"Goodness!" exclaimed Gerald incredulously. "I can hardly believe it. D'you really mean he wasn't allowed to choose his own career?"
None of the girls could find an answer to that. They were aware that Gerald had always been allowed to do as he wanted.
"Oh well," said Gerald after a short but rather uncomfortable silence. "It seems a bit odd to me, but I expect Tom will make a very good doctor."
"Of course he will!" cried Anne. "He's getting on splendidly. Tom can always do anything he sets his mind to; he always could."
"And he's quite happy," added Connie who liked to think that everything was for the best.
Anne had been talking a lot—she was not as shy as Nell—and Connie had a feeling that it was now her turn to carry on the conversation so she asked politely about Gerald's life in Glasgow and whether he had made many new friends.
"Oh, it's all right," said Gerald. "I know a few people of course. I play tennis occasionally, but more for exercise than anything else."
"It doesn't sound as if you enjoyed it much," said Connie sympathetically.
By this time Gerald had been able to have a good look at his companions and size them up. He smiled at them and said, "You don't know how funny it is to see you. I always thought of you as tiny little girls and now you're all grown up."
"We're not grown-up," said Anne seriously. "Connie is nearly grown-up. She's going to London with Mother to buy clothes."
"I'm sure she'll look charming in them," said Gerald.
It was so funny to hear Gerald being polite that Anne began to giggle.
"Shut up!" exclaimed Connie, frowning and shaking her head.
It was no use of course. When Anne began to giggle it was hopeless trying to stop her. Anne shook with internal convulsions; she was seized with uncontrollable mirth and flung herself upon the bank writhing helplessly.
The others caught the infection and laughed too.
"What are we laughing at?" asked Gerald at last in a trembling voice. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "Come on, Anne. Tell us the joke."
"Anne can never tell you," said Nell hastily (for Nell had a pretty shrewd idea of what had amused her young sister). "Anne never can tell you the joke, and even if she does it isn't a bit funny."
Gerald could hardly believe this. It certainly was difficult to believe that a joke which had thrown a young woman into such a passion of mirth would not be worth hearing. "Do try, Anne," he said earnestly.
At this Anne laughed the more.
"It's no good," said Connie. "Honestly, Gerald. We'll just have to talk about something else."
"Have some more cake," suggested Nell, offering him the last piece.
Gerald accepted it and they talked of something else.
"This is a nice place for tea," he said, looking round the little quarry. "I haven't been here for years and years—not since Roger and Tom and I had a shooting-match with a sailor doll."
There was a dead silence. Six round eyes fixed themselves upon Gerald's face.
"A sailor doll with a cap and bell-bottomed trousers," continued Gerald cheerfully. "It made a fascinating target. Tom stuck it up against a rock and we all had shots at it with Roger's rook-rifle. There wasn't much left of it by the time we'd finished. Funny how you remember things, isn't it?"
"Very funny," agreed Nell in a shaky voice. She had not thought of the sailor doll for nearly ten years but now, all of a sudden, she remembered him so clearly that she could almost see him with his blond curly hair and his supercilious smile. Of course she was now too old to mind (and when she saw Anne looking at her anxiously she managed to smile back in a reassuring manner) but all the same she felt a trifle queer.
CHAPTER VIII
1
Connie had always been pretty, she had blue eyes and golden hair which was naturally wavy. When she was eighteen she was very pretty indeed. Her mother took her to London and they had a delightful time buying clothes and visiting some of Mrs. Ayrton's relations. Everybody without exception said how pretty Connie was and naturally her mother was very proud of her. They had intended to be away from Amberwell for a fortnight, but they stayed a month, and when they returned Connie was well and truly grown-up. There was no doubt about it.
Mrs. Ayrton discovered that it was very pleasant to have a daughter in the house—a charming little daughter who was always ready to go out with her in the car and to accompany her to parties. She discovered too that Connie was a "draw." Young people in the neighbourhood (who had never thought of calling at Amberwell House before) dropped in at tea-time and accepted invitations to see the gardens. They asked Connie to small dances or to meet them at the Club for tennis. Mrs. Ayrton liked the stir; she liked to see young people about the place. Mr. Ayrton was not so pleased, but he could always retire to his library if he wanted peace.
It seemed to her sisters that Connie had grown up with startling suddenness. They could not understand it. They had talked about it often (in fact they had discussed the matter off and on ever since Connie had returned from London) and they were still discussing it one fine bright day in October, sitting on the rocks near the Smugglers' Cave.
"It happens when you're eighteen," said Anne thoughtfully. "You'll be eighteen next year."
"But I don't want it to happen!" cried Nell in alarm. "I couldn't go out to parties and—and talk to people—and go downstairs to dinner and all that."
"Perhaps when you're eighteen—"
"Not when I'm eighty! I'd rather things went on just as they are for ever."
Anne sighed. She knew things could not go on for ever.
"I don't want it," repeated Nell earnestly. "We're much happier as we are."
"I know," agreed Anne. "But you get older every day whether you want to or not. Someday we shall be as old as Aunt Beatrice." Her voice died away into silence.
Anne had never forgotten her meeting with Aunt Beatrice in Ponticum House. She had never spoken of it—not even to Nell—and she did her best not to think about it, but the impression it had made upon her mind was deep and lasting; every word Aunt Beatrice had said was imprinted clearly upon her memory. Since that dreadful day Anne had never felt secure; the time would come when she would grow old and nobody would want her. The time would come when she would be turned out of Amberwell—like Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden—and she would be homeless. Even when Anne was not actually thinking about it the thoughts lay at the back of her mind; they coloured her whole life and upset her balance. Sometimes she was unnaturally gay and at other times she was dreamy.
"Do you think Connie is really grown-up inside, or just pretending?" asked Nell suddenly.
Anne had wondered the same thing; it seemed strange that a person could change so quickly. Before she went to London Connie had been one of themselves and now she had moved to another sphere. She had moved downstairs to a bedroom on the second floor; she spent her leisure in the drawing-room; she lived and moved and had her being in the adult world. Occasionally they saw Connie walking round the garden with her friends, and once they had seen her tripping lightly across the hall in her smart new high-heeled shoes. On that memorable occasion Connie had stopped to speak to them.
"Hullo!" she exclaimed. "What have you been doing?"
They were so astonished at hearing the well-known question fall from Connie's lips that they were struck dumb, unable to answer.
Certainly Connie had changed. She was not the Connie who had played stump-cricket in the paddock and had gone for picnics with Nell and Anne on the moor. They did not mind, because they still had each other . . . but what would happen when Nell became eighteen?
"Did you hear what I said?" asked Nell. She asked quite amiably for she was used to Anne's vague moods. Sometimes Anne got lost in thought and did not hear a word.
"About Connie— " began Anne, coming back to earth.
"No, that was ages ago. You've been dreaming. I was telling you what Miss Clarke said this morning. She said Mother wanted to talk to us about something very
important."
Anne turned and looked at her sister in surprise. "About what?"
"Clarkie wouldn't say. She just said it was something nice."
"We might not think it was nice," said Anne apprehensively.
Nell nodded. Grown-up people often had the strangest ideas about what was nice.
It was now getting on for tea-time and Nannie would be waiting for them so they rose and brushed the sand from their skirts and went up the slope together; and as they went they tried to guess what it could be. It might be a party (neither Nell nor Anne liked parties but they were aware that parties were supposed to be nice) or it might be something even worse than a party.
"Perhaps one of us is to move into Connie's old room," suggested Anne.
"Oh no!" cried Nell in horrified tones. "They couldn't do that! It would be dreadful not to sleep together. I couldn't bear it."
Anne pushed open the door of the walled-garden and they went in (closing the door carefully behind them to keep out the rabbits which were the bane of Mr. Gray's existence). They walked on towards the sheltered corner where the greenhouses had been built. As they passed the vinery they heard voices . . . and by one accord they tiptoed to the door and peeped in.
There were two people in the vinery, Connie and Gerald; they were standing very close together holding each other's hands. Then Connie looked up and smiled at Gerald—and he bent down and kissed her.
Nell and Anne turned and hurried away. They were both so startled that they were speechless. Nell was quite shocked. One had read about love in books of course, but this was Connie . . . and Gerald! They hurried up the nursery stairs and into the bathroom. It was not until they had washed their hands and were drying them on the same towel that Anne found her voice.
"It's begun," she said.
"What's begun?"
"Growing-up has begun."
"But not for us!"
"Yes—for everybody. Things won't ever be the same again. You'll see."
Nannie was waiting for them in the nursery. "Tea's ready," she said smiling. "Goodness, you do look hot! Have you been hurrying?"
"No," said Nell. "At least—yes, we did hurry a bit."
"I've got a nice surprise for you," said Nannie. "You're both to go down to dinner tonight; it's a very special occasion."
2
Meanwhile Gerald had kissed Connie gently on her soft rosy cheek and she had let him kiss her—for they were engaged. Gerald was not very experienced in matters of this sort but he had a feeling that there was something missing. He stood back and held her hands and looked at her earnestly.
"You do love me, darling?" he asked.
"Of course," replied Connie in surprise.
"I mean—" said Gerald. "I mean you do really love me? It's not just because—because—"
"Because what?"
"Well," said Gerald, trying to explain. "Well, supposing your father and mother and my father and mother all said we weren't to get married—what then?"
"But Gerald, they're all delighted!"
"I know; but supposing they weren't delighted? Supposing they all said no? What would you do?"
"It would be horrid," declared Connie. "But we needn't worry, need we? It's silly to worry about something that hasn't happened."
Gerald sighed. He said, "You always do what they tell you."
"Yes," agreed Connie. "It's because everything is so much nicer, that's why. It saves such a lot of bother if you do what you're told—and I like people to be pleased with me. That's not wrong, is it?"
"No, of course not, darling. I just mean . . . I mean you aren't marrying me because it will please everybody, are you?"
"How silly you are!" Connie exclaimed.
"Darling, I know I'm silly," said Gerald. "I love you so frightfully. I wish all the parents were furious with us for getting engaged. I wish your parents would forbid you to speak to me—then I would know whether you really loved me."
Connie laughed. "How would you know if I wasn't allowed to speak to you?"
"Because you would speak to me—you'd tell them to go to hell—then I'd know for certain."
"It would be awfully uncomfortable," said Connie looking up at him. "It's ever so much nicer as it is, with everybody pleased and happy. At least I think so."
Gerald sighed. He did not really want the Ayrtons and the Lamberts to be upon Montague and Capulet terms but he was a romantic at heart and it all seemed too suitable, too easy. If there had been snags in the course of true love Gerald would have felt more comfortable, but there were no snags at all; as Connie had said everybody was pleased. Already the two mothers were putting their heads together and talking about the wedding. It would take place at St. Stephen's of course and Nell and Anne would be bridesmaids. Mrs. Ayrton thought a Christmas wedding would be delightful, and Mrs. Lambert agreed with the greatest amiability, so it was to be two days after Christmas. The two fathers were putting their heads together and talking about settlements. They had always been cronies but now they were even more matey than before. When they met Mr. Ayrton would slap his friend on the back and exclaim, "Ha, ha, my boy!" and Mr. Lambert would reply, "What ho!" and they would both laugh.
The first time Gerald saw and heard this inane performance his blood boiled; his hands itched to take the two grey heads and knock them together . . . Ha, ha and what ho! It was a sort of desecration, Gerald felt. But of course he had to bear it and being a kindly-natured person he bore it with outward good humour.
3
Anne had been right when she said growing-up had begun and nothing would ever be the same again. Connie's marriage was the first break in the family. It was a magnificent affair and was arranged and managed by Mrs. Ayrton with her usual efficiency. The church was beautifully decorated, the bride was a dream in white satin and lace, and the reception at Amberwell House went off with tremendous éclat. Nothing occurred to mar the perfection of Connie's wedding—even the weather was propitious.
When it was all over Mrs. Ayrton felt extremely flat. She missed Connie dreadfully and she missed the youthful company which had flocked round Connie and livened up the house . . . but of course Mrs. Ayrton had two more daughters. They were not so pretty as Connie—or at least Mrs. Ayrton did not think they were—Nell was too thin and Anne was too plump. In addition they were both very shy and awkward. But Mrs. Ayrton thought she could make something of them. Of course Nell was not yet quite eighteen and Anne was a year younger but she could begin to get them into shape.
The first thing to do was to get rid of Miss Clarke, so Mrs. Ayrton summoned her and told her very kindly that her services were no longer required.
"Are the girls going to school?" asked Miss Clarke.
"No," replied Mrs. Ayrton. "I'm going to have them with me.
"You can't mean that they are going to stop having lessons?"
"They've learnt quite enough."
"Oh no!" cried Miss Clarke. "Oh, Mrs. Ayrton—they're so young! Anne is only sixteen—"
"Their father and I think it best," said Mrs. Ayrton sweetly. "We're very grateful to you for all you've done for the girls and of course we shall be glad to give you an excellent testimonial."
Miss Clarke was not thinking of testimonials. "Oh Mrs. Ayrton, please reconsider the matter!" she exclaimed. "Nell has a very good brain—I had hoped she might go to Oxford—and Anne is so very young—just a child! I don't ask you to keep me on, but I do beg you to get someone else, or better still to send them to school. A year at school would—"
"No, I think not," said Mrs. Ayrton. She was a little uncomfortable and it was a relief when she remembered Disraeli. Never explain, thought Mrs. Ayrton looking distastefully at Miss Clarke's anguished face.
So Mrs. Ayrton gave no explanation but merely smiled sweetly and vaguely and Miss Clarke was powerless.
Miss Clarke had been coming to Amberwell daily for over twelve years so it was a frightful wrench to tear herself away. She had no cause to complain of her treatment as regards money for she
was presented with a handsome honorarium—in addition to the excellent testimonial—but she was very miserable all the same. Nell and Anne were unhappy too; they liked Miss Clarke, and her departure put an end to their childhood. They were to be promoted to the place left vacant by Connie, and they did not want promotion.
"Good-bye," said Miss Clarke, kissing them fondly. "You'll read, won't you? Go on reading whatever happens . . . and go on with your Nature Book."
"Of course," agreed Anne. "We'll have lots of time— "
"Even if you have no time," said Miss Clarke wildly. "People can always read—if they want to—whether they have time or not."
Nannie was sorry to see Miss Clarke go. She had never liked Miss Clarke but now she realised that Miss Clarke might have been a lot worse, so she shook hands cordially with her one-time enemy and wished her well. Nannie was staying on at Amberwell for Mrs. Ayrton had decided that although the girls would not be in the nursery any more it would be useful to have Nannie there. Nannie could mend the linen and look after the girls' clothes, and later on, when grandchildren began to arrive, Nannie would be very useful indeed.
Mrs. Ayrton toyed with the idea of moving Nell and Anne downstairs to two single bedrooms on the second floor, but Amberwell House was not so very large and the two single bedrooms were convenient for guests, so she decided to leave the girls where they were for the time being.
All these arrangements were easy to a woman of Mrs. Ayrton's ability, and were carried out successfully. The house settled down into the new routine. Unfortunately Mrs. Ayrton was not so successful with her daughters. She had hoped that Nell and Anne would be pleased with their promotion; she had hoped that when they had no lessons to keep them busy they would enjoy going to parties with her and get into the swim and bring young people to the house. She was disappointed. Certainly they did what they were told; they went out with her when she asked them to come, and when she spoke to them they replied politely, but they were not companionable. Mrs. Ayrton came to the conclusion that they never talked at all—and then one day she happened to overhear them chatting to each other and laughing. When she went in and asked what had amused them Anne pointed to a shabby old book which lay upon the table; it was a very old edition of "Measure for Measure" by one William Shakespeare.
Amberwell Page 8
