Celia's House (3 page)

“I shall love it,” he said gravely.

She nodded. “I know. I know you will—and your children will grow up here. For years and years there have been old people in the house, and it's high time there were children. There should be children here, young things growing up in the house, running about the grounds, playing by the river. Dunnian needs youth,” Miss Dunne said dreamily.

Humphrey could not speak.

“You've got three children,” Miss Dunne said after a short silence. “Perhaps you'll have more.”

Humphrey was still feeling bewildered. “I hope so,” he murmured. “If we were settled… Alice likes children; so do I… It's difficult when you're moving about…”

“You will be settled. You should certainly have more children—not that I like children very much (I find them tiresome), but they grow up into people if you give them time. In my young days, parents were not afraid to admit they found their children tiresome. Now it is considered unnatural, and yet people have fewer. That always strikes me as strange.”

“They didn't have to bother with their children,” Humphrey pointed out. “They just handed them over to a competent nurse, and—”

“That's exactly what I mean,” said Miss Dunne. “They didn't pretend they liked them. Now they pretend they like them and don't have them.”

“I like mine,” Humphrey said.

“How often do you see them?” she asked with a mischievous glance. “Well, never mind, Humphrey, I won't tease you. We'll say your children are never tiresome, never noisy or sticky or greedy or quarrelsome.”

He smiled at her. Although he did not agree with all she said, he did not feel inclined to argue with her.

“That brings me to another point,” she said. “Perhaps I should have explained this at the beginning. My intention is that you shall be life-rented in the place. After your death I want Dunnian to go to your daughter Celia.”

“You mean Edith, of course—” Humphrey began in some surprise.

“I mean exactly what I say,” retorted Miss Dunne. “Dunnian is to go to your daughter Celia. She will be born in the house—perhaps she will live in it for ninety years.”

Humphrey drew a long breath. He was beginning to see the idea. It was a most extraordinary idea, but still—

“I suppose you think I'm mad,” said Miss Dunne, glancing at him sideways. “My lawyer, Mr. Wanlock, as good as told me to my face that I was raving, but that didn't upset me at all. I told him that if he couldn't draw up my will as I wanted it, I would send for somebody else. That brought him to his senses. He's gone back to Edinburgh to put the whole thing into legal jargon and a fine thing he'll make of it, I don't doubt. He's to come back tomorrow with it all cut-and-dried, and if you've no objections I shall sign it.”

“Objection!” Humphrey exclaimed.

Miss Dunne smiled. She said, “What about your wife? Perhaps you'd rather wait and consult her about it. Would she be happy here? It's quiet, you know. There are nice neighbors, but if she has been used to town—”

“Alice would love it,” declared Humphrey. “Aunt Celia, you've no idea what this means…”

His voice died away and there was a short silence. Humphrey saw she was tired and he felt guilty, for he had been warned not to tire her. He was just wondering whether he should leave her to rest for a while when he saw Becky come out of the drawing room window. Becky had been with Miss Dunne for years—she was an old friend—and Humphrey rose and shook hands with her.

“Well, I never!” Becky said. “You're older than I expected, Mr. Humphrey.”

“You're younger than I expected,” replied Humphrey, laughing. “People who live here never grow older.”

“You were always one for a joke,” Becky replied. “I'm getting older like everybody else. Look at my gray hair!”

“It's very becoming,” he retorted. She was a good-looking woman, tall and slim in her neat black dress. Her complexion was clear as a girl's and her gray eyes full of humor.

“Get on with you, Mr. Humphrey,” she said. “I'm too old for your cozening. You'd better take a walk around the garden and let Miss Dunne have a wee rest before dinner.”

“I hope I haven't tired her,” Humphrey said.

“I've tired myself,” declared Miss Dunne. “I've talked too much, but I'll be all right if I have a rest. Here's my shawl, Becky.”

Humphrey was shaving. His hair was very dark, and if he wanted to look well he was obliged to shave twice a day. Tonight he felt he must look his best—it was the least he could do for Aunt Celia—besides, she might expect him to kiss her when he said good night. Humphrey was not particularly fond of kissing, but he felt he would like to kiss Aunt Celia. Quite gravely (for he had a grave nature and not much sense of humor) Humphrey considered the question—to kiss or not to kiss. Would she like it or would she think it silly?
Better to be prepared anyway
, thought Humphrey as he lathered his chin industriously. He had spent the hour before dinner wandering about the grounds, wandering along the banks of the stream, the Rydd Water, which ran through the property, curving past the trees beyond the lawn. He remembered it all very well, but he had looked at it with new eyes, for someday it would be his.

There were trout in the Rydd, quite good ones. He had seen one lying in the shadow of a rock. Mark would catch that trout someday—he and Mark together—what an exciting, what an amazing thought! Having settled the fate of the trout, Humphrey wandered onto the lawn and examined it carefully. It had looked smooth and velvety from a distance, and it was no less smooth and velvety at close quarters—it would be desecration to cut it up into beds. No wonder Aunt Celia had been angry. Used as he was to wide stretches of sea and far horizons Humphrey took immense pleasure in the smooth, green sweep of grass. It was dignified and gracious; it gave one a feeling of space.

He walked down to the kitchen garden and found Johnson in the potting shed and renewed his acquaintance. Johnson was friendly and Humphrey felt friendly too, but he was very careful with Johnson, for the news must not leak out through anything he said or did or looked. Humphrey was aware that a look might give away the whole show—a possessive sort of look. He admired Johnson's peas—which were admirable—and evinced his pleasure when he learned that peas were on the menu for dinner—peas and green gooseberries. He walked down the garden with Johnson and saw how beautifully it was kept. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how many men were employed in the garden, but on second thought, he refrained from the inquiry.

“The old greenhouse needs doing up,” said Johnson, pointing to it. “I was wondering if you would mention it to Miss Dunne.”

“No,” replied Humphrey. “No, I couldn't do that.”

“It needs new glass and a wee lick of paint. I thought you might just say you had seen it—”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Maybe I'd better wait till Mr. Maurice comes.”

“Yes, I should,” said Humphrey, turning away to hide an involuntary smile.

Johnson might have said more about the greenhouse, but his companion changed the subject.

“What are those called?” he asked, pointing to a bed of deep red roses that grew in a sheltered corner near the wall.

“They're Duke of Richmond, Mr. Humphrey. Maybe you'd like a few; they've got a nice smell.”

“I'll take one if I may,” replied Humphrey, and he produced his knife and cut a newly opened bud, choosing it with care.

“That's right,” said Johnson, nodding approval. “I don't like to see folk tearing at roses. You've chosen a good one too.”

Humphrey thought of all this as he shaved his left cheek. The rose was now on his dressing table, standing in a tumbler of water. He thought it would be nice to give it to Aunt Celia. It was her own, of course, but women liked these small attentions. This thought led him to Alice (who set a good deal of value on small attentions).
Poor Alice
, thought Humphrey.
Poor Alice, shut up in that poky house with the three children and only one inexperienced servant girl to help her!
How he wished he could have her brought to Dunnian on a magic carpet! He thought of Alice longingly, of her fair soft skin and gentle blue eyes. She was not very clever, perhaps, but who wanted a clever wife—not Humphrey. Humphrey was used to being with men, to hearing loud, virile voices and seeing strong, rugged faces. Alice was the most delightful change and rest. She was a “womanly woman,” soft and pretty and (to Humphrey) mysterious. He had always wanted to give her things but had never been able to afford anything worthwhile. Alice did not seem to mind. She had been most awfully good about it (thought Humphrey); she had accepted trivial gifts rapturously and done her best to economize. It was wonderful to think that the days of pinching and scraping, of cheap lodgings and hideous furnished houses were nearly over. Not that Humphrey was in a hurry for Aunt Celia to depart—no, quite honestly, he was not—but obviously Aunt Celia could not live forever.

Alice would love this place. The children would adore it. They would grow strong and fit in the lovely air with plenty of milk and cream and rich golden butter from the farm. They would be perfectly happy and he would be happy thinking of them…and he would come back here for his leave to a real home, to a safe harbor. This place would give him roots, and Humphrey wanted roots for himself and his family. He wanted roots all the more because his life was nomadic, because he had never known what it was to have a real settled home. He was so excited by these thoughts that he felt quite giddy and he was obliged to lay down his razor until he could command his emotions.

I must write to Alice,
he thought.
Nobody else must know, but I must tell Alice. I'll write tomorrow when it's settled, but I mustn't build on it too much until the will is signed…supposing Aunt Celia were to die in the night! Nonsense, of course, she won't. Why would she?

There was no reason why she would (unless, of course, from the joy of beholding her great-nephew) and Humphrey banished the thought, but he was immediately assailed by another that was almost as alarming. What would happen if another Celia failed to appear? What provision would be made for the contingency? Fortunately, Alice liked babies and produced them without much trouble, but you could not tell for certain. Humphrey considered the matter. He had two daughters already—it seemed a pity that neither of them would do.

Humphrey was tying his black tie by this time and he smiled at his reflection in the mirror; the whole thing was so absurd! He smiled and then he frowned. Mark ought to have Dunnian, of course. Mark was the right person to have it: his son, not a young daughter still unborn.

Already Humphrey was beginning to get used to the idea of possessing Dunnian and to cavil at the terms of possession.

Humphrey went down to the drawing room in good time and found his hostess sitting by the fire, rested and refreshed. She smiled at him and said, “I always have a fire in the evening.”

“It looks nice,” he remarked, coming forward and holding out his hands to the blaze. Aunt Celia looked nice too, and Humphrey had a feeling she was dressed for a “special occasion” just as he was. Her pale gray dress was of heavy silk that rustled when she moved, and she wore cobweb-fine lace at her neck and wrists. A magnificent diamond brooch, pinned in the front of her bodice, twinkled and sparkled in the light of the fire. Humphrey offered her the rose and he saw she was pleased—even though it was her own.

“You picked it in the bed beside the south wall,” she told him as she took it and pushed its stalk through the brooch. “They're the best roses in the garden, and the Duke is my favorite.”

“I think he's my favorite too.”

“Did you speak to Johnson?”

“Yes, I asked his permission to cut it. He said I had chosen a good one.”

“So you have,” Miss Dunne said with the sharp little nod that was so characteristic. “It's a beautiful rose, Humphrey. I hope you were careful what you said to Johnson; he's very much all there.”

Humphrey smiled and replied that he had been very careful indeed. He wondered whether he should tell her about the greenhouse—she would appreciate the joke—but before he could make up his mind the table maid appeared and announced that dinner was served. Miss Dunne rose at once and, Humphrey offering her his arm, they went into the dining room together.

They chatted casually during the meal (Humphrey spoke of Hong Kong, of his children, and of his ship), but when the port had been put on the table and the servants had gone they were free to speak of what was in their minds.

“There are several people to be helped and cared for,” said Miss Dunne after a moment's pause. “You will do that for me, won't you? You'll be kind to Becky—she has been a true friend.”

“Of course,” Humphrey said quickly. “You must tell me all you want done. I'll do everything in my power.” He hesitated and then went on. “I hardly know what to say, Aunt Celia. It seems absurd to say ‘thank you,' doesn't it?”

“Quite absurd. I can't take Dunnian with me.”

“But I mean—I feel—” he began.

“Don't worry. I know what you feel—I can see it in your face,” replied Miss Dunne. “There's Becky to look after, and there's Joan. She's the granddaughter of my youngest sister, so she's your generation, Humphrey. That branch of the family has been rather unfortunate and I've helped them a good deal. If you begin helping people, you have to go on. I shall leave Joan some money, of course, but money isn't everything.”

“I'll look after her,” Humphrey said.

Miss Dunne took a sheet of paper from her gray silk bag and spread it out on the table. “There,” she said. “I wrote it out for you because you'll be the head of the family—we can't expect Maurice to do much—so you ought to know who's who. The family tree is in the safe. You had better have a look at it sometime (it goes back to the reign of James IV), but this is all that concerns us at the moment.”

Humphrey examined the paper with interest; the tree was incomplete, of course, but it gave him a very good idea of the ramifications of the family, which was all that was intended.

“This will be very useful to me,” Humphrey said.

“There were seven of us,” Miss Dunne told him, “but I've only put in five. Arthur was drowned at sea and Catherine died when she was seventeen. The diagram is just to give you a rough idea—”

“It's splendid,” declared Humphrey. He added, “Maurice is a generation before me, of course.”

Miss Dunne nodded. “Yes. Yes, Maurice is my nephew. He must be about fifty. You see, William married late in life and his wife was a good deal younger than himself. She's still alive—Ellen Dunne, I mean—a stupid woman (I never could get on with her), and she chose a stupid name for her son. The Dunnes have always been Williams or Henrys or Humphreys…then we come to Mary,” said Miss Dunne, putting her finger on the diagram. “Mary married an American and went back with him to Pittsburgh; she had two children. I've lost sight of them since Mary died, so we don't know what has happened to that branch of the family.”

“Rather a pity!”

“Deplorable,” agreed Miss Dunne. “They must have moved from Pittsburgh, I suppose. I've written several times…”

“Then comes Henry, my grandfather,” said Humphrey, returning to the diagram that lay between them on the table.

“Yes, and then Isabel. Her daughter, Henrietta, is a delightful creature. She's a widow and she lives at Bournemouth. I haven't seen Henrietta for years, but I hear from her occasionally.”

Humphrey had been following this explanation carefully. “I see,” he said. “It's her daughter, Joan, who you're anxious about.”

“Yes, she made an imprudent marriage. Young Halley was an artist, not a very good artist, I'm afraid. He died about two years ago and left her with one child. I felt sorry for the creature and I wanted to see what she was like, so I asked her to come stay at Dunnian—but she never came.”

“She writes to you, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Dunne, smiling. “She writes to me when she's short of money, and that's not seldom. Becky says she plays on my feelings, and I daresay it's true enough, but I can't help that. I always used to help Isabel with her sums and brush her hair for her, so it seems natural that I should look after her granddaughter.”

“Does she live with her mother at Bournemouth?”

“No, no, it would never work. Parents and children are better apart if they don't get on well together; besides, Henrietta isn't well off herself…I'd like to see Henrietta again,” Miss Dunne added thoughtfully.

There was a short silence after that; Humphrey broke it. “That's a portrait of old Henry Dunne, your father, above the mantelpiece, isn't it?” he inquired.

“No, that's my grandfather. That's Humphrey who built Dunnian House. I remember him quite well—just like that. It's an excellent portrait. He was always beautifully turned out,
point
device
, and I remember,” said Miss Dunne, smiling, “I remember he smelled of lavender water when I kissed him. He used to tell us stories, true stories about things he had seen when he was a boy, about Prince Charles riding into Edinburgh at the head of his troops and—”

“Do you mean he had seen Prince Charles?” Humphrey asked incredulously.

Miss Dunne nodded.

“Did he take part in the rising?”

“No, he was too young, but even if he had been old enough he wouldn't have gone out, for he wasn't a believer in the Stuart cause. He used to say that the Stuarts made good stories, but they didn't make good kings.”

“I suppose that's true really,” Humphrey said thoughtfully.

They moved back to the drawing room and settled down by the fire. The lamps had been lit, but the french windows were wide open, and although the sun had gone down behind the trees, it was still light outside.

“I like the gloaming,” said Miss Dunne. “Sometimes I sit here and watch for the first star. Do you want to ask me anything, Humphrey?”

“Yes, Aunt Celia. I know you've thought a great deal about this arrangement, so I suppose you've realized there may not be another Celia.”

“I think there will be.”

“Even if there is another Celia,” continued Humphrey, choosing his words with care. “You realize that she may marry, in which case—”

“Of course Celia will marry,” interrupted Miss Dunne. “All the Dunne women marry—except me, of course—but you needn't think I couldn't have married if I'd wanted to.”

“I never thought that.”

“There were several young gentlemen,” said Miss Dunne with a reminiscent smile, “but the only one I wanted was Courtney Dale and he preferred Mary.”

“She must have been very attractive.”

“That's rather nice of you, Humphrey,” she said gravely. “The fact was we never met until he and Mary were engaged, so of course…but perhaps it was just as well in the long run, for I might not have been happy so far away from Dunnian.”

There was silence. Miss Dunne was thinking of Courtney Dale. There had never been a word of understanding between them—scarcely a glance—but they had both known that a wrong turning had been taken and that something beautiful had been missed. He and Mary had been married and had gone from Dunnian, never to return, and Celia had remained single.

After a little while, Humphrey returned to the subject that was occupying his mind. He said, “Aunt Celia, have you realized that if there is a Celia and she marries, there won't be Dunnes at Dunnian anymore?”

“Celia's husband will take the name,” Miss Dunne said firmly. “I know all those arguments, Humphrey, and I know the answers. It has all been considered most carefully and every contingency allowed for. Mr. Wanlock will explain it to you tomorrow. He doesn't approve, of course; in fact, he argued with me for hours. First of all, he didn't want me to pass over Maurice, and then when he found I was adamant on that point, he wanted me to entail the property so that it would go to your son.”

“That is the usual thing—”

“Of course it's the usual thing, but I prefer my own way. Celia's children will be Dunnes every bit as much as Mark's, and anyway what on earth induced you to call the child Mark? He should have been Henry.”

“Alice's father was Mark,” Humphrey said miserably.

“He should have been Henry,” repeated Miss Dunne.

Humphrey said no more, for he saw it was useless, and silence ensued.

“You had better put in electric light,” Miss Dunne said suddenly. “I believe it is quite satisfactory if you get a good man to do it, and it will be safer with the children running about. You'll need another bathroom, of course. I should put it on the nursery floor if I were you. The house is perfectly sound, but it needs redecorating, I haven't bothered about paper and paint.”

“I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Aunt Celia.”

“Why not?” she asked. “I may as well face up to it. I confess that sometimes I feel a little frightened—but then I look at the hills. There they stand, always the same. It gives one courage to see them.” She was silent for a moment and then she added dreamily, “The only thing that can beat Death is Life—new life.”

Humphrey did not speak.

“I shall be sorry to leave Dunnian,” Miss Dunne added with a sigh.

“But you mean to come back,” said Humphrey. He was surprised when he heard himself say the words, but having said them he knew they were true and that this was the solution of the mystery.

“I wonder,” said Miss Dunne. “I wonder if I shall. We don't know much, do we? I wonder what sort of a place I'm going to. I've lived here so long—I haven't been away from Dunnian for years—so it's rather an adventure.”