Celia's House (9 page)

Of all the hours in the day, the one Humphrey most enjoyed was when Alice had gone up to bed and he was left alone to sit quietly by the drawing room fire with his pipe and his book. It was then that he had time to appreciate the peace that enveloped Dunnian; it was then that he could look around the beautifully proportioned room and take pleasure in the fact that it was his. When he was at sea, when he was keeping watch, this was the hour he remembered and for which he was homesick. He was very fond of Alice and the children and enjoyed their company, but his greatest happiness, and peace of the soul, came to him when he was alone.

On this, his first night of leave, he felt the perfection of the hour more keenly than ever. (Someday he would retire and come to live at Dunnian, and there would be no more comings and goings, but, although he envisaged that time with a good deal of pleasure, he was aware that something would be lost. He would not appreciate Dunnian so much if he lived here all the while. It was the comings and goings that heightened his perception; it was the odd juxtaposition of the two different lives that made Dunnian seem so wonderful.) The windows stood wide open and it was almost dark outside—as dark as it ever is in June. A fire had been lit and a log of wood flamed fitfully on its bed of red ashes. It was all perfect. Humphrey raised his eyes and saw a star, faintly twinkling, and he remembered that Aunt Celia had sat here night after night watching for the first star.

Ten minutes more—just one last cigarette—and then he must go upstairs to bed, thought Humphrey. Ten minutes more…

He was just lighting the cigarette when he heard Alice calling him, and there was such urgency in her voice that he flung the cigarette into the fire and ran for his life. He took the stairs three steps at a time and found Alice standing on the landing in her nightdress.

Humphrey had expected to find her in bed—he had thought of all sorts of contingencies during his mad rush upstairs—but Alice seemed all right, neither frightened nor very much perturbed.

“Somebody came in,” Alice said with a puzzled air.

“Came into your room?”

“Yes. I thought at first it was Nannie, but it wasn't Nannie; it wasn't Becky either.”

“You were dreaming, darling,” said Humphrey, putting his arm around her shoulders and leading her back to bed.

“But I wasn't asleep, Humphrey,” she replied. “How could I have been dreaming when I wasn't asleep? I had only just gotten into bed and lain down. I was going to read for a little while…and then, all at once, I had a feeling that someone had come into the room, and when I looked up I saw her.”

“Who was it?”

“I don't know, darling. It was nobody I had ever seen before.”

She was speaking so calmly and naturally that only an anxious husband could have felt any apprehension, but Humphrey was an anxious husband. He was all the more apprehensive because it was so unlike Alice to “imagine things.”

“It's all right, dearest,” he soothed as she got into bed. “Lie down and go to sleep. It's very late, you know.”

“Who was she, I wonder,” Alice said as she lay down obediently.

“You mustn't alarm yourself, Alice.”

“I'm not
alarmed.
There was nothing alarming about her. She was—she was
friendly
, you know. It wasn't until she had gone that I began to feel a little frightened and to wonder who she was…so I called you.”

“Yes, of course, but I'm sure you were dreaming—”

“No, Humphrey, she was quite real,” Alice replied as she laid her head on the pillow. “She came and stood by my bed and smiled at me…an old lady with very bright eyes…and a beautiful diamond brooch.”

“You were dreaming,” Humphrey said for the third time but with much less conviction.

“Gray silk,” continued Alice in a sleepy voice. “Gray silk…it rustled when she moved…and lovely old Mechlin lace…and she was so tiny, no bigger than Edith—”

“She's gone, darling.”

“—and a scent of roses,” Alice murmured as she closed her eyes. “A scent…of red…roses…”

Was it imagination or did a faint scent of red roses linger in the air? Humphrey could not be sure.

Celia Dunne was born very early the next morning with the least possible fuss. She was small and neatly made and from the very beginning of her life she was nice to look at, not red or wrinkled as the other babies had been. Her eyes were blue at first, but very soon they began to turn brown, and Humphrey, as he looked at her lying contentedly in her beribboned bassinet, could have sworn that there was recognition in them and something approaching a twinkle. He did not like it at all, for he hated anything queer (and anything queer in his own family was profoundly to be deprecated).

Humphrey was so upset about it that he was very short indeed with Alice's nurse when she remarked that Celia “wasn't like a baby somehow.” (They were having lunch together in the morning room and Celia was barely three weeks old.)

“What do you mean?” demanded Humphrey. “She looks to me just like any other baby.”

“Oh, I didn't mean anything like
that
,” Nurse Walker declared hastily and somewhat enigmatically. “I just mean she has such a strong personality. I just mean she's so very noticing for her age. You should have seen the way she looked about her when I carried her downstairs this morning—so pleased she seemed—as if the whole place belonged to her, dear wee lamb!”

“Nonsense!” Humphrey exclaimed angrily.

Nurse Walker was surprised. The commander was usually very pleasant and genial. She wondered what could have provoked him and made him so cross.

“I hope you haven't said anything like that to Mrs. Dunne,” Humphrey continued after a short silence. “She's apt to be—er—rather fanciful and we don't want to worry her.”

Nurse Walker was even more surprised at this, for it had seemed to her a very innocent remark. Of course she had told Mrs. Dunne; mothers liked to hear things like that about their babies and Mrs. Dunne was no exception to the rule. Mrs. Dunne had not been worried; in fact, she had been very much amused and had laughed so heartily that she almost cried. It was this success that had encouraged Nurse Walker to repeat her little joke to the commander.

“No, of course we mustn't worry her,” Nurse Walker agreed in her most professional manner.

Humphrey found that Alice had forgotten all about her “dream.” She was calm and happy, pleased with Celia, and even more pleased with herself for her cleverness in producing Celia to order. Humphrey did not remind Alice of her dream; he was thankful she had forgotten it and only wished that he could forget about it himself. In spite of his slight feelings of discomfort that were connected with the new baby, Humphrey managed to enjoy his leave and did not miss Alice's companionship as much as he expected because he found a companion in his elder son. Mark was now ten years old. He was still doing lessons with the Raeworth children, but during Humphrey's leave he was released from his studies. Lessons were important, of course, but Humphrey considered it even more important that he and his son should become friends. Next term Mark was to go to a preparatory school called Welland House, and unless Humphrey could manage to wangle his leave in the official school holidays, he would never see Mark at all. The girls did not matter so much (Humphrey thought), so they continued to drive over to Hastley Dean every morning as usual. There was a certain amount of unpleasantness over this arrangement, but it did not reach Humphrey's ears.

Humphrey had always envisaged Mark in the navy, but now, as he became better acquainted with his son, he began to wonder whether the navy was the right thing for Mark; he sounded Mark carefully and found that Mark shared this doubt: Mark was not particularly keen to be a sailor, though he found his reasons difficult to explain.

The two companions went for long walks together over the moors and through the woods. Mark knew far more than Humphrey about Dunnian, more about its geography and more about its history, and he was only too pleased to share his knowledge with his father. They did not confine their expeditions to Dunnian but took sandwiches and roved far afield and found all sorts of interesting things to see. Sometimes they took rods and went up the Rydd, returning at night tired and hungry with a basketful of small but tasty trout. Humphrey was learning to drive the car and, as he had a flair for machinery, it did not take him long to become proficient—much more proficient than Downie if the truth were told.

One day he and Mark drove over to Timperton, and leaving the car at the inn, they set out to climb Timperton Law. It was a breezy day with clouds racing in from the west, great white clouds chasing each other across the blue sky. There were sheep on the hill, nibbling the sweet grass, and the larks were singing above their heads. When they had reached the top and had added their stones to the cairn upon the summit, they found a place in the shelter of a rock and sat down to eat their lunch.

“I think it's because I like the land so much,” Mark said after a short silence, and he waved his hand toward the glorious spread of country that lay before their eyes.

Humphrey understood at once, for he and Mark were in such complete accord that explanations were not necessary between them. He understood all the better because he too liked the land. Sometimes after long days at sea he would feel a positive hunger for the land, for green fields and trees and the smell of good brown earth.

“It's no good going into the service if you feel like that,” Humphrey replied.

“I think I'd like to be a farmer; it would be so—so
useful
.”

“I know what you mean. It would be a fine life, but I'm afraid you can't be a farmer, old boy. I haven't enough money to buy you a farm. You'll have to think of something else.”

Mark nodded. He did not mind very much, for there were plenty of other things to do. He was glad that Daddy understood why he did not want to go into the navy.

This was the last expedition together before Humphrey went south to Joan's wedding. He did not want to go, for he was enjoying himself at Dunnian, but that could not be helped, and, as Humphrey was used to the discipline of putting duty before pleasure, he would not only go to the wedding, but would also behave as if he liked it.

“I needn't stay long,” Humphrey declared as he said good-bye. “I'll be back on Thursday night—with Debbie, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” Alice said in a resigned voice.

• • •

Alice was resting in bed when Humphrey returned. He brought his small charge into the room and presented her to her “aunt.”

“Here she is!” Humphrey said cheerfully. “This is Debbie.”

Alice looked up and saw the child hanging back in the doorway; she was a small wispy looking creature with a tiny, sallow face and large frightened gray eyes. Her clothes were very peculiar. She seemed lost in them; they made her look like a little old woman cut short, and this odd resemblance was further heightened by the fact that she was clasping in her arms a large doll, dressed like a baby, which Humphrey had bought her in London.

Alice called her over to the bed and kissed her and asked her how she was.

“Answer Aunt Alice,” said Humphrey, who was anxious that his protégée should make a good impression.

“Quite well, thank you,” Debbie said in an almost inaudible voice.

“She's shy,” explained Humphrey. “She's tired after the journey. She'll feel much better tomorrow, won't you, Debbie.”

Most unattractive
, thought Alice, looking at Debbie with a feeling akin to dismay. She had been prepared to cherish Debbie and make the best of her, but she saw it was going to be difficult to make the best of Debbie. She was so plain, so sallow, so small and delicate.

“I thought she was older,” said Alice, looking at her again. “If I had known she was so young I would have sent Becky with you to look after her in the train.”

“She's seven,” said Humphrey. “And as a matter of fact she was no trouble at all. I'm sure Nannie won't find her any trouble.”

The subject of these remarks listened to them in silence. She looked dazed; she looked as if she scarcely understood what was being said.

“She's very small for seven,” Alice said with a sigh. “We must feed her up. I must speak to Nannie about it…cod liver oil and malt, perhaps.”

Nannie and Alice had a good many talks on the subject of how to fatten Debbie and of how to improve her appearance. “It's her hair,” Nannie would say. “That queer streaky brown color and as straight as a pound of candles. I've tried curl rags, but it's as straight as ever in half an hour. It's so soft you can't do nothing with it.”

“Do you think if we cut it quite short with some bangs—”

“Maybe,” Nannie said doubtfully. “It couldn't be worse than it is, whatever we did to it.”

“And her skin,” Alice exclaimed. “Her skin is so sallow. The other children have such beautiful skins.”

“And her legs are like sticks,” Nannie added hopelessly.

Oddly enough, neither Nannie nor Alice noticed that Debbie had good points as well as bad ones. Her neat features, her small red mouth, and her large, dewy eyes were unremarked and unsung.

“She isn't naughty, is she?” Alice inquired, for it was her fear that Debbie might have a bad influence upon the other children. Debbie was Joan's daughter and Alice did not approve of Joan at all.

“Naughty!” exclaimed Nannie. “No indeed. Sometimes I wish she was. I'd know how to deal with a naughty child. In fact, I rather like them naughty,” Nannie admitted with a reminiscent smile. “I rather like spunk—I've got an infinity with naughty children, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” said Alice, but she said it doubtfully.

“Now Debbie is different,” continued Nannie. “Debbie doesn't take any interest. She doesn't eat as much as would nourish a fly, and she doesn't play with the other children. I can't even get her to talk.”

“Can't you, Nannie?”

“She's so quiet you can scarcely see her,” declared Nannie, shaking her head.

“You don't think she's unhappy, do you?”

“Unhappy!” Nannie exclaimed in surprise. “Why would she be? Everybody's kind to her. She's got good food to eat and all those nice new clothes and the lovely doll the commander bought her in London. Why would she be unhappy, I'd like to know?”

• • •

It was true that Debbie was kindly treated, well fed, and comfortably housed, but in spite of this she was very unhappy indeed. Everything here was so different from what she had known: the place, the people, the mode of living. She was used to a very irregular sort of life with meals at any time and cups of tea in between. She was used to staying up late at night and lying in bed late in the morning. She was used to sharing the worries and responsibilities of life, of doing the shopping and helping to make ends meet. It was therefore extremely difficult for her to settle down in the Dunnian nursery, where everything went like clockwork, where there were no responsibilities at all and nothing to do except play. “Go play,” Nannie would tell her, but Debbie did not know how to play. Debbie could dust a room, could make a bed as well as any housemaid, could even do a little simple cooking, but none of these accomplishments was required of her at Dunnian. “Go play,” said Nannie.

In addition to this, Debbie often wondered how Mummy was getting on. Who would look after Mummy when she had a headache? Who would bring her a cup of tea in the morning before she got up? Who would see that Mummy didn't spend all her money at once, leaving nothing to tide her over to the end of the month? She often wondered why Mummy had sent her here—for this had never been properly explained to her: Didn't Mummy love her anymore? Didn't Mummy want her? Debbie's heart was very sore when she thought of her mother, for, although Joan was anything but a good parent and was always selfish and often cross, she was the only companion Debbie had ever known. They had shared things.

Debbie was so quiet you could scarcely see her. It was Nannie's phrase, and although it was a bit muddled it was essentially true. People did not realize she was there and said things about her without thinking. Thus she came to know that she was not really wanted at Dunnian, that it was “kind” of her relations to give her houseroom. “It's a pity she isn't like the others,” Nannie said one day. How Debbie wished she were “like the others!” The Dunne children were large and robust; Debbie was small and delicate. She was often tired; they ran about the garden all day long and never seemed tired at all. She admired their looks enormously: their pink-and-white complexions and fair, curly hair. She felt herself an inferior being, and Edith and Joyce, quite naturally, took her at her own valuation. They were not actually unkind to her, but they had nothing in common.
That
was the whole trouble, of course, though nobody (Debbie least of all) recognized the fact: Debbie had nothing in common with her new house fellows. She had no niche at Dunnian, no point of contact with anyone. The grown-up people treated her as a very small child. The children knew she was not like themselves; she was serious and apprehensive and unchildlike. (Joan had treated her as a contemporary and burdened her with cares, but at least she had been a “person” in Joan's eyes; at least she had filled a niche.)

The only bright spot for Debbie in this strange new world was the baby. At first Nannie would not let her come near the baby and would tell her to leave Celia alone and go play, but gradually it became evident that Debbie was “good with the baby.” She was gentle and quiet and careful, and, seeing that this was the case, Nannie allowed her to do little things for the baby now and then. She was allowed to put out the soap and towels and wait on Nannie while she gave Celia her bath. Sometimes she was allowed to hold Celia in her arms while Nannie prepared the bottle; this was the brightest moment of the day.

Quite often Alice came upstairs when Celia was being bathed, for it pleased her to see the deft way in which Nannie performed this office, and it amused her to hear Nannie talk.

“My word!” Nannie would say, addressing the small naked Celia, lying in her lap. “My word, we'll have to mind our p's and q's—we've got an ordinance tonight, Celia.”

And Celia would smile quite happily as if she understood that she must be on her best behavior.

• • •

Debbie had been at Dunnian for six months before she began to feel less strange and miserable, before (as Nannie put it) she began to get clementized to the place. It was Mark who helped Debbie to make friends with Dunnian. Mark came back from school in the Christmas holidays, and his first thought was to make a tour of the place and revisit his old haunts.

“Take Debbie with you,” said Nannie. “Put on your things, Debbie, and go out with Mark. A walk will do you good.”

Debbie would much rather have stayed at home, but she did as she was told and presently she was walking along beside Mark, reserved and silent as usual. The other children were confined to the house with colds, but Debbie, in spite of her delicate appearance, scarcely ever had a cold.

“I'm sorry,” Debbie said after a long silence. “I know you didn't want me, but I couldn't help it. Nannie didn't understand.”

“Understand what?” Mark asked in some surprise.

“You wanted to go alone.”

It was true that Mark had wanted to go alone, but he was a kindhearted boy. He looked down at her and smiled. “I don't mind
you
,” he said good-naturedly. “You don't chatter all the time like Edith and Joyce.”

“No,” agreed Debbie. She was a little puzzled because this was the first time she had been praised for silence.

“Edith and Joyce are funny,” continued Mark. “They're always quarreling, but they like each other just the same. If I like people I don't quarrel with them.”

“No,” said Debbie.

“They squabble and fight, but then, if anyone else comes into it, they suddenly band themselves together.”

“Yes,” said Debbie. She had noticed this strange phenomenon herself.