“Hurry, Mark,” said Daddy. “Put on your coat. Come on, old fellow.”
“Is this Dunnian?”
“No, it’s Ryddelton. The train doesn’t go to Dunnian. We’ve got some way to drive.”
“Don’t cry, Edith,” said Mummy. “Hold up your chin while I tie your bonnet.”
The train stopped with a jerk and they all bundled out. It was quite dark, of course, and the platform was dimly lit, but several people emerged from the shadows and seized the rugs and bags and baskets. Mark saw a tall lady in a black coat and a short red-faced man in a green coat with silver buttons. Mark clung to Daddy’s hand, for he was shy with strangers. The train did not stop very long; it steamed away out of the station and left them standing on the platform surrounded by luggage—prams and cots and baskets and trunks, most of which were extremely shabby, having accompanied the family halfway around the world.
“Say how do you do to Becky,” said Daddy, pushing Mark’s hand forward.
He obediently said “How do you do” and shook hands with the tall lady and then held out his hand to the red-faced man.
“How do you do, Master Mark,” said the man, seizing his hand and shaking it cordially.
Everybody seemed to be shaking hands and talking. There was excitement in the air.
“We mustn’t stand here; it’s cold,” said Daddy.
“I’ll take Baby,” said Becky, seizing the bundle of shawls from Mummy’s arms. “Downie can take Miss Edith. Pick her up, Downie. She’s half asleep, poor wee lamb.”
They talked in a funny way, Mark noticed. Their voices went up and down—as if they were singing—but he liked it.
“What about the luggage?” Mummy asked.
“Wilson will bring it up in the cart.”
They moved out of the station into the yard. It was quite dark here, and there was a sort of nip in the air. Mark felt it catch his throat, but he managed to choke back his cough. There was a carriage waiting for them; it had two horses and two little lamps on the sides and it was very shiny—not like a cab.
“That’s our crest,” said Mark, pointing to the little picture on the door.
“Of course it is,” agreed Downie. “You’re a Dunne, Master Mark.”
Clip clop, clippety cloppety clop went the horses’ feet on the road. The carriage was rolling along smoothly and the hedges slipped past the window. Mark saw dark hedges and tall dark trees outlined against the sky. The grown-up conversation slid in at one ear and out of the other.
“I found a nurse,” Becky was saying. “It was lucky really. She had very good references, so I just engaged her as you said. I hope you’ll like her, Mrs. Dunne, if not—”
“I’m sure I shall like her,” said Mummy.
“Cook decided to stay on after all. She’s a little difficult sometimes, but she’s very reliable and trustworthy.”
“Mrs. Lacey—”
“She’s still here,” said Becky. “She thought she might be able to help you; there’s letters and papers to be looked through.”
“We must get on to that job,” Daddy said.
It was dull talk, thought Mark, gazing out of the window. His heart was beating rather fast, for they were getting near Dunnian now. Dunnian was a sort of magic word to Mark. It had been on everybody’s lips for days. “When we get to Dunnian—” “You can have that when we get to Dunnian.” “It will be all right when we get to Dunnian.” “Never mind, darling, just wait till we get to Dunnian.” And now they were nearly there.
The carriage swung around and Mark saw that they were passing between stone pillars. The horses’ feet made a different sound now, a crunching sound, and the hedges had come closer. Mark would have liked to ask, “Are we nearly there?” But the grown-ups were talking and he did not like to interrupt. The horses were going slower now, for it was uphill, and the hedges had vanished. There was grass at either side and tall trees…and then suddenly Mark saw a big house with lit windows and he knew they had arrived.
The front door stood wide open, and a shaft of light streamed out into the night. Mark was dazed by the sudden glare in the hall. There were more people here: a little old lady in a black dress who kissed him and said he was like his great-grandfather, and maids with white aprons and smiling faces, and then, somehow or other, Mark found himself walking up the broad shallow staircase and discovered his legs were very tired.
“This way. I’ll show you,” said Becky, taking his hand.
“Mummy,” he said. “You come too, Mummy—” But Mummy didn’t hear.
There was a fire blazing in the nursery grate. The table was covered with a white cloth, and there were spoons and mugs and blue bowls laid out on it. There was a small fat person with a starched apron bustling about and talking all the time.
“Yes,” she was saying. “Yes, it’s all ready. I’ll just put Baby into my own bed until the cot comes. Yes, I’ll manage fine. Take off your coat, Mark, there’s a good boy.”
“Mummy—” Mark began uncertainly.
“Mummy will be up presently when you’ve had your supper. You like bread and milk, don’t you? That’s the boy! We’ll wash your hands first. My word, they’re dirty, aren’t they?”
“I want Mummy,” said Mark.
“Yes, she’ll come soon. She’s going to have her dinner. You’re a big boy, aren’t you? I should think you were six.”
“I’m five and a half.”
“Well, I never! You are big. The little boy I was with before was six and a half and he wasn’t as big as you.”
This was very gratifying, and Mark began to feel better. “What’s your name?” he asked as he held his hands over the basin and had them thoroughly scrubbed.
“Nannie,” she replied, smiling down at him.
“We had an amah in China,” Mark said.
“My word! Fancy you having been to China. You’ll tell me all about it, won’t you?”
Suddenly Mark felt that horrible tickle at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, but it was no use. He began to cough and he went on coughing and whooping—then he was sick. As a rule Mark hated being sick when anyone was there—even when the person was Mummy—but somehow or other it didn’t seem to matter with “Nannie.” She took it as a matter of course. She didn’t mind a bit. She wasn’t sorry for him.
“I’m not really ’fectious,” Mark said hoarsely.
“No, of course not,” she agreed. “What a good thing you were sick now instead of waiting until after supper! It was clever of you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Mark, smiling a trifle wanly.
“We’ll get a bottle of emulsion. I know all about whooping cough. We want to get rid of it before the winter sets in—once you get clementized,” Nannie said cheerfully. “Once you get clementized your cough will go like winking.”
“Clementized,” repeated Mark, nodding. He thought it was a nice new word—as indeed it was.
“Used to the new kind of air,” Nannie explained.
“Yes, of course,” said Mark.
He had felt a little shy of Nannie, but now they were friends and they ate their supper together in complete accord. You couldn’t go on feeling shy with a person who was so understanding, so small and busy and talkative, so interested in all you told her. He quite forgot that he had felt “funny” and wanted Mummy to come, and he was quite surprised when the door opened and Mummy appeared.
“Is everything all right?” asked Mummy.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Nannie, rising from her chair. “The little girls are both asleep and Mark’s nearly finished his supper. We won’t bother with a bath tonight; he’ll just go straight off, I expect. We’re getting on very nice. Yes, ma’am, everything’s quite all right.”
Mummy sat down for a minute and Nannie, who had finished her supper, bustled about, putting everything to rights. “It’s a lovely
nursery,” she declared. “Such nice cupboards and cork carpet on the floor and nice light washable blinds. I had wooden blinds in my last nursery, nasty heavy things that were always going wrong—venereal blinds they were called.”
Mummy laughed and choked. Her voice was quite trembly as she said, “I’m glad you like the nursery, Nannie.”
“I’d be hard to please if I didn’t,” Nannie said emphatically.
• • •
The next morning was fine and sunny. Nannie took out her sewing and settled herself on the seat beneath the old beech tree at the end of the lawn. Baby was asleep in the pram and Edith was sitting on a rug looking at a picture book. Mark stood and stared about him. It was all so strange. It was all so different—even the air had a different kind of smell.
“You needn’t stay here,” said Nannie, smiling at him. “Go explore, Mark.”
It was a new word. “Explore?” he asked.
“Go look around,” explained Nannie. “Go wherever you like. I’ll call you when it’s time for your milk.”
He walked away across the grass. It was funny to walk on grass instead of on pavements; it was funny to be told you could go wherever you liked. Once or twice he stopped and looked back at the little group beneath the tree. Nannie waved to him, and he waved back. He felt big and grown up. He was going to explore.
There was a path leading down between the trees and bushes. Mark walked along solemnly. He heard the birds singing and a rushing sound in the distance; that was the sea, of course. It was funny to walk along all by yourself with nobody in sight. It was rather nice, but—but supposing you got lost? Supposing you couldn’t find your way back? He hesitated and looked up the path; there was nothing to be seen but trees and bushes. He began to go back and then he stopped again. He was going to explore. He hadn’t explored anything yet. Nannie would think he was silly. Mark turned again. He put his hands in his pockets and marched on, head in air. Presently he came to a big high wall with a door in it. The door was open and Mark stood in the entrance and looked in. There was a garden inside the door, a huge big garden with all sorts of things growing in it, and there was a man with a rake, raking one of the beds. Mark watched the man for a little while. The man couldn’t object to Mark looking in at the door and watching him.
When he had finished raking the bed the man looked up and saw Mark and said, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Mark said politely.
“It’s a fine day,” said the man.
“This is a very nice garden,” said Mark.
“It’s not bad. Are you coming in, Master Mark?”
“May I?” Mark asked eagerly.
The man laughed. He said, “Well, I don’t know who’s got a better right. Come away in and we’ll find an apple.”
Mark came in and looked around. He followed the man along the path, and soon they came to a part of the wall where there were trees growing, little trees with apples on them.
“I’ll need to find you a ripe one,” said the man. “They ripen early on this wall. It faces south.”
Mark watched him looking for a ripe apple. He said, “I live at Dunnian now.”
“So do I,” replied the man. “I was born here. My name’s Johnson.”
“It’s a very nice name,” Mark said politely.
Johnson picked an apple off a tree and offered it to Mark.
“Thank you,” Mark said, taking it and looking at it. The apple was small, but it was very pretty—yellow and brown and red.
“Are you not going to eat it?” Johnson inquired.
“Mummy peels them,” explained Mark.
“You don’t want it peeled. Bite it. That’s what your teeth are for.”
Mark bit a small piece off the apple. It was sweet and juicy. “It’s very nice,” he said. “Mummy will pay you for it.”
“That’s good!” declared Johnson, laughing heartily. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard for a long time.” He took out a huge red handkerchief and blew his nose violently.
“Don’t you want to be paid?” Mark asked uncertainly.
“It’s your own apple,” replied Johnson.
“My apple?”
“Well, your father’s apple then. This is your father’s garden, Master Mark.”
“All of it?” Mark asked, looking around in amazement.
“Every bit.”
Mark said nothing. He could find nothing to say.
“Have you been down to the river?” Johnson asked.
“Is it near here?”
“Can you not hear it?”
“I thought that was the sea,” explained Mark. “I’m more used to the sea…”
“Come, and I’ll show you the river,” said Johnson.
Mark took Johnson’s hand—it was terrifically hard and calloused, but there was a nice friendly feeling in it all the same—and they went across the garden and out of another door in the wall. The noise of the rushing water was much louder here; it grew and grew, and a moment later they were standing on a bank with rocks all around and looking down at a small waterfall.
“What do you think of that?” Johnson inquired.
Mark did not know what to think of it. He had never seen anything like it before. The noise of the falling water was so loud and the sun shining on the spray was so dazzling that Mark felt glad he had hold of Johnson’s hand.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of,” Johnson said.
“No,” Mark agreed in a doubtful tone.
They stood and watched it for a few moments.
“Is that where the fish lives?” Mark asked after a little while, raising his voice to be heard above the roar.
“What fish?”
“The fish that Daddy and I are going to catch—is that where it lives?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Johnson.
• • •
Mark was in bed. (He was very tired after his first day at Dunnian. There had been so much to do and see.) He had said his prayers and Nannie was just going to turn out the lamp when Daddy looked in.
“Here’s Daddy!” Nannie exclaimed. “Now you’ll be a happy boy!”
Mark was quite happy already, but he was delighted to see Daddy. He put his arms around Daddy’s neck and kissed him.
“Had a good day?” asked Daddy.
Mark nodded. Of course he had: this was Dunnian.
“You’ve made a lot of new friends,” said Daddy.
Mark nodded again. “Who is the lady?” he asked.
“What lady? Do you mean Cousin Henrietta?”
“No.”
“Becky then?”
“No,” Mark said, shaking his head vigorously.
“Who do you mean?”
“She’s nice,” said Mark. “She’s old, but she’s very nice.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“No,” said Mark.
“I don’t know who it could be,” Daddy said, wrinkling his forehead.
“He’s been talking about her all the time he was having his supper,” Nannie declared. “He said he met her on the stairs—”
“A lady,” Mark repeated, nodding.
“What was she like?”
Mark could not answer this. He knew what she was like, of course, but he did not know how to describe her.
“Did she know you?” Daddy asked.
“Yes,” said Mark. “Yes, of course. She knew I was Mark. She was pleased to see me.”
“But she didn’t speak to you?”
“No.”
“She’s a mystery,” Daddy said, laughing.
“Is that her name?”
“What?”
“Miss Terry,” said Mark.
“I think it must be,” Daddy said.
Chapter Ten
Settli
ng In
The parish church in Ryddelton was always very well attended, but for a long time the Dunnian pew had stood empty save for the slim figure of Becky in her neat black coat and hat. On the Sunday morning following the arrival of the Humphrey Dunnes, Becky was early on the scene and instead of sitting in her usual place she moved up the pew to the far end, leaving vacant a large expanse of red-cushioned seat. This unusual circumstance was noticed by a good many people with a good deal of interest.
After a bit there was a rustle of silk and Mrs. Humphrey Dunne swept up the aisle. She was followed by a little lady in black and, behind the little lady, came a tall man with a clean-shaven face and a very small boy in a sailor suit.
A small stir, like wind in a field of corn, passed through the church. Heads were turned and necks were craned eagerly. Some of the Ryddelton people knew the Maurice Dunnes and thought they had been badly treated; others held the opinion that Miss Dunne was entitled to do as she pleased with her own property, but one and all were anxious to see the newcomers, for, in a small community such as Ryddelton, it mattered a good deal what sort of people one had as neighbors. The Dunnes appeared unconscious of the interest they had aroused. They filed into the Dunnian pew and sat down.
On the other side of the aisle was the Raeworths’ pew. Mr. Raeworth was tall and gray-haired; Mrs. Raeworth was small and plump. They sat one at each end of the seat and between them sat two of their children, Andrew and Angela. Andrew had heard about the “Dunne boy” and was so anxious to see what he looked like that he stood on a hassock and leaned right over the book rest. He was pulled back to his proper place by his mother. Mrs. Raeworth had not turned her head, but somehow or other she had accomplished the seemingly impossible and had caught a glimpse of “the new Mrs. Dunne.” Gray silk and black furs and a large black hat—all very nice and proper.
I shall call, thought Mrs. Raeworth as she rose for the first psalm. I shall call at once. Dear old Miss Dunne would like me to call. It will be nice to have neighbors with children.
Lady Skene was even less conveniently placed for seeing her new neighbors, for the Skenes always sat in the front pew. She heard the stir and was aware what had occasioned it, but she would have to wait until after the service to make up her mind about the newcomers. (Lady Skene’s daughter-in-law was a friend of Nina Dunne and had written to Lady Skene saying that the Humphreys were quite impossible, but Lady Skene was not prepared to accept this statement as gospel truth. She would judge for herself.) Unfortunately she was delayed after the service and reached the church door just as the Dunnian carriage was driving away. She stood there, peering after it with her shortsighted eyes. It was nothing but a blur.
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