Celia's House (4 page)

Mr. and Mrs. Maurice Dunne drove up to Dunnian House in their new motorcar. They had had two punctures on their way from Edinburgh (which had annoyed them a good deal), and they both wished they had come by train in the comfortable old-fashioned manner. They were both out of temper not only with the new car, but also with the new chauffeur. Maurice had a feeling the man was incompetent, but he could not be sure, for he knew nothing about motorcars. Nina was certain the man was incompetent—he was impertinent as well. She had made up her mind that Maurice must give him a month's notice.

As the car drew up at the door, Nina noticed all the blinds in the house had been drawn down. She said in a low voice, “We're too late, Maurice.”

“Too late for what?” her husband asked, adding almost at once, “Oh, I see what you mean.”

There was an odd sort of stillness in the house. Nina noticed it the moment she crossed the threshold. Dunnian was always quiet, but today it was quiet in a different way. She left Maurice to speak to the lawyer, who had met them in the hall, and followed the housemaid upstairs. She found herself trying to walk quietly, but her high heels went click, click, click on the polished floor. The best spare bedroom, which had been prepared for Nina as usual, was full of sunshine, shining through the light yellow blinds. It was not so quiet here, for the birds were singing outside the window and Nina could hear the ripple of the Rydd Water in the distance.

“When did it happen?” Nina asked in a low voice.

“It was very sudden,” replied the housemaid. “She was sitting on the terrace this morning—”

“Was she all alone?” Nina asked in dismay.

“Oh, no, ma'am. Becky was there, but she hadn't time to call anybody or get the doctor or anything. She was gone in a moment.”

“The telegram said she was ill.”

“Yes, ma'am. We didn't know what to say. It seemed—we thought it was better to say she was ill—”

“I see,” said Nina. She turned away to hide a smile.
Breaking
it
gently
, she thought.

“It feels funny without her,” the girl continued with a slight tremor in her voice. “She was so quiet you wouldn't think it would make much difference—her not being here—but the house feels funny without her.”

“Yes, it's dreadfully sad.” Nina took off her hat as she spoke; it was draped with a voluminous motor veil, which was white with dust from the road.

“She seemed better,” continued the girl. “She seemed more like her old self the last few days. Yesterday she walked down to the garden—she hadn't been as far as the garden for weeks. Becky blames herself for letting Miss Dunne do it.”

“Becky mustn't do that,” Nina said with conviction.

“No, that's what I said to Becky. I said, ‘You mustn't blame yourself. Miss Dunne wanted to do it,' I said.”

“She was very strong-minded,” said Nina. By this time Nina had recovered a bit from the first shock and was looking around the room.
The paper is frightful
, she thought,
but the room is a good shape. I believe I shall take this as my room—I should never feel comfortable in hers. Pale green wallpaper and chintz. Liberty would be the best place for the chintz. My wardrobe would look well between the fireplace and the door—

“Mr. Wanlock, the lawyer, came at lunchtime,” continued the housemaid. “He's busy arranging everything, and Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey are expected tomorrow night.”

“Oh, they're coming, are they?” Nina exclaimed.

“Mr. Wanlock sent them a telegram,” replied the girl. She was surprised and a trifle ashamed to find that she was enjoying herself; although she was sincerely grieved about the old lady, it was exciting to talk to Mrs. Dunne and to be able to tell her all the news.

“I forget what your name is,” said Nina, smiling at her.

“It's Lizzie, ma'am.”

“Of course,” agreed Nina. “Silly of me to forget. I think I'll have a bath before dinner. I suppose there's still only the one bathroom.”

“I'll get it ready for you,” Lizzie said eagerly.

There were all sorts of things Nina wanted to ask, but she decided it would not do to appear inquisitive; she must be careful. She smiled to herself as she thought how careful she had been in her conversation with Lizzie. She hadn't said
anything…

Lizzie prepared the bath and put everything ready, then she ran downstairs. She was longing to find an audience and she was aware that the audience would be awaiting her, ready and willing to hear all she had to tell.

“She said,” began Lizzie as she burst in at the kitchen door. “She said, ‘It's dreadfully sad,' but there wasn't much sadness about
her
.”

“There wouldn't be,” Mrs. Drummond said acidly.

“She was in a rare taking when she heard Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey were expected. ‘What are
they
coming for, I should like to know,' she said.”

“She didn't!”

“Well, that's what she meant. Then I told her about Becky blaming herself for letting Miss Dunne go down the garden, and she said, ‘Becky needn't
blame
herself,' she said. No, thinks I, you'll not blame Becky for
that
! Then she said, ‘I think I'll have a bath before dinner. I suppose there's still only the one poky wee bathroom,' she said.”

“You're making it up.”

“No, it's maybe not the exact words, but it's near enough. So I said, ‘Yes, ma'am,' I said. It was a scream, I can tell you…and the way she was looking around all the time—like as if she was tearing the very paper off the walls! There'll be changes here before we're much older.”

“There'll be a change in the kitchen anyway,” Mrs. Drummond declared as she opened the oven door and popped in her soufflé. “She'll not get me to stay, not if she was to go down on her bended knees.”

Humphrey and Alice arrived at Dunnian the following evening just in time for dinner. They had traveled all the way from Portsmouth and Alice was exceedingly tired; she was so tired that she found it difficult to take in Dunnian and her first impression of the place was confused and dreamlike. It seemed immense after the little house at Portsmouth.

Nina and Maurice received the travelers graciously. “Don't bother to change,” said Nina. “Just come in as you are. Cook doesn't like us to be late for dinner; she's an absolute gorgon.”

Nina was in black velvet and diamonds, and her dark hair was piled upon her small head in rows of shining curls—she was the picture of elegance and assurance. If Alice had been permitted to bathe and change, she might have felt better able to cope with Nina, but, as it was, she could find nothing to say except “yes” and “no.” She was tired, and although she had washed her face and hands, she still felt dirty, and she was aware that her tweed coat and skirt were shabby and old-fashioned. Looking across the table at Humphrey, Alice realized he ought to have shaved. She noticed his suit was shiny and remembered he had had it for three years.
I ought to have sponged and pressed it
, she thought miserably. Humphrey was smiling at her, but Alice found it difficult to smile back, for suddenly she was quite certain in her own mind that there was some mistake; she was certain that Dunnian House was not coming to Humphrey. These people were successful and secure; they were the sort of people who “got things,” and she and Humphrey were the sort of people who didn't. She and Humphrey were unlucky. If they happened to put five shillings on a horse, it was sure to come in last. They had invested some money in an orange grove in Africa—it had sounded marvelous—but there was a drought or something and the orange trees had died. Nothing good ever came to her—or Humphrey. They were always in trouble of some kind.
To those that hath shall be given
, thought Alice vaguely. It seemed unfair, of course, but there it was: Maurice and Nina had everything and they would have Dunnian too. Alice was very near tears.

Alice looked around the table. Nina had given up trying to talk to her and was talking to Humphrey and Maurice; Mr. Wanlock was completely silent, drinking his soup. Mr. Wanlock was the only person who
knew
, thought Alice. He would know if Miss Dunne had changed her mind and made another will. He would know, but he wouldn't say—lawyers were so careful. She swallowed a lump in her throat, but it was still there, choking her, so that the soup would not go down.

“You haven't been here before, have you?” asked Nina, making another effort to draw Alice into the conversation.

“No,” said Alice, adding with some difficulty, “It's a lovely house.”

“It needs a great deal doing to it,” declared Nina, looking around the room. “The wallpaper is hideous—I can't think how anyone can have chosen it—and the furniture is terribly old-fashioned.”

“I think it suits the house,” Alice said in a very small voice.

“Suits the house?”

“Yes, I like it.” She put down her spoon as she spoke, for it was impossible to swallow another drop.

Mr. Wanlock put down his spoon at the same moment—his plate was empty. “I hope the children are well,” he said, addressing Alice.

This was the first remark he had made and Alice was taken aback. “Not very,” she replied. “They've all had whooping cough. Mark had it
very
badly.”

“Perhaps they need a change of air,” Mr. Wanlock said with immense gravity.

Alice looked at him quickly, but he was gazing straight before him, gazing at the heavy silver epergne filled with roses. His mouth was slightly pursed, drawn in at the corners. Had he meant anything or not, Alice wondered. She was not as a rule very perspicacious, but her hopes and fears had made her more so than usual. Her heart lightened a little.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Nina, smiling kindly. “Children should always have a change of air after whooping cough. I believe Margate is supposed to be the best place. It's so bracing.”

“Some doctors believe in hill air,” Mr. Wanlock said thoughtfully.

“Have some more sherry, Humphrey,” Maurice suggested. “Aunt Celia's sherry is excellent; I'm afraid I can't say the same of her port.”

“I had some the last time I was here. It was quite sound, I thought,” replied Humphrey.

“You were here in June, weren't you?”

“Just for a few days. I'm glad I saw her again. I was very fond of Aunt Celia.”

“She was a great lady,” Maurice said gravely. “She was one of the old school. Her mind was perfectly clear up to the day of her death. You'll agree with me there, Mr. Wanlock.”

“Perfectly clear,” Mr. Wanlock said with the ghost of a smile.

“Most unusual,” Maurice continued. (Humphrey had a feeling this was Aunt Celia's funeral oration and that Maurice had prepared it carefully beforehand.) “Most unusual for a woman of her age to retain her faculties as Aunt Celia retained hers, but she had a splendid brain and a tremendously strong personality. It was impossible to persuade Aunt Celia to act contrary to her judgment.”

“Very true,” murmured Mr. Wanlock, sipping his sherry with every appearance of enjoyment.

Maurice talked on, extolling Aunt Celia, and Humphrey had an opportunity to glance around the table. Humphrey was thankful to see that Alice was feeling better and was eating her fish quite happily. A few minutes earlier he had looked at her and had received the impression that she was on the verge of tears. He had no idea what had upset Alice nor what had restored her; it was rather mysterious really. Mr. Wanlock wore a prim expression. He was as close as an oyster. Nina looked like a cat with a bowl of cream in front of her, a very elegant well-bred pussycat, thought Humphrey, eyeing her with a good deal of admiration…and last but not least there was Maurice, his smooth, round face shining with good humor and complacency. (Humphrey wondered what Maurice's face would look like tomorrow when he heard… It was an uncomfortable thought.) Maurice was good-looking, he was well set up and impeccably dressed and Nina was his natural mate. They were a handsome pair—nobody could deny that, thought Humphrey. If Dunnian belonged to Maurice he would polish up the old house till it shone; he would entertain largely and magnificently; the old house would be filled with smooth, successful, well set-up men, like Maurice, and elegant women (like Nina) with high-heeled shoes and shining curls. But Dunnian would never belong to Maurice (thought Humphrey). Dunnian was coming to him and Alice—Aunt Celia had said so and he never doubted for a moment that she had kept her word. For a moment Humphrey felt quite alarmed. Would he and Alice be able to “live up to” the place? They were used to a different standard of life and to all sorts of makeshifts and expediencies; this would be quite a new experience with new responsibilities and new problems to solve…and then he remembered the children and his heart was suddenly at peace, for the children would make the old house into a home and that was what it should be. Dunnian had been built by old Humphrey Dunne, not as a sort of glorified hotel in which to entertain strangers, but as a family house for his children and his children's children. Young Humphrey raised his eyes and saw old Humphrey looking down at him from the wall. It was a friendly look.

They had finished dinner, and Humphrey had risen to open the door for the ladies, when they were all considerably surprised to hear the sound of wheels on the drive.

“Who's that, I wonder!” exclaimed Maurice, getting up from his chair.

“Someone with flowers,” suggested Nina, for flowers had been arriving all day, tributes to Miss Dunne from all over the county.

“Not flowers at this hour,” Maurice said.

For some reason they were all interested, and they were all in the hall when the front door was opened. A small slight woman appeared out of the darkness and walked in. She was about sixty, Humphrey thought; she was dressed in a gray squirrel coat and was carrying a dressing case in her hand. Her hair was white beneath her small red toque, and her eyes were brown and very bright. She stood there looking at them, and it was obvious she was surprised to see them here—just as surprised as they were to see her. Humphrey was the first to find his tongue. He went forward and took the dressing case from her hand. “I think you must be Cousin Henrietta,” he declared, smiling down at her.

“Yes,” she said, looking at him uncertainly.

“Aunt Celia told me about you.”

“Is she—is she ill?”

“Didn't you get the telegram?”

“No, I left home two days ago. I stayed in London. Oh dear, don't say she's very ill. I had a letter from her, you know. She said she wanted to see me, and somehow or other I felt—I had a feeling—so I just packed up and came.” She looked around the little group and added, “Oh dear, you don't mean—”

“She was very old, you know,” Humphrey said. The control of the situation seemed to have passed into his hands. He did not know how or why.

“I know,” agreed Mrs. Lacey. “I know she was old. Oh dear, why didn't I come before?” She sat down suddenly on the big sofa that stood at the bottom of the stairs and took out her handkerchief. “Oh dear,” she said again. “I was looking forward to seeing her. It's been such a long journey—”

“You must be tired,” said Humphrey. “We'll have a room prepared—” He looked at Nina as he spoke.

“Of course,” said Nina, coming forward.

When Mrs. Lacey had tidied herself and had been fed on what remained of the dinner, she rejoined the rest of the party in the drawing room, and Humphrey, for one, was exceedingly glad to see her. He was feeling the strain by this time, the strain of talking to Maurice and avoiding difficult ground. They had discussed the latest play in London—
The
Little
Michus
—and the latest star that had just arisen in the theatrical firmament—her name was Lily Elsie—and they had both agreed that her song “Nobody from Nowhere” was the highlight in the play. But even that subject was not inexhaustible, and when it was exhausted neither of them could find another. Maurice was just as embarrassed as Humphrey; he found himself playing the part of a genial host and pulled himself up with a jerk, for, although he was in reality Humphrey's host, it would not look well to assume the part until the matter was officially confirmed.

Humphrey, on the other hand, wished to appear noncommittal. Neutral, as it were. It would be hypocritical to acknowledge Maurice as his host; it was exceedingly difficult not to. There was the little incident of the “refreshments,” for instance. Humphrey wanted something. Should he rise and ring the bell and ask for it? No, that would be a bit too free and easy. Should he ask Maurice for something? No, he didn't feel he could do that either. He thought about it for a little while and at last hit on a middle course. “What about refreshments, Maurice?” he suggested.

“Of course,” cried Maurice. “How stupid of me! Why didn't you say so before… I mean,” he added in a different tone. “I mean, of course we must just ask for—for anything we want, mustn't we?”

“Yes,” Humphrey said firmly.

“Yes. So if you ring the bell, I'll—er—order the refreshments,” said Maurice.

But even with a glass of punch on the table beside him, Humphrey still felt uncomfortable. He felt a blank. They were incomplete. Aunt Celia ought to be here, sitting in her own straight-backed chair. The chair was empty, and once or twice Humphrey found himself glancing toward it as if he half expected to see the small, dainty figure sitting there, her gray silk dress spread out all around her and a red rose pinned to her bodice with a diamond brooch.

So it was that when Mrs. Lacey appeared, looking somewhat restored, Humphrey welcomed her with open arms.

“Here you are!” he exclaimed, rising to give her his seat. “Come sit near the fire, Cousin Henrietta.”

“Thank you, Maurice,” she replied.

“I'm Humphrey,” Humphrey said hastily. “That's Maurice and that's Nina, and this is Alice, my wife.”

“Uncle Harry's son,” she said, looking at Humphrey with interest. “No, Uncle Harry's grandson, of course. I remember him quite well. You're rather like him, you know; you're a real Dunne. Maurice takes after his mother's side of the family.”

“Some people think I'm like my grandfather,” Maurice declared.

“No,” said Mrs. Lacey, looking at him critically. “No, I can see no resemblance whatever. Grandpapa was an extremely handsome man.”

Neither Maurice nor Nina was pleased at this statement, and Humphrey thought it time to change the subject. He saw that Cousin Henrietta did not think it necessary to be tactful but preferred to speak exactly what was in her mind. She was like Aunt Celia in this as well as in other ways. All the same he was very grateful for her presence; perhaps tomorrow, when the awful moment arrived, he might be able to shelter behind her petticoats.