Listening Valley (2 page)

“Except one,” put in Jack, smiling at her affectionately.

“Sentimental nonsense,” grumbled Aunt Daisy, handing in her cup for more tea.

Neither Lou nor Tonia had any sense of social obligation, so they sat and ate chocolate éclairs and made no attempt to join in the conversation of their hosts. They listened, of course, in a slightly dazed manner, and not much of it escaped them. It was very pleasant in the garden, warm and bright. Bees buzzed among the flowers, and an occasional car passed by outside the high wall and hooted at the corner. Presently, the church bells began to ring for evening service, and the picture lady rose.

“Are you going to church?” asked Lou.

She smiled and shook her head. “It's time for you to go home, isn't it?”

“Let's keep them,” suggested Jack. “This is Liberty Hall. They would like to live here—”

“Yes, let's keep them,” agreed Aunt Daisy.

“I'm afraid you can't,” said Lou. “Mother might wonder where we had gone, and Nannie is coming home tomorrow—so you see—”

“I see,” said Jack sadly.

Their hosts accompanied them to the door and shook hands with them. “Come back soon,” said Jack.

“Nannie won't let them,” said the picture lady.

Aunt Daisy laughed and said, “Oh, you know who they are!”

Lou and Tonia walked home in silence, for there was so much to think about that they had no words at all. It was not until they had regained the familiar haven of the nursery and had seated themselves upon the blue cretonne-covered window seat that they found their tongues.

“Her name is Wanda,” said Tonia in a low voice.

“And Jack is her son,” said Lou. “And the house is called Liberty Hall.”

“She knows who we are,” said Tonia. “How does she know, Lou?”

“I wonder,” said Lou, frowning.

“They were laughing at us—”

“But not nastily—”

“Oh no—”

“All the same,” said Lou slowly. “All the same…we
were
silly. Next time…”

Tonia nodded. She knew what Lou meant, for they were so close to each other that they needed very few words. Next time they went to Liberty Hall they must behave like Mother's friends. Tonia knew how they behaved because she and Lou were sometimes present at Mother's tea parties and were permitted to hand around the cakes. Mother's friends talked all the time; they talked about their children, their servants, and their clothes. It was quite different sort of talk.

“I don't think we could,” said Tonia suddenly.

“What?” asked Lou, whose thoughts had strayed in a different direction.

“Talk to them,” said Tonia with a sigh.

While they were out, Maggie had brought up the nursery tea and laid it on the table. There were two large mugs of milk, a pile of thick bread and butter, and several slices of nursery cake—very plain and uninteresting.

“I couldn't,” said Lou, looking at it in disgust.

Tonia had not eaten as many éclairs as Lou, but she had eaten enough to make bread and butter distasteful. “I suppose we ought to,” she said in doubtful tones.

“I couldn't,” repeated Lou.

They were still looking at the spread and wondering what to do when Maggie returned to clear away.

“You've eaten nothing. Are you feeling well enough?” she inquired, looking at the children anxiously.

“We've had tea, thank you,” said Lou with a grand air. “We called on a lady and she asked us to stay.”

Lou did not hesitate to tell Maggie about their adventure, for Maggie was an ally. She was not like other grown-ups (who were apt to take strong views and were nearly always unreasonable). Maggie was young and friendly and amenable to suggestion. The story was a good one and Lou told it well, encouraged by the absorbed attention of her audience.

“Well now, did you ever hear the like!” exclaimed Maggie. “In the name of Fortune what will you think of next! You rang the bell as bold as brass and Mrs. Halley asked you in to tea!”

“Mrs. Halley—is that her name?” asked Lou.

“That's her name,” replied Maggie, nodding portentously. “My cousin is there as kitchen maid and I've been there two or three times. It's a very comfortable place if you don't mind the goings-on.”

“Goings-on?”

“Parties and the like. It's a gay house—not like here. I had the offer to go as housemaid, but Father put his foot down,” added Maggie regretfully. “Father is all for respectability.”

“What
is
respectability?” inquired Tonia. The word had intrigued her when she had heard it used by her new friends—and here it was again.

“Well, there now,” said Maggie. “You're a funny one and no mistake. Respectability is living with your husband, quiet-like, and going off to bed at the proper time… And my goodness if it's not your bedtime this minute and me with the tea dishes to wash. You get started now,” added Maggie, lifting the heavy tray with a swing of her strong young arms. “You turn on the bath and get your things ready. I'll be up in a minute—”

Nannie was not sorry when her short holiday ended and she found herself back in her own comfortable nursery, for Nannie's holiday was merely a change of work and a change for the worse. Nannie's mother lived at Ryddelton and took lodgers in the summer months. When Nannie went home, she spent her time washing and scrubbing and polishing until everything in the house was as bright and shining as a new pin—for that was the way she was made—and as Nannie was not very young and was unused to hard work, she was very tired at the end of it.

Nannie was small and rotund, she had rosy cheeks and bright brown eyes, and she always wore a crackly starched apron. Her name was Kate Dalrymple—like the lady in the song—and, to tell the truth, she was very proud of the fact that there was a song that might be said to be her exclusive property. Naturally enough, it was Nannie's favorite song; she sang it to the children and hummed it cheerfully as she laid the nursery meals. She was a cheerful person. When she was not busy with the hundred and one little jobs that fell to her lot, Nannie employed her time with crochet; she was always working out new patterns and murmuring the complicated directions under her breath. She made crochet mats for her mother's birthday, and crochet insertions for towels, and tablecloths with crochet lace, but her chief work, and one that employed her for months, was a set of crochet antimacassars for her mother's sitting room.

In spite of the holiday feeling that had prevailed in Nannie's absence, the children were delighted at her return and welcomed her warmly. Tonia was especially glad to see Nannie back, for she was more dependent than Lou upon Nannie's good offices. Tonia had the greatest difficulty in coping with buttons and shoelaces—in fact, with anything that required nimble fingers—and Nannie understood this disability and was reasonably patient. Sometimes she grumbled, of course, and sometimes she seized Tonia's hands (which were very small and frail) and looked at them thoughtfully, but usually she just did up the buttons and tied the laces without any comment.

“Did you enjoy your holiday?” Tonia inquired.

“Not much. I'm getting too old for holidays,” replied Nannie with dry humor.

“I suppose the lodgers were a nuisance,” said Lou.

“Why does your mother have them?” Tonia wanted to know.

“To make money,” replied Nannie, who was always more communicative when she returned from Ryddelton and less inclined to turn aside a straight question. “People have to make money so as to buy food and clothes; besides what would be the use of having a lovely house and not taking in lodgers? It's not like an ordinary house, you know,” said Nannie proudly. “People come back there year after year; nice people, too.”

“Why isn't it like an ordinary house, Nannie?”

“Because it belonged to your Great-Aunt Antonia, of course. I've told you half a dozen times.”

“Did your mother buy the house?”

“Well, what a question. How would she have the money to buy it—and the furniture and everything? The house was given to her by old Mr. Melville, your grandfather, because she had been housekeeper at Ryddelton Castle for years and years. He gave it to her when old Miss Antonia died. That's what happened. He gave her a pension, too—but you don't understand all that.”

“I do,” declared Lou earnestly. “It's very interesting, Nannie. What did Grandfather do when he gave away his house?”

“Goodness! As if you didn't know! I've told you already it was old Miss Antonia's house. Your grandfather never lived there himself. He lived at Ryddelton Castle, a lovely big place about six miles out of Ryddelton. You've seen the picture of Ryddelton Castle hanging on the wall in your father's study, haven't you? Melville House—where my mother lives—is in Ryddelton, in the High Street. The family used to move into Ryddelton in the winter when the roads were so bad they couldn't get in and out to Ryddelton Castle. That's why all the big families that lived roundabout used to have houses in the town. Of course that was long ago. It's a very old house, you know. It's one of the oldest houses in the town. The front door opens right onto the High Street, but there's a nice bit of garden at the back.”

“Why don't we live at Ryddelton Castle now?”

“Because…oh well, because your mother doesn't like the country. The castle was sold soon after Tonia was born. There now, that's enough…too much I shouldn't wonder,” added Nannie under her breath.

It was at least sufficient to kindle the interest of Lou and Tonia, and they continued to pester Nannie with questions.

“Ask your father,” said Nannie at last. “He was born and brought up at Ryddelton Castle. Perhaps he'll tell you about it.”

It was not easy to carry out this suggestion, for their father was away all day at his office, and when he was at home he paid very little attention to his daughters and showed no desire for their company. However, Lou was of a persistent nature so she bided her time, and one evening when her mother was out and Nannie was busy, she presented herself in her father's study, dragging a reluctant Tonia by the hand.

“We want to know all about Ryddelton Castle,” said Lou firmly. “I want to know and so does Tonia—only she's rather shy. So will you tell us, please?”

“I suppose Nannie's been talking,” said Mr. Melville, looking at his elder daughter and noting, for the first time, that she was a very good-looking child. “Well, never mind. There's no reason why she shouldn't talk—nothing to be ashamed of. It's a fine place. I never would have sold it if one of you had been a boy.”

“Why?” asked Lou.

“Good heavens, that's obvious, isn't it? There's always been a Melville at the castle—ever since it was built hundreds of years ago. But what was the use of keeping it? Ella wouldn't live there.”

“Mother?”

“Yes, your mother can't stand the country at any price. She couldn't get her bridge. There was no use keeping the place standing empty. Damned fine place it is. Sometimes I think I was a fool to sell it, but I got a good offer and I took it.” He sighed and relapsed into silence.

“Is there a pond?” asked Tonia in a very small voice.

“A pond!” exclaimed Mr. Melville in disgust. “My good child, there's a river. That's better than a pond, isn't it? I'll show you some photographs if you like.” He rose and took some large photograph albums off a shelf in his bookcase and handed one to Tonia.

Tonia dropped it.

“She can't help dropping things,” said Lou, picking it up and putting it on the table.

“What d'you mean?” asked Mr. Melville. “Why can't she help it? Carelessness, that's what it is.”

“No,” said Lou earnestly. “No, she isn't careless. She just can't hold things with her hands.”

“Holds things with her feet, I suppose,” said Mr. Melville with heavy sarcasm. “Well, never mind. There's no harm done. No need to look so miserable about it.”

The albums were full of photographs, and Mr. Melville turned the pages and expatiated on the glories of his ancestral home. He found his daughters a sympathetic audience. They listened with attention; they exclaimed at the right moment; they asked quite pertinent questions. Mr. Melville enjoyed himself, surprisingly, for he had loved Ryddelton Castle. Of course Lou and Tonia were Melvilles, so perhaps that was why they were so interested.

“That's the Rydd Water,” said Mr. Melville. “It runs through the grounds quite close to the castle. I used to fish in it when I was a boy. And here's a photograph of the woods…and this is the garden. You can see the greenhouses in the corner. You've seen the big photograph of the castle, of course. I had it enlarged. There it is over the fireplace.”

They turned and looked at it again—the square, solid-looking building with the tower (from which on a clear day you could see the English hills).

There was a picture of the town house as well, and Mr. Melville elaborated Nannie's information on the subject. Ryddelton was a gay little town in winter, when all the big families were congregated there. They had balls at the town hall and whist at each other's houses in the long winter evenings. Scarcely a day passed without some sort of party; there were lots of young people about.

They opened another album full of photographs of people, gentlemen in queer old-fashioned clothes, ladies in crinolines, family groups of children.

“She's like Tonia,” declared Lou, pointing to a colored sketch of a young girl with dark curls and a rose-leaf complexion.

“Is she?” asked Mr. Melville doubtfully. “I don't see much resemblance. That's my Aunt Antonia when she was young.”

“The one that lived in Melville House?”

“Yes, she lived there. She was my father's eldest sister. She was engaged to be married to a man called Arthur Dunne—one of the Dunnes of Dunnian—but he was lost at sea.”

“Oh, poor Antonia!” cried Tonia in dismay.

Mr. Melville looked at her in surprise, for it seemed odd that she should be distressed over something that had happened so long ago.

“Did you ever see Aunt Antonia?” asked Lou, whose curiosity was as insatiable as that of the elephant's child.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Melville, “I remember her quite well. I used to go to see her when I was a small boy, and she always gave me mixed cookies with little pieces of sugar on the top. She wore a silk dress and a lace cap with lilac ribbons, and the whole house smelled of lavender. I remember when she died,” continued Mr. Melville in reminiscent tones. “I must have been about seventeen. It was a magnificent funeral. I never saw so many flowers in my life, and the carriages stretched all down Ryddelton High Street. Everybody knew her, of course.”

“So then her house was given to Nannie's mother. I wonder why?”

“There were various reasons—reasons you wouldn't understand. There were rows in the family about it. My father was a hasty-tempered man, and he suddenly lost patience and made it over to Mrs. Dalrymple just as it stood, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Because Mrs. Dalrymple loved Aunt Antonia,” said Tonia, nodding.

“How do you know?” asked Mr. Melville in surprise.

Tonia was silent.

“Well, can't you answer?” inquired Mr. Melville. “There's no need to look sulky. I'm asking you a plain question: How did you know?”

“I just—knew,” said Tonia in a trembling voice.

Mr. Melville was irritated (it took very little to irritate him because he had inherited his father's temper and had taken no pains to improve it), so he shut the album with a bang and told his daughters to go back to the nursery.

“He was cross,” whispered Tonia as they went upstairs together.

“Grown-ups are like that,” said Lou in comforting tones. “They're nice, and you get on all right, and then suddenly they're cross.”

“P'raps they get tired,” said Tonia.

“Yes, because they're so old,” agreed Lou.

Mr. Melville (aged a little over forty) would have been even less pleased with his offspring if he could have heard their remarks. As it was, he put the albums back on the shelf with very mixed feelings. He had enjoyed himself up to a point, but now he was upset and irritated. Why was that, wondered Mr. Melville. The children were such an odd mixture, a mixture of sense and imbecility. In Tonia the imbecility predominated. Perhaps it was because he saw the children so seldom that he found them a strain; he must see them more often…but did he want to see them more often? Mr. Melville was debating this point when Mrs. Melville came in—she had been to a bridge party, of course.

“The children have been here,” said Mr. Melville crossly.

“Here?” asked Mrs. Melville in amazement.

“Yes,
here.
I can't think why you don't have them in the drawing room. Nannie can't be expected to keep them the whole time. As a matter of fact, I don't know how she stands it.”

“She's paid to stand it—and I always have them down after tea.”

“Not always—”

“Yes, always, unless I'm out or have people in to bridge.”

“Which happens four days out of five!”

“They're much happier in the nursery. Nannie understands them.”

“That's a nice admission!” cried Mr. Melville. “You don't understand your own children!”

“Neither do you,” Mrs. Melville pointed out.

“I do. I've had them here for nearly an hour—”

“And you're as cross as a bear after it.”

“I am not,” declared Mr. Melville furiously. “I am not in the least upset. We got on very well indeed. Lou is quite sensible and amusing. She takes a real interest in things—in the family for instance—and that's more than you do.”

“Good gracious, what a fuss!” said Mrs. Melville, yawning. “If you like having the children, have them by all means.”

“You ought to have them.”

“They bore me so dreadfully,” complained Mrs. Melville. “I find them dull. If one of them had been a boy, it would have been different.”

“What on earth is the use of saying that?” demanded Mr. Melville. “Of course it would have been different if one of them had been a boy—everything would have been different. You know perfectly well I wanted a boy.”

“It wasn't my fault,” declared Mrs. Melville, smiling.

“It
was
your fault,” retorted her enraged husband. “There was no reason why we shouldn't have had another try. As a matter of fact, it isn't too late now—”

“You're mad!” cried Mrs. Melville, roused at last. “Nothing would induce me to have another child. I told you that after Tonia was born…”