Celia's House (8 page)

Mark was settling down too, and finding his new life easy and pleasant. He liked driving over to Hastley Dean for his lessons; it gave him a feeling of pride and importance to come out of the front door every morning and find Downie waiting for him in the pony cart. He liked his lessons and he liked the Raeworth children. Andrew was a little older than Mark, but Angela was exactly the same age; they battled through the multiplication tables together and became fast friends. Lessons were interesting, but Dunnian was even more enthralling. He was allowed to go out by himself and “explore.” Soon he began to know the place pretty thoroughly; every stone and tree became familiar to him. He gave his own names to the various localities, names that he made up out of his head or that grew naturally from some incident associated with them. There was, for instance, “Hornie Path,” where Mark had encountered a very alarming cow with horns upon its head and had turned and fled for dear life, and there was “Sunny Patch,” a little glade in the woods where a tree had been felled and left an open space.

The woods were Mark's chief playground; they were full of rabbits, and sometimes, if you sat very still for a long time, you saw a squirrel peeping at you from a tree. There were pigeons too, and in spring they filled the woods with peaceful cooing sounds that blended with the rustling of the leaves. At first Mark was interested only in the geography of the place, the stones, the rocks, the hills and the winding paths, but after a while he wanted to know more about Dunnian, about things that had happened there long ago.

Mark found that Becky could help him here, for Becky knew all sorts of interesting things about Dunnian. She told him about the building of the house, how the stones for it were brought in carts from the quarry at Timperton Law, so that really and truly Dunnian was a part of Timperton Law—that was interesting. She told him about the ruined cottage Mark had found in the wood and about the old mill on the Rydd Water that was hundreds of years old but was still working, sawing up timber, but, best of all, Mark liked the stories about Great-Great-Aunt Celia when she was a little girl.

“You must be
very
old, Becky,” Mark said one day, looking at her with large, innocent eyes.

Becky laughed. “Oh, I'm not as old as all that,” she replied. “I wasn't born then; it's just what I've learned from other people, and I've heard a good deal. My mother was maid to Miss Dunne before she was married—and that's not yesterday—and there's an old, old woman in Ryddelton who remembers when the Miss Dunnes were all young and could tell you all about the balls and junketings and about Miss Isabel's wedding.”

“I'd like to see her,” Mark said.

“So you shall,” promised Becky. “I'll take you to see her one fine day. She'll be as pleased as a dog with two tails.”

These talks with Becky gave Mark a feeling for history; they made the dry bones of history come alive. Mark found he could remember the date of Waterloo because Aunt Celia had been born the day after the battle, and Aunt Celia's grandfather (whose picture hung over the mantelpiece in the dining room) had seen Prince Charlie with his own eyes, which made Prince Charlie real. Dunnian was all mixed up with history, for, although the house was not really old, there had been a fort at Dunnian for unknown ages. This fort—or peel—was ruined now and its only inhabitants were owls and jackdaws, but long ago people had lived there—and the people were called Dunne.

Mark loved to hear stories about these ancestors of his, stories about battles against the English, stories about forays and cattle raids, when the Dunnes armed themselves and rode over the Border to “get their beef.” “Tell me more, Becky,” he would say when Becky paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “Tell me about Sir Humphrey Dunne being knighted by Robert the Bruce.”

“You've heard it before.”

“I know, but I like hearing it. Tell me again.”

“Once upon a time,” Becky began, taking up a stocking and beginning to knit industriously. “Once upon a time, long, long ago, the Borders were very unsettled and the Border Barons were powerful and bold. Some of these Barons were more powerful than the Dunnes and had more men under them, but none of them had stronger men nor better equipped than Humphrey Dunne. Thirty-six men at arms, he had, all picked for boldness and strength and cunning and all well mounted too. It was in the time of Robert the Bruce. He went to Ireland for a bit, and while he was away, there was talk of an English invasion, so Sir James Douglas built a strong encampment near Ferniehurst, and you can see the remains of it to this very day. Things were quiet enough for a wee while and then Sir James got word that the English were coming. Ten thousand men, there were, with axes, and they were going to cut down the forest of Jed, which was one of the places where the Scots had ambushed the English before. The Forest of Jed was one of the best defenses Scotland had, for it lay directly in the path of an advancing army and the Douglas was not going to stand by and see it leveled to the ground—not he. The Border Barons were summoned, but time was short and the distances were long and the English were coming down from the passes before the Barons had assembled. The Douglas only had a very small force of men-at-arms and some crossbowmen, but he had a head on him and he knew just what to do. Well, what he did was to make a trap for the English. He wove a lot of branches together and made a sort of maze and then he hid his men and waited until the English came. As soon as he saw that they were into his trap he gave the order to start and his men rose up from their hiding places shouting: ‘A Douglas, a Douglas!' and fell upon the English and fought them tooth and nail. It was in the middle of the battle that Humphrey Dunne arrived on the scene. He had ridden thirty miles at breakneck speed and he did not hesitate now. Into the battle he plunged, shouting, ‘The Dunnes are here!' and his thirty-six men were not far behind him. That turned the tide, and the English broke and fled for their lives the way they had come and the Dunnes and the Douglases after them. It was for arriving so soon and helping in the battle that Humphrey Dunne got knighted by Robert the Bruce.”

“And that's our motto now,” said Mark, looking at Becky with shining eyes. “That's what's written on our crest, isn't it? ‘The Dunnes are here!'”

As the train steamed slowly into Ryddelton Station, Commander Humphrey Dunne put his head out of the window and saw the little group that stood near the bookstall awaiting his arrival. Nannie was fatter than ever. Her round, rosy face was creased with anxiety as she scanned the windows of the train. She had a little girl on each side of her and was holding their hands tightly, while, beside her, capered Mark, half crazy with excitement. It was usually Alice who brought the children to meet Humphrey, but a new baby was due to arrive shortly, so Humphrey had not expected Alice to come to the station today. He was glad to see that the children looked well—they had grown considerably since last September.

“There he is!” cried Mark. “There's Daddy!” And he started to run after the train, followed more slowly by the rest of the party.

“All well, Nannie?” Humphrey asked as he hugged and kissed the children.

“All well, sir,” replied Nannie, nodding significantly over their heads.

They went out of the station into the yard, where the new motorcar was waiting; it was an open car, very large and green, and it stood high off the ground. Its brass fittings winked and gleamed like gold in the bright afternoon sunshine.

Humphrey looked at it with pride. “Well, Downie, how is she going?” he inquired.

“Grand, sir,” replied Downie. “It took me a wee while to get used to, but I wouldn't go back to horses—not now I wouldn't. Takes ten minutes to get to the station instead of half an hour.”

“Unless you have a puncture, of course,” Mark said gravely.

They got in and drove off.

“I want a pony, Daddy,” Edith began.

“Now then,” said Nannie. “Now then, what did I tell you? I told you not to start asking your Daddy for things the very first moment.”

“This isn't the very first moment,” Edith said sulkily.

“Billy has a new tooth,” said Joyce.

“He's got all his teeth now,” Nannie declared proudly.

“But he was too small to come meet Daddy,” Joyce pointed out. “I'm six now,” she added.

“Of course you are,” agreed Humphrey. He always felt shy with his children just at first. It was difficult to know how to talk to them, for they grew up so quickly that he could not keep pace. He went away leaving a lisping baby and returned to find it articulate. He was sorry that Joyce was six. At five she had been attractively babyish. She had sat on his knee and listened with bated breath to the story of Red Riding Hood. Now she was a person, self-possessed and incredibly mature…but she was still very pretty, thought her father, glancing at the round, rosy face and fair hair.

“Everything is coming on very nicely after the rain,” said Nannie, making polite conversation.

“Yes, it's looking beautiful,” Humphrey agreed. “You've had a lot of rain have you?”

“The weather has been very invidious,” she replied.

She smiled complacently, as she always did when she produced her grand words, and Humphrey smiled too. For some reason, he was reminded of a monkey jacket that had been put on hastily and the buttons inserted into the wrong buttonholes—and that was exactly what happened, Humphrey thought. Nannie's words were all right, but she put them into the wrong places, and the effect was quite as absurd as the effect produced by the wrongly buttoned garment.

“We had peas for dinner,” Joyce informed him.

“You're having some tonight,” added Mark. “I saw Johnson bringing them into the kitchen.”

“What were you doing in the kitchen, Mark?” Nannie inquired.

“Talking to Mrs. Drummond,” mumbled Mark, getting rather red in the face.

“You know you've no call to go into the kitchen and bother Mrs. Drummond!”

“I wasn't bothering; she likes me.”

Nannie snorted. “Hmm. I know Mrs. Drummond. She likes you one day and the next day she's complaining about you. Now listen to me—”

“Honestly, Nannie! Mrs. Drummond
said
—”

“No, Mark. Just listen to me. You know perfectly well…”

Humphrey said nothing. He felt as if he were dreaming. He always had this feeling of unreality when he moved suddenly from one kind of life to the other. This life of the country, of home and trivialities and children's chatter was superimposed, as it were, upon the austere life of a naval commander. He seemed to see one through the other and neither of them clearly. In a day or two he managed to adjust himself, of course; it was only just at first that he felt so strange.

• • •

Alice was overjoyed to see Humphrey—she always was—and the two of them had tea together on the terrace. It was exactly five years since Humphrey had taken tea on the terrace with Aunt Celia and today he was reminded very forcibly of that occasion. Alice was not like Aunt Celia, of course (in fact, one could scarcely imagine anyone more unlike), but everything else was the same: the smooth, green lawn, the stately trees, the golden light on the far-off hills…even the tea service, the scones and cakes, and the creamy butter in the crystal dish.

“Where did you find that stool?” asked Humphrey, pointing to the carpet-covered hassock under Alice's feet.

“Becky found it,” she replied. “Becky said Aunt Celia always used it when she sat out on the terrace.”

“I know she did,” said Humphrey.

“Becky is a great comfort,” Alice continued. “Really, I don't know what I would have done without Becky. I haven't felt quite so well this time, and it has been terribly dull for me.”

“This must be the last,” Humphrey said firmly.

Alice nodded. “Yes, if it's a girl, and I think it will be somehow. I'm sure this will be Celia.”

Humphrey did not remind her that she had said exactly the same two years ago before Billy's arrival upon the scene. Billy had been a disappointment—though not a very severe one, for, in her heart of hearts, Alice had wanted another son and there was plenty of time.

“How does Nannie like the idea of another baby?” Humphrey inquired as he helped himself to a scone and buttered it lavishly.

“She's delighted; Nannie would like a new baby every year.”

“Good Lord!”

“But five in the nursery is quite enough,” Alice added firmly.

Humphrey did not answer that. He looked slightly uncomfortable and after a short hesitation he said, “Alice, you know Aunt Celia asked me to look after Joan.”

“Yes, and you
have
looked after her. You've done all you could, haven't you? Nobody could have done more.”

“I've just gotten a letter from Joan,” said Humphrey, and he took it out of his pocket and began to unfold it.

“Oh, goodness!” Alice exclaimed in great vexation. “Oh, goodness, I know what
that
means! You've never had a single letter from Joan that didn't cause some sort of trouble. She's in a fix, I suppose, and you've got to go south and see her. It's always the way when you come home on leave,
always
.”

“She isn't exactly in a fix this time,” said Humphrey, smiling. “The fact is she's going to be married.”

“Married!”

“Yes, to an Indian Army officer.”

“What a mercy,” said Alice. “We'll send her a really fine wedding present, and that will be the end of it.”

“Well, not quite, I'm afraid. You see she can't very well take Debbie to India with her—”

“Humphrey, you don't mean…”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. You see, I feel responsible really. If we don't offer to have Debbie, she would just be sent to Cousin Henrietta, which wouldn't be at all suitable.”

“She's the child's grandmother.”

“But she's getting old. It would be much better for the child to come here.”

“If Debbie is like her mother—” Alice began in horrified tones.

“She isn't,” Humphrey said quickly. “She isn't the least like Joan. She's a funny, mousey little creature, very small and quiet. Oh, I know it's a nuisance, Alice, and I'm awfully sorry to have to worry you just now, but I don't see what else can be done.”

“But, Humphrey—”

“Would one more child in the nursery make much difference?” Humphrey asked in a persuasive tone.

Alice sighed. Men were so awfully queer; they didn't understand. A strange child—probably very badly brought up—was to be dumped into her own well-ordered nursery and Humphrey thought it would not make much difference!

“Nannie would soon get her into shape,” said Humphrey, who was less blind than his wife imagined.

Alice sighed again. She saw it was no use saying anything more. If Humphrey thought it was their duty to have the child, they must have her and make the best of it.

“The children have grown,” Humphrey said after a short silence. “They're all very nice looking, but Joyce is the beauty of the family.”

“Edith is pretty too,” Alice said quickly. “Edith is really the prettiest. She has such a lovely complexion and her hair is beautifully curly. You can't judge Edith properly at the moment because of her teeth—no child can look her best without any front teeth, you know.”

“Of course not,” agreed Humphrey. He was still feeling “wandered.” It seemed so odd to be sitting here on the terrace, with Alice, discussing children's teeth and hair. At the same hour yesterday Humphrey had been standing on the bridge of his destroyer conning her into port. He remembered that someone had brought him a cup of tea—a large thick cup full of bright brown tea—and he had drunk it as he stood there, and been very glad of it. Of course teeth and hair were very important, especially girls' teeth and hair (thought Humphrey vaguely), because, later on, good teeth and hair would help them to obtain good husbands.

“What are you thinking about?” Alice inquired.

“I can't provide for the girls,” said Humphrey—for this was the point to which his thought had brought him.

“They will marry, of course,” Alice said comfortably.