had left the room and he was alone with Celia, he began stroking her ankles.

  ‘Charming,’ he murmured. ‘Charming. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Celia did mind. She minded very much. But she endured it. She supposed that this was a regular part of house parties. She did not want to appear gauche or immature. She set her teeth and sat very stiff.

  Dear Arthur slipped a practised arm round her waist and kissed her. Celia turned on him furiously and pushed him away.

  ‘I can’t – oh, please, I can’t.’

  Manners were manners, but there were some things she couldn’t endure.

  ‘Such a sweet little waist,’ said Arthur advancing the practised arm again.

  Mrs Luke came into the room. She noticed Celia’s expression and flushed face.

  ‘Did Arthur behave himself?’ she asked on the way to the station. ‘He’s not really to be trusted with young girls – can’t leave him alone. Not that there’s any real harm in him.’

  ‘Have you got to let
people stroke your ankles?’ demanded Celia.

  ‘Got to? Of course not, you funny child.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Celia with a deep sigh. ‘I’m so glad.’

  Mrs Luke looked amused and said again:

  ‘You funny child!’

  She went on: ‘You looked charming at the dance. I fancy you’ll hear something more of Johnnie de Burgh.’ She added: ‘He’s extremely well off.’

  5

  The day after Celia got home a big pink box of chocolates arrived addressed to her. There was nothing inside to show whom they came from. Two days later a little parcel came. It contained a small silver box. Engraved on the lid were the words ‘Marguerite’ and the date of the ball.

  Major de Burgh’s card was enclosed.

  ‘Who is this Major de Burgh, Celia?’

  ‘I met him at the ball.’

  ‘What is he like?’

  ‘He’s rather old and got rather a red face. Quite nice, but difficult to talk to.’

  Miriam nodded thoughtfully. That night she wrote to Mrs Luke. The answer was quite frank – Mrs Luke was by nature the complete matchmaker.

  ‘He’s very well off – very well off indeed. Hunts with the B’. George doesn’t like him very much but there’s nothing against him. He seems to have been quite bowled over by Celia. She is a dear child – very naïve. She is certainly going to be attractive to men. Men do admire fairness and sloping shoulders so much.’

  A week later Major de Burgh ‘happened to be in the neighbourhood’. Might he come over and call on Celia and her mother?

  He did so. He seemed as tongue-tied as ever – sat and stared at Celia a good deal, and tried clumsily to make friends with Miriam.

  For some reason, after he had gone, Miriam was upset. Her conduct puzzled Celia. Her mother made disjointed remarks that Celia could not make head or tail of.

  ‘I wonder if it’s wise to pray for a thing … How hard it is to know what is right …’ Then suddenly, ‘I want you to marry a good man – a man like your father. Money isn’t everything – but comfortable surroundings do mean a lot to a woman …’

  Celia accepted and replied to these remarks without in any way connecting them with the late visit of Major de Burgh. Miriam was in the habit of making remarks out of the blue, as it were. They had ceased to surprise her daughter.

  Miriam said: ‘I should like you to marry a man older than yourself. They take more care of a woman.’

  Celia’s thoughts flew momentarily to Colonel Moncrieff – now a fast fading memory. She had danced at the ball with a young soldier of six feet four and was inclined at the moment to idealize handsome young giants.

  Her mother said: ‘When we go to London next week, Major de Burgh wants to take us to the theatre. That will be nice, won’t it?’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Celia.

  6

  When Major de Burgh proposed to Celia he took her completely by surprise. Mrs Luke’s remarks, her mother’s, none of them had made any impression upon her. Celia saw clearly her own thoughts – she never saw coming events, and not usually her own surroundings.

  Miriam had asked Major de Burgh to come for the weekend. Actually he had practically asked himself, and, a little troubled, Miriam had uttered the necessary invitation.

  On the first evening Celia was showing the guest the garden. She found him very hard work. He never seemed to be listening to what she was saying. She was afraid that he must be terribly bored … Everything that she was saying was rather stupid, of course – but if only he would help –

  And then, breaking into what she was saying, he had suddenly seized her hands in his and in a queer, hoarse, utterly unrecognizable voice had said:

  ‘Marguerite – my Marguerite. I want you so. Will you marry me?’

  Celia stared. Her face went quite blank – her eyes were blue and wide and astonished. She was quite incapable of speech. Something was affecting her – affecting her powerfully – something that was being communicated through those trembling hands that held her. She felt enveloped in a storm of emotion. It was rather frightening – rather terrible.

  She stammered out:

  ‘I – no. I don’t know. Oh, no, I can’t.’

  What was he making her feel, this man, this elderly quiet stranger whom as yet she had hardly noticed, save to feel flattered because he ‘liked her’?

  ‘I’ve startled you, my darling. My little love. You’re so young – so pure. You can’t understand what I feel for you. I love you so.’

  Why didn’t she take her hands away and say at once, firmly and truthfully, ‘I’m very sorry, but I don’t care for you in that way’?

  Why, instead, just stand there, helpless, looking at him – feeling those currents beating round her head?

  He drew her gently towards him, but she resisted – only half resisted – did not draw completely away.

  He said gently: ‘I won’t worry you now. Think it over.’

  He released her. She walked away slowly to the house, went upstairs to her bed, lay down there, her eyes closed, her heart beating.

  Her mother came to her there half an hour later.

  She sat down on the bed, took Celia’s hand.

  ‘Did he tell you, Mother?’

  ‘Yes. He cares for you very much. What – what do you feel about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s – it’s all so queer.’

  She couldn’t say anything else. It was all queer – everything was queer – complete strangers could turn into lovers – all in a minute. She didn’t know what she felt or what she wanted.

  Least of all did she understand or appreciate her mother’s perplexities.

  ‘I’m not very strong. I’ve been praying so that a good man would come along and give you a good home and make you happy … There’s so little money … and I’ve had dreadful expenses over Cyril lately … There will be so little for you when I am gone. I don’t want you to marry anyone rich if you don’t care for him. But you’re so romantic, and a Fairy Prince – that sort of thing doesn’t happen. So few women can marry the man they are romantically in love with.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I did – yes – but even then – it isn’t always wise – to care too much. It’s a thorn in your side always … To be cared for – it’s better … You can take life more easily – I’ve never taken it easily enough. If I knew more about this man … If I was sure I liked him. He might drink … He might be – anything. Would he take care of you – look after you? Be good to you? There must be someone to take care of you when I’m gone.’

  Most of it passed Celia by. Money meant nothing to her. When Daddy had been alive they had been rich; when he had died they had been poor; but Celia had found no difference between the two states. She had had home and the garden and her piano.

  Marriage to her meant love – poetical, romantic love – and living happily ever afterwards. All the books she had read had taught her nothing of the problems of life. What puzzled and confused her was that she did not know whether she loved Major de Burgh – Johnnie – or not. A minute before his proposal she would have said if asked that most certainly she did not. But now? He had roused in her something – something hot and exciting and uncertain.

  Miriam had decreed that he was to go away and leave Celia to think it over for two months. He had obeyed – but he wrote – and the inarticulate Johnnie de Burgh was a master of the love letter. His letters were sometimes short, sometimes long, never twice the same, but they were the love letters a young girl dreams of getting. By the end of two months Celia had decided that she was in love with Johnnie. She went up to London with her mother prepared to tell him so. When she saw him, a sudden revulsion of feeling swept over her. This man was a stranger whom she did not love. She refused him.

  7

  Johnnie de Burgh did not take his defeat easily. He asked Celia five times more to marry him. For over a year he wrote to her, accepted ‘friendship’ with her, sent her pretty trifles, and laid persistent sie
ge to her, and his perseverance nearly won the day.

  It was all so romantic – so much the way Celia’s fancy inclined to being wooed. His letters, the things he said – they were all so exactly right. That was, indeed, Johnnie de Burgh’s forte. He was a born lover. He had been the lover of many women, and he knew what appealed to women. He knew how to attack a married woman and how to attract a young girl. Celia was very nearly swept off her feet into marriage with him, but not quite. Somewhere in her was something calm that knew what it wanted and was not to be deceived.

  8

  It was at this time that Miriam urged the reading of a course of French novels upon her daughter. To keep up your French, she said.

  They included the works of Balzac and other French realists.

  And there were some modern ones that few English mothers would have given to their daughters.

  But Miriam had a purpose.

  She was determined that Celia – so dreamy – so much in the clouds – should not be ignorant of life …

  Celia read them with great docility and very little interest.

  9

  Celia had other suitors, Ralph Graham, the original freckled-faced boy of the dancing class. He was now a tea planter in Ceylon. He had always been attracted by Celia, even when she was a child. Returning to find her grown up, he asked her to marry him during the first week of his leave. Celia refused him without hesitation. He had had a friend staying with him, and later the friend wrote to Celia. He had not wanted to ‘queer Ralph’s pitch,’ but he had fallen in love with her at first sight. Was there any hope for him? But neither Ralph nor his friend made any impression on Celia’s consciousness.

  But during the year of Johnnie de Burgh’s wooing she made a friend – Peter Maitland. Peter was some years older than his sisters. He was a soldier and had been stationed abroad for many years. Now he returned to England for a period of home service. His return coincided with Ellie Maitland’s engagement. Celia and Janet were to be bridesmaids. It was at the wedding that Celia got to know Peter.