Celia's House

by D. E. Stevenson

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 t
o 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.

  They walked on in silence for a while and then Mark began to talk again. “Do you like the woods?” he inquired.

  “Not awfully,” said Debbie in a low voice. “You see, I’m not used to being where there aren’t any people. It’s so very quiet in the woods. No people anywhere,” said Debbie, trying to explain. “Just trees and trees and trees.”

  “There used to be people here.”

  “Do you mean savages?” she asked, looking around apprehensively.

  “No, people like us—people who lived in houses and slept in beds and cooked their food in saucepans. Look at that heap of stones! It was once a cottage, you know. This was the garden—it’s all nettles now, but I expect they grew potatoes and cabbages.”

  Debbie was interested. It was nice to think of people living here, ordinary people. She said, “I wonder if there’s anything left. You know, Mark—hidden treasure or anything.”

  “Hidden treasure!”

  “Not really treasure,” she explained, “but just something. Let’s look about, shall we?”

  Mark was not particularly keen to hunt for treasure, but he smiled and agreed and the two of them poked about in the ruins of the house. They looked for a long time because, somehow or other, the fascination of hunting for treasure gripped them. Mark found an old knife with a broken blade, and Debbie found a spoon.

  “Look, Mark!” she cried excitedly. “Look, a spoon!”

  “What a frightful-looking thing!” Mark said.

  It was rather frightful, for it was bent and completely black and encrusted with dirt.

  “It’s silver,” cried Debbie.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is. I’ll take it home and clean it. Can I have it, Mark? Can I have it for my very own?”

  “Of course,” said Mark, smiling at the request.

  “Even if it’s silver?”

  “It isn’t silver.”

  “But if it is,” Debbie said urgently.

  “You can have it if it’s gold,” Mark replied, laughing.

  Debbie sighed with pleasure. She put it in her pocket and they walked on. Somehow or other the mere fact that people had lived here—people who used spoons—made the woods seem less empty. It was the vast space and emptiness of the Dunnian Woods that frightened her. She said so to Mark and Mark seized on the word at once.

  “Empty!” he exclaimed. “But the woods aren’t empty! They’re full of all sorts of birds and animals. Look, there’s a rabbit, Debbie!” he cried as a little gray streak fled across their path.

  “I know there are a few rabbits—” Debbie began.

  “There are hundreds,” he declared. “You don’t see them because they live underground…hundreds and thousands of them in their little holes, all lined with soft stuff like birds’ nests. And then there are squirrels. If you sit very quietly you see them peeping at you out of the trees. That’s why I like coming to the woods by myself, because there’s so much to see.”

  He talked on, telling her all sorts of interesting things, and Debbie felt better every moment. Suddenly she thought, I wish I could give Mark something. But of course she couldn’t. Mark had all he wanted and she had nothing to give.

  “What are you thinking about?” Mark asked.

  “Nothing,” Debbie replied quickly.

  “But you do think about things. What do you think of all the time? Do you like being at Dunnian?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “You wish you were back with your mother.”

  Debbie hesitated. Sh
e wasn’t sure. She looked back at her old life and suddenly, for the first time, she realized its drawbacks. She remembered the anxieties, the worries, the constant nagging to which she had been subjected (“Debbie, you’ve boiled the eggs as hard as stones!” “Debbie, you’ve forgotten to dust the mantelpiece!”), and she remembered too how her head had ached after sitting up late and how often she had felt sick and miserable.

  “You do, don’t you?” urged Mark.

  “No, not now.”

  “Good,” Mark said, smiling at her.

  “I wish I was cleverer,” she said slowly. “I wish I could do lessons as well as Edith. I wish I had curly hair.”

  Mark didn’t laugh. He said, “I like you better than Edith. You’re my favorite sister.”

  This was wonderful. It was going to help a lot. It was going to make all the difference in the world. Mark liked her.

  They walked on for a while and then Debbie heaved a sigh. “If only you didn’t have to go away to school, I believe I could be quite happy,” she declared. “I wish you could stay at home.”

  “So do I,” Mark replied in a gruff voice. “You needn’t think I like it, Debbie. Sometimes I feel I just can’t bear it another moment, but I’ve got to bear it. All boys have to go to school so—so I’ve got to bear it, Debbie,” and then he found himself telling Debbie all about school and all about the troubles and trials that had made his first term at school a perfect nightmare…about the boys who made your life a burden, and about the nights when you lay awake and thought of Dunnian. Mark had meant to keep his troubles to himself, to stick it out and tell nobody, so he was rather surprised to find himself telling Deb.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Humphrey and Mark

  The years passed, but Dunnian showed little signs of change. There was electric light in the old house now, and four bathrooms, and there was a new garage behind the stables that held two cars, but Dunnian had assimilated these modern improvements without losing character or dignity. Several of the old trees had fallen and had been replaced with small ones that would grow to noble proportions long after Humphrey was dead. The drive had been widened a little, but the lawn was as smooth and green and velvety as ever. When Humphrey returned at Christmastime in the year 1914 for his first “war leave,” he found the place as peaceful and beautiful as ever. It was only in the children that he found change. They grew so quickly; they seemed to move on suddenly—suddenly, one found that their heads came higher up on one’s own body, and there was less need to stoop when one spoke to them; suddenly one found in them new words and thoughts.