“They’re at Portsmouth,” she prompted.
“Yes, we took a small house there and then my ship was sent to the Clyde. We were disappointed because we had hoped to have a little time together—but it’s all in the day’s work.”
“Does she like Portsmouth?”
“Not very much, I’m afraid. It’s a noisy, crowded place and it doesn’t seem to suit the children.”
“You should move,” Miss Dunne said firmly.
Humphrey did not reply. It was easy for Aunt Celia to say they should move, but moving ran away with money and they were already in debt (not badly sunk, thank heaven, but still it was worrying, for there seemed no possibility of saving money and paying off arrears). He wondered if he could “touch” Aunt Celia. She would not miss a few hundred pounds, and it would make all the difference to him and Alice—but no, he was too proud. I shan’t even hint at it, he thought.
“What is she like?” inquired Miss Dunne.
“Who? Oh, Alice.” He took a small case out of his pocket and opened it. Inside it was a colored photograph of a fair-haired girl with blue eyes.
Miss Dunne examined it carefully. “Very pretty,” she said.
“It doesn’t do her justice,” her husband declared earnestly. “It doesn’t show her expression. She’s so sweet and good, Aunt Celia. She’s such a splendid mother. I wish you could see her.”
“I wish I could,” replied Miss Dunne, handing back the case, “but apparently I shall have to do without seeing her. If she suits you that’s the main thing.”
“We suit each other,” Humphrey said, blushing under his tan. “She’s quite perfect. I knew the moment I saw her—I knew she was—was just what a woman ought to be. If only we could be together—I mean, we’re quite happy—but of course I’m away so much—”
He stopped suddenly and looked up. Aunt Celia was smiling, but she was smiling quite kindly. “Lucky man!” she said.
Now that he had time to look at Aunt Celia more carefully, Humphrey saw she had changed more than he had thought. She had always been thin and light and very small, but now she looked frail as well—a fragile, dainty old lady in a pale gray dress with a crossover fissue of fine net. Her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of talking and her brown eyes were very bright.
“I’m ninety,” said Miss Dunne, meeting his glance.
“You don’t seem ninety, Aunt Celia. You’re so alive.”
“My brain is as good as ever,” she returned, smiling a little. “It’s my legs that are old. I still want to do things and then I find I can’t, but I’m not complaining, Humphrey. I’m quite happy.”
“You look happy.”
“I have my books,” she said. “I have my hills to look at, and I still have a few friends who come see me now and then. There’s Mrs. Raeworth, for instance. She’s a young creature—just about your age—but we have a good deal in common. I’d like you to meet Eveleyn Raeworth some time.”
“Yes,” Humphrey said politely. He was not much interested in Aunt Celia’s neighbors, for what was the use of being interested in people one would never see again?
“And then there’s Selma Skene,” continued Miss Dunne, smiling. “Perhaps you remember Lady Skene. They’re our nearest neighbors. Selma amuses me a good deal. She runs the county. Their boy is a major now; he’s married and has two children who are dumped at Ryddelton House when their parents want to get rid of them.”
“I used to go fishing with Jack Skene,” Humphrey said thoughtfully.
Miss Dunne nodded. “He’s a major now,” she repeated.
It was quiet, leisurely talk, the sort of talk that suited the warm afternoon. Humphrey felt peaceful and relaxed. Every now and then there was a short silence and then the talk went on again. Two neat maids brought the tea equipage and laid it on a table beside Miss Dunne (a lacy cloth, white as snow, a heavy silver tray with teapot, cream jug, and sugar basin to match, cups and saucers of fine transparent china, and plates of scones and cakes).
“Ninety years is a long time,” said Miss Dunne suddenly. “I was born the day after Waterloo. My mother wanted a son—she would have called him Arthur, of course. I believe I just escaped being Arethusa!”
“Celia is a good deal better,” said Humphrey, smiling.
“It’s a good name,” agreed its owner. “I’ve worn it a long time. Very few people call me Celia now—that’s the worst of outliving contemporaries. You know, Humphrey, it’s a great blessing to have a good memory. I’m very grateful for mine; it’s my picture book and I can turn over the leaves when I like. So many of my memories are centered here in Dunnian; so many people have lived in the old house. There were seven of us and they’re all dead except me, but I can see them if I shut my eyes. Their youth is here—still here in Dunnian.”
“I think I understand,” Humphrey murmured. It was odd to imagine the old quiet house full of young voices and light footsteps—that was how Aunt Celia saw it.
“They’re not ghosts, you know,” declared Miss Dunne. “There’s nothing alarming about them. No, they’re just memories—Willie and Mary and John and Ellen and Harry and Isabel—I can see them all clearly, but Isabel most clearly of all. She was so gay and pretty—the baby of the family. I can remember other things too—things that I saw and did when I was young. I remember going to London by stagecoach and my father took me to see King William driving in the park. I’ve never forgotten that.”
“It’s—it’s astounding,” declared Humphrey, looking at the small, dainty old lady in amazement.
“Yes, I’ve seen a good many changes, but you’ll see more. These motorcars—noisy, smelly things—they’ve come to stay, I’m afraid.”
“They’ll improve,” Humphrey said thoughtfully.
“There’s much need of improvement,” Miss Dunne declared with spirit. “Maurice has bought one. You never saw such a hideous contraption in your life. It seems to me that all the new inventions are ugly and noisy.”
Humphrey took a scone and buttered it—what lovely butter it was, rich and yellow and creamy!
“The hills don’t change, thank God,” continued Miss Dunne. “There’s Timperton Law—it looks the same today as it did before I was born, and it won’t look different when your children’s children are dead and buried. You shot your first grouse on Timperton Law, Humphrey.”
“Fancy you remembering that!” he exclaimed in surprise. He was rather touched that she would remember his first grouse. The day came back to him very clearly: it was in early September and the heather was a blaze of purple and humming with wild bees. Maurice had been staying at Dunnian and the two of them had driven over to Timperton in the dogcart. They had taken Johnson to carry the bags. Maurice had been very decent to Humphrey, showing him how to swing his gun, giving him the best chance. Maurice had been a good-natured sort of fellow; what was he like now, Humphrey wondered. Someday Dunnian would belong to Maurice…
“Have you met Maurice’s wife?” Aunt Celia was asking.
Humphrey shook his head. “I’ve been abroad so much. One’s friends are apt to drift away—it’s natural, I suppose. Have they any children, Aunt Celia?”
“She prefers dogs,” Aunt Celia said shortly.
Humphrey chuckled. “They’re less trouble,” he said.
“Nina’s dogs are more trouble than children,” replied Aunt Celia. “She’s quite crazy about them. I like dogs myself, but not silly little toy dogs that yap all day. Do you remember old Boris?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Johnson still has a granddaughter of old Boris. He wanted to give me one of her puppies, but I can’t walk far enough to exercise a spaniel. My dog days are over.” She sighed and added in a different tone, “It was good of you to come see me, Humphrey. I wanted to talk to you and there isn’t much time.”
“I’ve got three days’ leave.”
“I
daresay, but how much leave have I got?” she asked, looking at him with a mischievous twinkle in her bright eyes.
“You mean—”
“You know what I mean, Humphrey. The doctors have a lot of long words for it, but it’s quite simple really. My poor old heart is worn out. Ninety years is a long time for a heart to go on beating.”
“I don’t like to hear you say that!” he exclaimed.
She smiled and said, “Some people think I’ve been here too long.”
“Aunt Celia!”
“It’s true. Maurice and that expensive wife of his are getting quite impatient. She’s made all her plans, of course. She’s decided to cut down part of the wood and open up a ‘vista.’ The lawn is to be cut up into round beds for bedding out—so I’m informed—and there’s to be a rock garden with alpine plants.”
Humphrey gazed at her wide-eyed, but when he saw she was smiling, his face relaxed into a grin. “How do you know all that?” he asked.
“My dear boy, everybody knows everything here; it goes around and around and comes back to me in the end. Sometimes I would rather not hear, but you can’t close your ears. Pour me out another cup of tea.”
He rose and poured it out for her and was glad of the occupation, for it was extremely difficult to know what to say.
“What do you think of the idea?” she asked as she took the cup. “How do you think the lawn would look cut up into round beds full of geraniums and lobelias?”
He looked out over the lawn; it was green and smooth as velvet, sloping gently down to the line of tall stately trees. Beneath the trees was a carpet of wild hyacinths, blue as the sea on a summer’s day. “I think it would be horrible,” he said gravely.
“Horrible,” she agreed, nodding vehemently. “It would change the character of the place. The sweep of grass leads the eye to the trees and the hills beyond. Fussy beds of flowers would spoil the whole effect…and that’s one of the reasons,” she continued, smiling at him. “That’s one of the reasons—but only one of the reasons—why I’ve decided not to leave Dunnian to Maurice. I shall leave it to you instead.”
There was complete silence. Humphrey was so amazed, so taken aback, so flabbergasted, that he could find nothing to say. He sat down heavily and stared at Miss Dunne with his mouth half open.
She laughed and exclaimed, “If only you could see your face!”
“To me?” he asked, finding his voice with difficulty.
“You’re fond of Dunnian, aren’t you?”
“It’s the most beautiful place in the world,” Humphrey declared with pardonable exaggeration.
“Well then, that’s settled.”
“Aunt Celia, you don’t really mean it?”
“This isn’t the first of April, Humphrey.”
“I thought,” he began. “I thought Maurice was your—”
“Listen to me,” said Miss Dunne, holding up her hand to stop him. “Listen to me, Humphrey. Everyone has always taken it for granted that Maurice would have Dunnian when I was dead; it’s true that he’s Willie’s son and Willie was my eldest brother, but that doesn’t seem much of a reason to me. Dunnian isn’t entailed—I shouldn’t be here now if it had been entailed.”
“No, I suppose not,” Humphrey said with a bewildered air.
“Dunnian belongs to me and I can do exactly what I like with it; I could leave it to an animal shelter if I wanted. The money will go with the place, of course. You’ll need it to keep Dunnian as it should be kept. Your pay wouldn’t go very far.”
“No,” Humphrey said in a dazed voice.
“There’s no need for you to retire,” she continued. “In fact, I think it would be a mistake. You can settle your family here and make it your home. I shall want your assurance that you will make it your home, Humphrey. Dunnian must not be shut up or let to strangers.”
He was beginning to realize that she really meant it. She had thought it all out. “Aunt Celia, I can’t believe it,” he said in a low voice.
“You’ll get used to the idea,” she told him. “Oh yes, you will. You can walk about and accustom yourself to the idea…but be careful what you say in front of the servants; I don’t want it to leak out. Maurice will hear about it soon enough when I’m in my grave.” She hesitated and then continued, “It isn’t a sudden decision, Humphrey. I’ve thought about it a great deal. Dunnian means a lot to me—it’s my best friend. I’ve outlived all my human friends. I want someone who loves the place to have it when I’m gone.”
“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 h
e 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.”
Chapter Three
The Red Rose
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.
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