Celia's House (10 page)

They walked on in silence for a while and then Mark began to talk again. “Do you like the woods?” he inquired.

“Not awfully,” said Debbie in a low voice. “You see, I'm not used to being where there aren't any people. It's so very quiet in the woods. No people anywhere,” said Debbie, trying to explain. “Just trees and trees and trees.”

“There used to be people here.”

“Do you mean savages?” she asked, looking around apprehensively.

“No, people like us—people who lived in houses and slept in beds and cooked their food in saucepans. Look at that heap of stones! It was once a cottage, you know. This was the garden—it's all nettles now, but I expect they grew potatoes and cabbages.”

Debbie was interested. It was nice to think of people living here, ordinary people. She said, “I wonder if there's anything left.
You
know, Mark—hidden treasure or anything.”

“Hidden treasure!”

“Not really
treasure
,” she explained, “but just
something.
Let's look about, shall we?”

Mark was not particularly keen to hunt for treasure, but he smiled and agreed and the two of them poked about in the ruins of the house. They looked for a long time because, somehow or other, the fascination of hunting for treasure gripped them. Mark found an old knife with a broken blade, and Debbie found a spoon.

“Look, Mark!” she cried excitedly. “Look, a spoon!”

“What a frightful-looking thing!” Mark said.

It was rather frightful, for it was bent and completely black and encrusted with dirt.

“It's silver,” cried Debbie.

“No, it isn't.”

“Yes, it is. I'll take it home and clean it. Can I have it, Mark? Can I have it for my very own?”

“Of course,” said Mark, smiling at the request.

“Even if it's silver?”

“It isn't silver.”

“But if it
is
,” Debbie said urgently.

“You can have it if it's gold,” Mark replied, laughing.

Debbie sighed with pleasure. She put it in her pocket and they walked on. Somehow or other the mere fact that people had lived here—people who used spoons—made the woods seem less empty. It was the vast space and emptiness of the Dunnian Woods that frightened her. She said so to Mark and Mark seized on the word at once.

“Empty!” he exclaimed. “But the woods aren't empty! They're full of all sorts of birds and animals. Look, there's a rabbit, Debbie!” he cried as a little gray streak fled across their path.

“I know there are a few rabbits—” Debbie began.

“There are hundreds,” he declared. “You don't see them because they live underground…hundreds and thousands of them in their little holes, all lined with soft stuff like birds' nests. And then there are squirrels. If you sit very quietly you see them peeping at you out of the trees. That's why I like coming to the woods by myself, because there's so much to see.”

He talked on, telling her all sorts of interesting things, and Debbie felt better every moment. Suddenly she thought,
I wish I could give Mark something
. But of course she couldn't. Mark had all he wanted and she had nothing to give.

“What are you thinking about?” Mark asked.

“Nothing,” Debbie replied quickly.

“But you
do
think about things. What do you think of all the time? Do you like being at Dunnian?”

“Yes.”

“No, you don't,” he said. “You wish you were back with your mother.”

Debbie hesitated. She wasn't sure. She looked back at her old life and suddenly, for the first time, she realized its drawbacks. She remembered the anxieties, the worries, the constant nagging to which she had been subjected (“Debbie, you've boiled the eggs as hard as stones!” “Debbie, you've forgotten to dust the mantelpiece!”), and she remembered too how her head had ached after sitting up late and how often she had felt sick and miserable.

“You do, don't you?” urged Mark.

“No, not now.”

“Good,” Mark said, smiling at her.

“I wish I was cleverer,” she said slowly. “I wish I could do lessons as well as Edith. I wish I had curly hair.”

Mark didn't laugh. He said, “I like you better than Edith. You're my favorite sister.”

This was wonderful. It was going to help a lot. It was going to make all the difference in the world. Mark liked her.

They walked on for a while and then Debbie heaved a sigh. “If only you didn't have to go away to school, I believe I could be quite happy,” she declared. “I wish you could stay at home.”

“So do I,” Mark replied in a gruff voice. “You needn't think I like it, Debbie. Sometimes I feel I just can't bear it another moment, but I've got to bear it. All boys have to go to school so—so I've got to bear it, Debbie,” and then he found himself telling Debbie all about school and all about the troubles and trials that had made his first term at school a perfect nightmare…about the boys who made your life a burden, and about the nights when you lay awake and thought of Dunnian. Mark had meant to keep his troubles to himself, to stick it out and tell nobody, so he was rather surprised to find himself telling Deb.

The years passed, but Dunnian showed little signs of change. There was electric light in the old house now, and four bathrooms, and there was a new garage behind the stables that held two cars, but Dunnian had assimilated these modern improvements without losing character or dignity. Several of the old trees had fallen and had been replaced with small ones that would grow to noble proportions long after Humphrey was dead. The drive had been widened a little, but the lawn was as smooth and green and velvety as ever. When Humphrey returned at Christmastime in the year 1914 for his first “war leave,” he found the place as peaceful and beautiful as ever. It was only in the children that he found change. They grew so quickly; they seemed to move on suddenly—suddenly, one found that their heads came higher up on one's own body, and there was less need to stoop when one spoke to them; suddenly one found in them new words and thoughts.

Mark was at Loretto now; it was a splendid school and not too far from Dunnian. Mark liked it a good deal better than Welland House. He had developed into a grave, thoughtful boy, but there was a latent twinkle in his eye and he had a sense of humor much livelier than either of his parents. He was a very special person to Humphrey, first because he was such a splendid companion and second because Humphrey felt the necessity for making up to Mark for what he had lost. Humphrey was still unreconciled to the fact that Dunnian was to belong to Celia when he was dead; sometimes he blamed himself for accepting Aunt Celia's decision so tamely, and sometimes he wondered whether things would have been different if he had insisted upon a proper “Dunne” name for his eldest son. If Mark had been Henry or Humphrey or William, Aunt Celia might have left the place to him—so Humphrey thought, and he blamed himself accordingly.

It was a good Christmas leave in spite of the war. They had a Christmas tree—one of their own small firs that Johnson brought in from the woods—and they all helped to decorate it with colored balls and tinsel and little candles. Even Celia helped. She was four and a half now, still tiny, but as pretty as a picture and as perky as a robin. The other girls were like Alice, but Celia was a Dunne.

“Oh, pretty!” Celia cried when the decorations were finished and they all stood back to admire their handiwork. “Oh, pretty tree—I think a squirrel would like to make his nest in you!”

“Silly!” exclaimed Joyce. “A squirrel would be frightened of it. Silly baby!”

Humphrey half expected tears, but Celia was not a crybaby and although she was so much smaller than the others she was quite able to stand up for herself. He found it very interesting—and sometimes a bit alarming—to see his children's characters developing before his eyes. Alice had been an excellent mother when they were all small, but now he thought she was apt to spoil Edith, to cosset her and make much of her and imbue her with the sense of her own importance as “the eldest Miss Dunne.” He was so perturbed about this that he tackled Alice about it, but he did not get much satisfaction for his trouble.

“Edith is so sensitive,” Alice said with a smile. “Edith has such a tender heart. You don't understand girls, darling. Girls are quite different from boys. They need encouragement, you know.”

“She's a little sulky sometimes,” Humphrey pointed out, “and she's apt to be selfish with the others.”

“It's just her way,” Alice replied quickly. “Really and truly, she's got a very sweet nature.”

That afternoon there was a children's party at Dunnian. The Raeworths came (Andrew and Angela and Mildred) and the Murrays from Timperton and the Sprotts and a few others as well. It was delightful to see them all dressed up in their pretty frocks, flitting about the old house like a swarm of butterflies; it was entrancing to hear their happy laughter and the cries of astonishment that greeted the appearance of the tree. Humphrey dressed up as Father Christmas, distributed the presents, and enjoyed himself thoroughly in his unaccustomed role. He was very much amused when Celia came forward to receive her gift and announced gravely, “I think you must be a relation of mine, Mr. Christmas. You're very like my daddy, if it wasn't for your beard.”

It was a satisfactory leave in every way, and, although it was necessarily short, Humphrey felt he had accomplished a good deal. He and Mark had moved on a step further in their friendship. They took out a gun and shot some rabbits on the moor, and Mark made a good start at shooting. After dinner they went out together into the crisp, cold night and looked at the stars through Humphrey's telescope. Like most sailors Humphrey knew a good deal about the stars, and he found that Mark was interested in them too. Humphrey would smoke his pipe and they would talk or be silent together in friendly understanding.

The days soon passed and Humphrey returned to his ship. He was a captain now, in command of a cruiser, so his responsibilities increased. When he was at sea Dunnian seemed like a dream and his family seemed like a part of the dream, vague and insubstantial.

At Jutland, when a shell hit the
Glory
with a sickening thud, Humphrey thought of Mark. Quite suddenly, and while he was giving the necessary orders in a cool, firm voice, Humphrey realized that he should have told Mark about Dunnian, that Dunnian was to be Celia's house when he was dead. Mark was old enough to know and Humphrey wanted to explain the whole thing. It would be a pity if he had left it too late.

The old
Glory
was out of the fight, but she managed to stagger home. She staggered into Rosyth and dropped anchor above the bridge. Humphrey was dead tired, but before he went to sleep he sent off a wire to Loretto asking Mark to meet him at Hawes Pier on the following day.

The day was fine, and as Humphrey stepped into the ship's boat and was rowed over to the pier, he scanned it eagerly to see if Mark had come. Would he be there? Would they have let him come? Yes, there he was! Humphrey's heart turned over in his breast as he caught sight of the slim figure in the gray flannel suit standing upon the stone jetty waiting for him. He waved, and Mark waved back. Another few minutes and Humphrey had sprung out of the boat and was shaking hands with his son.

“Is everything all right, Mark?”

“Yes, Dad. Everything's fine.”

“They let you come!”

“Of course—I explained—they didn't make any fuss at all. Gosh, it's grand to see you, Dad!”

“It was just a sudden idea—”

“A splendid idea—”

They walked up the pier together, their hearts bursting with pride and happiness. (
What
a
son
to
have!
thought Humphrey, glancing at the bright, eager face that was now almost on a level with his own.
What
a
father!
thought Mark, as he walked beside the blue-and-gold-clad hero.
Gosh, I wish the fellows could see him!)

“If they hadn't let me come,” Mark was saying. “Well, I would just have
come
all the same. They couldn't have kept me from coming—wild horses couldn't. I got a train from Musselburgh and changed at Edinburgh. It was quite easy.”

Soon they were sitting in the queer old-fashioned dining room of the Hawes Inn having lunch together, and Mark was looking about him with interest and excitement.

“You're thinking of David Balfour,” Humphrey said, smiling.

“Yes, of course I am. You always know what I'm thinking, don't you, Dad?”

It was early, so the dining room was empty and Humphrey was able to tell Mark all about the battle—or at least about the
Glory's
part in the action. He illustrated his story with spoons and forks and cruet stands, moving them about to show Mark what had happened.

“That's the
Glory
,” said Humphrey, and ever after, Mark associated the old
Glory
with a mustard pot. “That's the
Glory
, you see. We were following the line…the
Valiant
was just here…”

“Was it a victory?” Mark wanted to know.

“It would have been if we hadn't lost them in the fog,” Humphrey replied a little doubtfully.

“They ran away, so it must have been a victory,” Mark pointed out.

“Time will tell,” replied Humphrey. “We don't know enough yet to be able to say for certain. We lost more ships, but—as you say—they avoided further action.” He sighed and rearranged the spoons. “I wanted to talk to you about things,” he added.

“Yes, Dad.”

“You see, I couldn't help thinking. It's war and there may be another show—and—and we can't be sure that it won't be the old
Glory
's turn to go up next time. You see what I mean?”

Mark saw.

“That's why I wanted to talk to you,” Humphrey said.

“Yes,” said Mark. “Yes.” He looked out of the window and saw the
Glory
lying at anchor in the sparkling water. The scene was a trifle blurred.

“It's about Dunnian,” Humphrey said. “Dunnian belonged to Aunt Celia—you know that, of course—and she left it to me for as long as I'm alive, but after that it goes to Celia.”

“To Celia!”

Humphrey nodded. “It was Aunt Celia's idea. She was a queer old lady and that was what she wanted. She was born in the house and she lived in it for ninety years and she wanted another Celia to have it.”

“What a funny idea!”

“Yes. Perhaps I should have told you before.”

“Why?” Mark asked in bewilderment.

“Well, didn't you—I mean, perhaps you thought it would be yours.”

“Mine?” asked Mark.

“That would be the usual thing,” Humphrey pointed out. “I mean, you're my eldest son, but Aunt Celia had this queer idea and so—”

“Yes, I see.”

It was very difficult, far worse than Humphrey had expected. He decided that he must take the next fence with a rush; it was the only way. “So you see,” Humphrey said very quickly. “You see, Mark, if anything happened to me, Celia could turn you all out of the house when she is twenty-one. I don't suppose she would do it, of course, unless she married, but she would be entitled to do it if she felt inclined.”

“Celia!” Mark exclaimed again. “But Celia is just a baby.”

“You have to look ahead,” Humphrey said desperately. “We
must
look ahead, old fellow. There isn't much money except what goes with the house and it goes to Celia, of course. I wouldn't be saying all this if it wasn't for the war, but we've got to look ahead…just in case…”
I
shouldn't
be saying it at all
, he thought, as he saw Mark's face whiten.
It's ghastly to upset him like this. He's only a child when all's said and done, but I might be killed any day.
He thought of the
Queen
Mary
, of that frightful explosion and the burst of flame that had followed it. Humphrey would never forget that sight as long as he lived.

“Yes, of course,” Mark said huskily.

“So that's how it stands,” continued Humphrey, trying to speak quite cheerfully. “And that's why you'll have to think very seriously and try to decide what you want to do.”

“I have been thinking about it, Dad. I think I should like to be a doctor. Would that be all right?”

“I suppose so,” Humphrey said in surprise, for somehow he had never thought of this. “It's a long training, but once you were qualified you would be independent. You really think you'd like it?”

“Yes, I'm sure I should.”

“You had better go ahead then. It's a great thing to know your own mind, to have a definite goal and go all out for it; that's the way to succeed.”

“Would it take too much money, Dad?”

“No,” Humphrey said firmly. “No, there's a little money—enough to see you through. It might not run to Oxford or Cambridge—”

“I thought of Edinburgh.”

“Fine—it would be near home too.”

Mark was silent for a few moments and then he said, “What about the others?”

“Your mother has a little money of her own, not much of course, but—but she would get a pension if…and Billy wants to go into the service, doesn't he?”

Mark nodded.

“Don't worry, old chap,” said Humphrey. “I wouldn't have told you all this, but I felt I would rather tell you myself than leave you to find out about it later. I'm not dead yet, you know.”

Mark smiled faintly.

“Don't worry,” repeated Humphrey. “And of course don't talk about it to anyone—except Mother, of course. You can talk about it to Mother if you like. Now then, how about coming aboard.”

“Coming aboard!” Mark echoed in amazement. “You don't mean I could come aboard the
Glory
, do you?”

“Why not?” Humphrey asked, smiling.

It was a sudden idea of Humphrey's to take Mark aboard and it was a very good one, for Mark was so excited at the privilege of being on board a ship that had just taken part in a battle that he forgot his troubles; his face lost the strained expression that had worried Humphrey so much and became boyish and eager. Some of the officers were on board and were very kind and cheerful. They showed Mark the scars that had been sustained by the ship, and one of them presented Mark with a shell splinter he had found in his cabin. Mark was interested in everything, and Humphrey saw that he was making a very good impression on everyone who spoke to him. Humphrey could not help wishing that Mark was going into the service. It would be easier from a financial point of view, but it never crossed his mind to try to influence Mark, for he wanted Mark to be free and make a success of his chosen profession.