My Sister Celia by Mary Burchell Page B

that,” Mrs. Vanner replied.
    Yes, of course,” Freda agreed coldly, but with dignity. “You have only my word for that, e nough I suppose, if you went back into the billeting records at Crowmain—the village to which we were both evacuated during the war—there might be some entry to show there were two of us.”
    “Yes, that ’ s possible,” agreed Mr. Vanner. And again Freda had the impression that his wife wished he would leave the matter to her handling.
    “I doubt if there are any such records at this date ,” she exclaimed impatiently. “In any case, I should tell you right away, Miss Mersham, that there is one fact in our possession which makes your claim quite untenable, in spite of the remarkable likeness.”
    “And what is that?” enquired Freda, suppressing with difficulty the angry impulse to point out that she had made no claim. The claim had been made, most eagerly, on her behalf by their own adopted daughter.
    “We have never discussed with Celia any of the meager information we had about her when we adopted her,” Mrs. Vanner explained. “And she was therefore unaware even of her name before we had her. But this, of course, was known to us at the time. It was not Mersham. ”
    “It was not ?” Freda was completely taken aback. “What—what was it, then?”
    “I don ’ t think it would serve any useful purpose to tell you.” Mrs. Vanner was quite firm about that. “The fact that it was not Mersham is all that matters, from your point of view, isn ’ t it?”
    “Why—why, yes,” agreed Freda, in utter dejection. “I suppose it is.”
    She hardly knew how to keep back her tears. Not for any humiliation or chagrin. But because the lovely, eager, heart-warming girl she had called “sister” for a few hours was not her sister, after all.
    Incredible though it might seem, Celia was nothing to her. The saying about blood being thicker than water did not apply to them. Celia —her little Celia—had died under the bombs years ago, just as she had always supposed. The beautiful, bright Celia who had appeared for a moment on her horizon was just a sort of mirage.
    And yet something rebellious stirred deep down in her. Something which almost hurt.
    “I can ’ t believe it!” Freda exclaimed. “There must be some explanation. I know—I kno w —”
    Suddenly she began to cry. Not loudly or stormily, but with quiet, deep sobs which astonished her herself—the more so that she simply could not control them.
    “Oh, please —” Mrs. Vanner sounded distressed and, for the first time, uncertain of herself. “You mustn ’ t cry about it. After all, you hardly know Celia.”
    “It doesn ’ t s-seem like that,” Freda sobbed. “She seemed just like my sister. For a few hours I—I had someone. Oh. I ’ m sorry, but —”
    “Don ’ t apologize.” It was Mr. Vanner who came over and put a kindly hand on her bowed head. “ We do—I do—understand your distress. But it was better to find out now than later, wasn ’ t it?”
    “ I suppose so,” Freda conceded sadly.
    “ Of course it was.” Mrs. Vanner took up that line of argument with bracing firmness. “That was really why we had to make such searching enquiries, you know—why we may have appeared to be a little—a littl e” she hesitated for the word and seemed unable to find it.
    “You see, if you had been Celia ’ s sister,” Mr. Vanner explained, “there would have been a good deal to settle—arrangements to make—and so on.”
    “I don’t understand.” Freda wiped her eyes childishly with the backs of her hands. “What sort of arrangements?”
    “ Well, if you had been Celia ’ s sister, we should have felt some sort of responsibility for you.”
    “Would you really?” Freda looked at Mr. Vanner in surprise, through her wet lashes, and she f elt faintly comforted that anyone should have thought about her in that sense, even passingly.
    “ That was my husband ’ s idea,” said Mrs. Vanner, and Freda