Amberwell

by Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily), 1892-1973

  Mrs. Ayrton bore this with patience. She did not intend to take her sister-in-law's advice, but Beatrice could not help being tiresome so it was foolish to quarrel with her. Mr. Ayrton's temper was not so mild and when Beatrice turned her attention to the gardens and their management he rounded upon her fiercely.

  "Gray has Been here for years! His father was here before him!" exclaimed Mr. Ayrton.

  "He doesn't plan ahead sufficiently."

  "I have every confidence in Gray."

  "More confidence in Gray than in me, I suppose."

  "Yes. Gray knows about the gardens and you don't."

  "That's what you think! As a matter of fact I know much more than he does. The waste that goes on in the garden is deplorable."

  "I don't believe it," shouted Mr. Ayrton. "There's no more waste in Amberwell gardens than there is anywhere else."

  "And the manure," continued Beatrice raising her voice. "Cartloads of manure! Gray ought to make compost."

  "He does!" bellowed Mr. Ayrton. "There's a compost heap near the potting-shed."

  "It isn't properly prepared; he should— "

  Mr. Ayrton struck the table with his fist. "I don't want I your half-baked advice," he shouted. "Gray knows what he's doing and I'm perfectly satisfied with him."

  There had been rows before of course, for William Ayrton and his sister were too alike to get on well together (both had easily-roused tempers and undisciplined tongues, both were as stubborn as mules); but this was a worse row than usual and it took all Mrs. Ayrton's diplomacy to avert an open breach. Beatrice had intended to leave at the end of the week but now announced that she would go tomorrow instead. Perhaps it was just as well, thought Mrs. Ayrton, who felt a little tired.

  The row had taken place at breakfast time and by midday everybody in the house knew about it, for Agnes the under-housemaid (who had been dusting the hall during the breakfast hour) had heard every word. It was a great pleasure to disseminate the news and it lost nothing in the telling. Mrs. Duff was informed of Miss Ayrton's opinion of her cooking; Nannie heard that she was impertinent and ought to be sacked; Janet was told that she was lazy and underhand. Mr. Gray had looked in at eleven for a pleasant cup of tea and found everyone in an extremely bad temper and was given an exaggerated account of what had been said about him in the dining-room.

  If Miss Ayrton could have heard what was said about her in the kitchen she would have been surprised.

  3

  The only human beings in Amberwell who did not know about the row were Connie and Nell and Anne. They knew something was wrong for Nannie had been polishing madly all the afternoon and when they sat down to nursery-tea her face was like thunder. Nobody spoke and nobody ate very much; the atmosphere was so charged with electricity that you could almost hear it crackle.

  At last Nell could bear it no longer. "Why are you cross with us!" she cried, and suddenly burst into tears.

  "Cross?" asked Nannie, glaring at her.

  "Yes—cross—" sobbed Nell. "We haven't—done anything—" she threw out her hands in a gesture of despair and knocked over the milk jug. She had done something now, of course. The clean cloth was flooded and milk poured over the edge of the table onto Nannie's apron.

  "You'll go straight off to bed, Nell," said Nannie rising. That's the best place for you. I'm sure I don't know what's the matter with you—sickening for measles, I wouldn't wonder."

  'It's you!" wailed Nell. "It's not me at all!"

  "Off to bed," said Nannie firmly.

  Nell went off to bed without another word—she was not sorry to go—but Anne was appalled at the injustice. Nannie was usually so kind; she was usually so sensible. What had happened to Nannie? Anne left her tea half finished and fled from the scene of disaster, down the stairs and out into the garden. Her one idea was to escape, to find a place where she could hide from the world—and weep. Ponticum, of course! Ponticum was a sure refuge.

  Anne sped through the walled-garden and out at the gate and dived through the little gap between the rhododendron bushes . . . then suddenly she halted with a heaving chest; somebody was here before her! It was Aunt Beatrice.

  Anne was petrified with astonishment,

  "Come here," Aunt Beatrice said.

  Anne hesitated. Her instinct was to fly.

  "Come here, Anne," repeated Aunt Beatrice in a curiously rough voice.

  Anne went and stood before her. She was sitting on a box—the box where they kept their treasures. Anne had always been a little frightened of Aunt Beatrice and she was much more frightened now for Aunt Beatrice looked so queer. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet and her hair was hanging in wisps over her forehead. Anne gazed at her in horror—it had never occurred to Anne that grown-up people cried.

  "You needn't stare like that," said Aunt Beatrice with a little catch in her voice.

  Anne gazed at the ground.

  "Why are you frightened? I'm not going to eat you," Aunt Beatrice added.

  Anne said nothing.

  "I'm going away tomorrow. You'll be glad, won't you? Everybody will be glad to see the last of me." She drew a sobbing breath and continued, "You think I'm mad, don't you? But that's because you don't understand; you don't know what it's like to be miserable. I was like you—once— long ago—running about Amberwell, happy and carefree. I never thought of the future and I don't suppose you do. Perhaps someday you'll be like me."

  She paused for a moment to mop her eyes with her soaking wet handkerchief.

  Anne was so frightened that she was shaking all over.

  "Someday," continued the harsh unsteady voice. "Someday, sooner or later, you'll be turned out of Amberwell. It will belong to Roger. It won't be your home any more. You'll have no right to walk in Amberwell gardens. You'll have no right to pick a flower. Perhaps you'll be asked to come when Roger and his wife want your help, but you'll be thrown out when they have no further use for you— that's very certain. You'll be expected to smile and look pleasant. If you don't, you won't be asked again."

  "But Aunt Beatrice—" began Anne in a very small voice.

  Aunt Beatrice laughed hysterically. "It's true!" she cried. "It's all true—every word. You won't marry. You aren't like Connie—a pretty, empty-headed doll. You aren't the type to marry."

  "I don't want to—to marry—anybody—" gasped Anne.

  "Then you're a fool. Marriage is the only thing that could save you!" cried Aunt Beatrice wildly. "Marriage while you're young—before you lose the freshness of youth— that's your only hope. Long ago there was a man who wanted to marry me—yes, me—that surprises you, doesn't it? I wasn't pretty but I was young—and we loved each other. But they said he wasn't good enough—not good enough for a Miss Ayrton—so they sent him away. There was nobody else—ever. Nobody else ever looked at me. Why should anybody look at me when the other girls were prettier and more attractive?"

  Anne was speechless. This was the most terrible thing that had ever happened to her.

  "That was my only chance," said Aunt Beatrice, her voice hardening. "If I had married I would have had a life of my own—a place in the world—somebody to care for. At least I would have been necessary to somebody, not utterly unloved and unwanted."

  Anne felt she could not bear it a moment longer, she looked round desperately.

  "All right, you can go," said Aunt Beatrice, sitting up and blowing her nose,

  "I'm—sorry," said Anne. She knew it was inadequate but what else could she say?

  "I believe you are," said Aunt Beatrice, looking at her curiously. "Well, never mind; it isn't your fault anyway. I wouldn't have been such a fool if you hadn't taken me by surprise. I thought I was safe in the wigwam."

  This seemed to end the interview so Anne came away. For a little while she sat in the potting-shed, not exactly thinking—she was too shattered—but musing in a dazed sort of way about all that Aunt Beatrice had said. The awful part was it was true. Every word was true . . . unloved and unwanted, thought Anne.

&
nbsp; After a bit she got up and went back to the nursery and, although she had probably been out less than half-an-hour, so much had happened that she forgot there had been a row. But the storm was over and the skies were blue; Nannie, regretting her bad temper, was all smiles and Nell was quite happy sitting up in bed and reading Count Hannibal with absorption.

  Anne went in and sat on the end of her bed.

  "Hullo!" said Nell looking up and smiling.

  "Hullo!" replied Anne listlessly.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing—really. I saw Aunt Beatrice."

  "Where did you see her?"

  "In Ponticum."

  "In Ponticum!" exclaimed Nell, her voice going up in a squeak. "Do you mean she knows about Ponticum?"

  Anne pushed back her unruly hair. "I suppose she must."

  "But didn't you ask her? Perhaps she played there when she was little."

  "I don't know," said Anne flatly.

  "What did she say?" asked Nell.

  Anne could tell nobody—not even Nell—what Aunt Beatrice had said.

  "Surely she must have said something," urged Nell.

  "She called it the wigwam," said Anne who had just remembered.

  "How funny! The wigwam! It's rather like a wigwam, isn't it? I wonder if the little saucer belonged to her. Did you ask her about it?"

  "No."

  "Anne, what's the matter? Was she beastly to you?" asked Nell anxiously.

  "N'no," replied Anne in a doubtful tone.

  "Well, never mind," said Nell comfortingly. "We don't need to worry about her. She's going away tomorrow and I don't expect she'll be back for ages."

  Anne was silent.

  Part II

  "Standing with reluctant feet

  Where the brook and river meet

  Womanhood and childhood fleet."

  Longfellow

  CHAPTER VII

  1

  Ten years had passed since the opening of the fountain but Amberwell had changed very little. Some of the trees had grown larger and a few had been cut down. An alpine-garden had been made at the end of the lawn outside the drawing-room windows; it was rather attractive with its black boulders and the rock plants nestling in the crevices. There were little paths and steps, so that you could walk round and look at all the plants . . . but to the children this little garden was completely spoilt by the labels. Each plant had a label attached with its name printed clearly upon it, and the smaller the plant the larger the label. For instance there was a tiny plant with soft grey leaves and a sweet little blue flower which was labelled Meritoriana Cannabilis Alpiniensis—or some such nonsense. The children felt certain that Zobji the hobgoblin must haunt the alpine-garden. Nothing enrages Zobji so much as swank Latin names, and the person who calls a foxglove Digitalis Purpurea may be taken suddenly with night cramps—and well he deserves it.

  In addition to these alterations some rhododendrons in the spring garden had been cleared to make room for a grove of wild cherries, and four small palm trees had been planted in a sheltered glade beside the avenue.

  Mr. Ayrton was very proud of his palms, and took his guests to admire them—especially if the guest happened to come from south of the Border.

  "Palm trees in Scotland!" the guest would exclaim incredulously, which of course gave Mr. Ayrton the right opening.

  "Chamaerops excelsa," he would say and would continue with a dissertation upon the delightfully soft mild climate of Amberwell, due to its sheltered position and the proximity of the Gulf Stream.

  If the guest were not very careful he would find he had let himself in for a comprehensive tour of the estate, which might have been pleasant enough if he had been allowed to admire the flowers and bushes in peace but which most people found extremely tiring in the company of Mr. Ayrton. They were hurried past beds of roses and halted before a small bush of purple flowers. "Olearia Semidentata," their host would say. "It's wonderful, isn't it? But wait until you see my Passiflora coerulia."

  There were very few who emerged from the ordeal with flying colours.

  Mr. Ayrton was usually the worse for these personally conducted tours, they brought on his lumbago. He put it down to the unwonted exercise and to standing about too long. The children knew better of course, they knew it was Zobji getting his own back.

  The gardens had changed very little with the passing years but the children had changed a good deal. Roger was a subaltern in the Guards, Tom was reading medicine at Oxford. The three girls were not at school—they had remained at Amberwell—and Miss Clarke still came in daily to give them lessons.

  To do her justice Miss Clarke had tried to persuade Mrs. Ayrton to send them to school (she thought it would do them good and she felt they deserved a better education than she was able to give them) but Mrs. Ayrton had never been to school herself and saw no reason why her daughters should be highly educated. They would marry—that went without saying—and the money spent upon teaching them Latin and Geometry and such like nonsense would be wasted. Connie was very pretty. She could sing quite nicely and play the piano—and of course she could dance. Nell was less attractive, but no doubt she would improve. Anne's future was a matter of indifference to her mother. Mrs. Ayrton had never forgiven Anne for not being a boy.

  The three girls had been given a half holiday and had decided to have a picnic on the moor. It was the first picnic of the season, the first day of Spring. There was a smell of Spring rising from the moist brown earth and the grass in the meadow. The hedges had a dim green mist upon them, a promise of leaves which would soon clothe them in emerald brilliance; soon there would be primroses in the banks, hiding amongst their soft leaves, and the birds would begin to collect moss and sticks and fragments of wool and feathers to build their nests.

  Connie had walked on ahead but Nell and Anne lingered for they had decided to make a Nature Book of Amberwell. It was to be a diary of the weather and the birds and the flowers and the trees. The project, still fresh in their minds, was fascinating.

  "It's the right day to begin," said Nell eagerly. "It's the day of beginnings . . . all the trees are budding. Look at this chestnut! I love chestnut buds; they're so brown and sticky."

  "Just like glue," agreed Anne, She laid her hand upon the bole of the chestnut tree gently (almost as if it were alive, thought Nell, as if it were a dog or a pony and could feel her caress) and looked up at the budding branches with a strange light in her face. "It's a part of Amberwell," she continued in a soft dreamy voice. "Its roots are in Amber-well ground and its leaves breathe Amberwell air."

  "Like us," agreed Nell, nodding to show that she understood.

  Anne did not answer for a few moments and then she said, "But it will die here. Nobody will pull it up by the roots and move it to another place."

  Nell was about to ask her what on earth she meant but they heard Connie's voice calling to them impatiently so they hurried on.

  "Whatever were you doing?" asked Connie. "I've carried the basket all the way."

  "I'll take it!" exclaimed Anne, seizing it from her.

  They went on together through the woods and over the stile onto the open moor for they had decided to have tea in a little quarry by the side of a burn. This moor really belonged to Sir Andrew Findlater and he had let it to the Lamberts for the shooting but the Ayrton girls knew that nobody would mind if they had their picnic there.

  When they reached the quarry they saw somebody sitting on a rock; a young man in a grey-flannel suit and a blue shirt, open at the neck.

  "It's Gerald," said Anne in a low voice. "What a nuisance! Let's go back."

  But Gerald had seen them. He rose and waved to them and came towards them smiling.

  "Hullo!" he cried. "It this really you? I haven't seen you for ages."

  Anne and Nell hung back, for they were shy (and this pleasantly-smiling young man seemed quite different from the Gerald they remembered) but Connie was equal to the occasion and went forward to meet him.

  "Hullo Gera
ld, we didn't know you were home," said Connie.

  "Only for a few days," he said ruefully. "I'm one of the world's workers, you know."

  "You're in your father's firm, aren't you?"

  He nodded. "Yes, and I like it immensely, it's a very interesting job, but you needn't think that because I'm the boss's son I have an easy time. I work as hard as the last-joined apprentice—and for longer hours."

  "Tell us about it," suggested Connie. "Come and sit down and have tea. There's sure to be lots of food."

  "The basket weighs a ton," murmured Anne.

  Gerald accepted the invitation with alacrity and soon they were sitting on a bank in the quarry eating scones and jam and talking cheerfully together—Nell and Anne as well— for although this young man seemed quite unlike Gerald he was a friendly young man.

  2

  "It's funny how we're all scattered," said Anne. "I mean we used to be all here together in the holidays and now there are no proper holidays at all. You're in Glasgow, Roger is at Catterick and Tom is at Oxford."

  "Tom gets long holidays, doesn't he?" Gerald enquired.

  "Not really," replied Anne. "He seems to do most of his work in the vacations. He's going to be a doctor, you know."

  "I know," said Gerald, accepting another scone. "At one time Tom and I were crazy about the Navy but Dad was frightfully keen for me to go into the firm and of course I saw the idea. Building ships is just as good as sailing them, and as a matter of fact I get quite a lot of the sea because I often go out for trials."

  "To see how the engines work," suggested Connie.

  Gerald smiled. "That's the idea, really."

  "It's a pity Tom can't do that," said Anne with a sigh. "Tom loves the sea. He was frightfully disappointed about it."

  "But why?" asked Gerald. "Why didn't he go into the Navy?"

  "Father said he was to go to Oxford," explained Anne.