Celia's House Read Free

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.
    â€œI’m ninety,” said Miss Dunne, meeting his glance.
    â€œYou don’t seem ninety, Aunt Celia. You’re so alive.”
    â€œMy 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.”
    â€œYou look happy.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYes,” 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?
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œI 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).
    â€œNinety 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!”
    â€œCelia is a good deal better,” said Humphrey, smiling.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThey’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