Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Soon after this the two children appeared. They had no idea it was so late and Stephen was surprised to discover that his relations had gone home without him.

  “I’d better run,” he said. “Goodbye, Uncle—I mean Mr. Maddon.”

  “Why this sudden formality?” enquired Arnold, who had enjoyed the status of adopted uncle since Stephen was two years old.

  “Daddy said so,” replied Stephen. “Daddy said I must practice, that’s all. Goodbye, Mr. Maddon.”

  “Goodbye, Ayrton,” returned his future headmaster with a smile.

  Stephen looked a little surprised and then he laughed. “It does sound funny,” he declared, and with that he waved cheerfully and ran off down the drive.

  Anne and Emmie were the last to go. They left Arnold to lock up the house and walked home together.

  “We had a lovely time,” said Emmie. “We went all over the house—we even went into the cellars. There are huge cellars underneath the house. All crawly with spiders and things. Some day we’re going to take a torch and explore them properly. We might find a secret passage like the boy in The Moated Grange. Wouldn’t that be fun? If we found a secret passage Stephen could escape from the school whenever he wanted.”

  “Will he want to escape?” asked Anne with a good deal of interest.

  “I don’t think so—not really,” replied Emmie frankly. “But it would be nice to know that he could. Stephen is pleased about the school. He thinks it will be a good thing.” She sighed and added, “What a pity I’m not a boy!”

  “I’m glad you’re not a boy.”

  “I’m glad too—really and truly,” said Emmie, putting her hand through her mother’s arm. “We wouldn’t be such friends if I was a boy, would we? I wouldn’t be able to help you so much. But what’s going to happen to me when Stephen goes to Summerhills?”

  This matter had disturbed Anne a good deal, but fortunately she had discovered a small girls’ school in Westkirk, which was run by two ladies, and she had decided to send Emmie to it daily. It would do for a time at any rate. Later on when Emmie was older she would have to go to a boarding-school. Anne explained these plans to her daughter.

  “I don’t mind going to Miss Johnstone’s,” said Emmie, “but a boarding-school would be horrible. You never went to a boarding-school, so why need I?”

  “I never learnt anything,” said Anne with a sigh. This was a slight exaggeration, of course, but it was true that Anne’s education had been inadequate. She and Connie and Nell had shared a governess and although Miss Clarke had done her best for her pupils she had not been a good teacher.

  “We can’t afford a boarding-school,” declared Emmie in her old-fashioned way. “You know that, Mummie, so why think about it?”

  “Uncle Roger has offered to pay. He says that later on when you’re old enough he’ll pay for you to go to St. Leonards, and it would be very silly to refuse. A good education is most important; it will give you a start in life and make you independent.”

  Emmie had been listening with growing dismay. “But I couldn’t!” she cried. “I couldn’t possibly go away and leave you! It would be frightful. You couldn’t manage without me. Who would make the toast and help you to wash the dishes? And Mr. Orme needs me to help him with his sermons. Oh Mummie, it’s a horrible idea!”

  Anne did not like the idea either. She dreaded the thought of parting with her little daughter—they had never been parted for a day since Emmie was born. “I know it’s horrible,” she agreed, “but we’ll have to bear it. We’ll just have to. I’m not going to have you grow up ignorant—like me.” She gave her daughter’s arm a little squeeze and added, “But we needn’t think about it now. It will be years before you’re old enough—years and years.”

  “Perhaps something will turn up,” suggested Emmie a little more cheerfully. “Perhaps something will happen so that I won’t need to go.”

  Anne agreed. She did not want Emmie to worry about it.

  “Things do turn up, don’t they?” said Emmie. “Look at the way we got money from the book when we needed new clothes so badly. Look at the way Mr. Orme turned up when we had to leave Harestone and didn’t know where to go.”

  Anne could not help smiling. It was rather comical to discover that her daughter shared her own Micawber-like attitude to the troubles of the future. Life had certainly been hard at times but something had always turned up.

  “It’s like Elijah and the ravens,” added Emmie thoughtfully. “They turned up in the nick of time, didn’t they? I shall tell Mr. Orme and perhaps he’ll make a sermon about it.”

  *

  3.

  Anne and Emmie had agreed not to worry about school, but there was another problem on Anne’s mind—quite a different sort of problem—and this could not be shelved so easily nor could she discuss it with her daughter. She had thought about it for weeks without getting any nearer a solution and finally she decided to confide in Mr. Orme. Mr. Orme was not quite the person Anne would have chosen, he was too innocent and otherworldly, but there was nobody else at hand . . . and even if he could not solve her problem she knew he would listen sympathetically and respect her confidence.

  “I wonder if you could advise me,” said Anne.

  She and Mr. Orme were sitting by the fire, reading. It was evening, the day’s work was done and Emmie was safely in bed. Mr. Orme was reading an old book which he had read before at least a dozen times; it was The Travels of St. Paul. Anne was reading Persuasion. Her book was not new to her either, but it was one of her favourites and she never grew tired of it.

  At the sudden request Mr. Orme immediately laid aside St. Paul and took off his spectacles. He looked at Anne—how lovely she was! Tonight she seemed even prettier than usual; there was a slight flush upon her cheeks and her eyes were very bright . . . yet somehow she looked a little upset.

  “I’m so silly,” added Anne with a sigh.

  “I don’t think so,” objected Mr. Orme.

  “Oh, but I am! Compared with Miss Austen’s heroines I’m an idiot.”

  “Louisa was extremely foolish— if I remember rightly. Wasn’t she the young woman who insisted on jumping off the steps at Lyme Regis and fractured her skull and caused her friends so much anxiety?”

  “Yes,” admitted Anne. “But I don’t mean that sort of foolishness. I mean they knew how to manage their affairs.”

  “Their love affairs?”

  Anne nodded.

  Mr. Orme was no fool, nor was he blind. “I suppose it’s Arnold,” he said. “Well, he’s a very nice young fellow—very nice indeed. I like Arnold immensely.”

  “So do I,” agreed Anne. “He’s a dear, nice creature and I’m very fond of him but I don’t want to marry him.”

  “Are you sure?

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “Well—you’ll have to tell him so,” said Mr. Orme.

  “I can’t until he’s asked me, can I?” she returned, smiling a little uncertainly. “You see it’s a bit complicated. That’s why I want your advice. How does a young woman explain to a young man that she doesn’t want to marry him—before he’s proposed to her?”

  Mr. Orme had been asked his advice upon all manner of strange problems, but this was a new one.

  “You see,” continued Anne. “You see it would be so much better if I could make him understand now, at once, that I like having him as a friend but that I don’t want anything else. It seems unfair to let him go on thinking about me.”

  “But Anne——”

  “I’ve tried to—to put him off. I’ve even tried being a little bit unkind to him, but it doesn’t work. It just makes him unhappy, that’s all—and I don’t want to make him unhappy.”

  “No, of course not. No, you mustn’t be unkind to him.”

  Anne hesitated for a moment. “I wondered if you could——”

  “No, no!” cried Mr. Orme. “No, that would never do. I couldn’t possibly.”

  “But it seems a pity to wait and do nothing.” />
  “Perhaps you won’t have to wait very long. Perhaps he will say something soon.”

  “That’s just what he won’t do,” declared Anne with conviction. “It may be years before he says anything. He won’t say a word until he’s firmly settled in his new job and is sure it’s going to be a success. Then he’ll ask me to marry him.”

  Mr. Orme did not doubt her for a moment. It crossed his mind that if he had been in Arnold’s position—and Arnold’s age—he would have done exactly that: waited until he was certain he could support a wife in comfort and then asked Anne to marry him.

  “I know it sounds rather a ridiculous sort of problem,” admitted Anne. “But it’s important to me because I like Arnold so much. I feel I’m being unfair to him—and I hate unfairness.”

  Mr. Orme knew this already. Anne’s passion for just dealing had sometimes amused him a little, but it did not amuse him on this occasion. He said, “If you like Arnold so much perhaps you might like him even more—in time.”

  “No,” said Anne in a low voice.

  “Why not wait and see?”

  “No, Martin spoilt all that.”

  “But, my dear, you’re so young. You’ll forget about the unhappy time with Martin.”

  She shook her head. It was a childish gesture; Mr. Orme remembered it of old. It took him back to a morning long ago when he had watched her dancing on the bowling-green and had spoken to her for the first time.

  “You’re so young,” he repeated. “Your life is before you.”

  “No, darling, you don’t understand,” said Anne gravely. “It’s all spoilt for me. I can never marry anybody. Martin frightened me so dreadfully.”

  “Frightened you?”

  “Oh, he didn’t—hit me. He was just unkind. I don’t know why I was so frightened really.”

  “Try to tell me,” suggested Mr. Orme. He spoke quietly and persuasively for he knew that it would be good for her to bring her fears to light. She had told him a little about her marriage before—he knew she had been unhappy—but by nature she was reserved and tongue-tied so she had not told him much. Tonight for some reason Anne’s tongue was loosened, but he must go carefully. “Try to tell me why you were frightened,” he repeated.

  Anne hesitated. There were some things she could not tell anybody—least of all Mr. Orme. She could not tell him the worst things, the things that made another marriage utterly impossible, but she might tell him some of the smaller unkindnesses which she had had to endure and perhaps he would understand. Anne was very anxious for him to understand.

  “You told me how much you disliked being dependent upon him,” said Mr. Orme, trying to help her.

  “Yes,” agreed Anne. “Money doesn’t seem important when you have enough, but when you’re absolutely dependent upon somebody for every penny—and you have to explain how you’ve spent every penny—it becomes very important indeed. That was bad, but there were other things too. Martin was a schoolmaster and he was very, very clever—I told you that before, didn’t I? He thought I was stupid and badly educated, and of course I am. Sometimes he used to ask me things and laugh when I didn’t know the answers, and say my mentality was equal to a child of seven years old. But honestly I wasn’t quite as stupid as he thought. I mean Martin made me stupid. One day—it was Trafalgar Day—he asked me if I knew who won the battle of Trafalgar. I couldn’t think for a moment. I felt sort of paralysed. Then he said, ‘Didn’t you learn any history at all? It was Drake, wasn’t it?’ I said, ‘Oh yes, of course!’ Then laughed and laughed. Of course I knew it was Nelson. It was just that I was frightened.”

  Mr. Orme said nothing. He could not trust himself to speak.

  “I was frightened of him all the time,” continued Anne in her low clear voice. “I was so frightened of Martin that I told him lies. They were stupid little lies. For instance when he asked me what I had been doing all day I told him I had been washing or ironing or that I had taken Emmie for a walk—he couldn’t find fault with me for that. I never dared to tell him if I had been to see the old woman next door and helped her to clean her house. She had rheumatism in her knees and I used to scrub her kitchen floor twice a week, but if Martin had known he would have been terribly angry.

  “It all seems quite ridiculous when I think about it now,” added Anne, looking round the comfortable little room with its atmosphere of peace. “It seems impossible that I could have been such a fool.”

  Anne had told her story simply and in a matter-of-fact sort of way which made it very moving. If she had been “sorry for herself” and demanded his sympathy Mr. Orme would have given it to her in full measure, but he would not have felt so upset. Although Mr. Orme was a good and saintly man he knew quite a lot about life, and was not quite the innocent Anne imagined, so he could fill the gaps in Anne’s story of her marriage without much difficulty. He was so distressed; he was so furiously angry with the unspeakable Martin Selby that he found himself shaking all over and it took him several moments and a tremendous effort of willpower before he could control himself.

  “Other men—are not like that,” he said at last.

  “Oh, I know,” agreed Anne. “Arnold would never be horrid to me, but all the same I couldn’t marry him—nor anybody else. It’s all spoilt and—and dirty. You must believe me.”

  He did believe her.

  “So now you see,” said Anne. “Now you understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Orme sadly.

  “Tell me what I’m to do about Arnold.”

  There was quite a long silence.

  At last Anne said, “Of course I could tell him that I shall never marry again, but he wouldn’t believe me, would he? I mean he wouldn’t believe me unless I told him all about Martin—and I couldn’t do that.”

  “No, you couldn’t do that,” agreed Mr. Orme. “And even if you could tell him what you’ve told me it wouldn’t have the desired effect. In fact quite the opposite.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Anne, wrinkling her brows.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Orme firmly.

  “Well, what am I to do?”

  Mr. Orme sighed. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  1.

  Roger was always reluctant to leave Amberwell, but this time he was even more reluctant than usual—so very reluctant that he began to toy with the idea of sending in his papers, of retiring and settling down comfortably and attending to his duties as laird. He had thought of it before once or twice but he was doubtful if there would be enough to do to keep him busy and to employ his boundless energy. It was difficult to decide, for on the one hand he hated leaving home but on the other he was keenly interested in his profession and all it entailed.

  Once he was back with his regiment, Roger felt happier. He was popular with his brother officers and received a warm welcome. They all wanted to know what he had been doing and were interested to hear about the school. Those with young sons or nephews were very interested indeed.

  Letters from home arrived frequently. Arnold wrote twice a week reporting good progress, asking advice and showing admirable keenness. Mr. Strow’s letters were disgruntled; he hoped Major Ayrton would not be disappointed when he saw the big dormitory. Major Ayrton would remember that his plans for the apartment had been to make a new window facing south. Mr. Maddon had altered quite a number of the original plans—including the plan for the door into the changing-room—and Mr. Strow had been surprised to find that the builders had begun to construct a hatch at the far end of the dining room. Would Major Ayrton write at once and say whether he approved.

  Nell wrote as usual—she always wrote to Roger when he was away—but her letters were concerned with Amberwell and she scarcely mentioned Summerhills except to say that things seemed to be going on quite well. Mary’s letters interested Roger most of all for not only were they full of detailed information about the work but they were also very amusing; Mary was an onlooker at the battle between the architect and the headm
aster and saw most of the game.

  You asked me to support Arnold, (wrote Mary) but Arnold does not need any support. He is standing up to Mr. Strow on his own. If they disagree—which happens frequently—Arnold merely refers to the fact that he has been given carte blanche and if this does not settle the matter he suggests that Mr. Strow should write to you. It is amusing to watch Mr. Strow’s face (which shows his feelings very plainly). He would like to tell Arnold to go to blazes and walk out with his head in the air, but then he remembers his fees and decides not to. Personally I think it would be a good thing if Mr. Strow took the huff; we could manage very well without him. He is not very good at his job. Did you ever notice his ears? They are stuck closely on to his head in a very odd way. I noticed it yesterday when he and Arnold were arguing about my hatch. (Of course he can’t help his ears but I read somewhere or other that criminals have curious ears.) “Miss Findlater’s hatch” is a very sore subject to Mr. Strow—he feels almost as bitter about it as he does about the door into the changing-rooms. I like Mr. Lumsden immensely—and he really is going ahead with the work. At first he was somewhat bewildered at receiving two sets of instructions, but now he realises who is the boss so he listens politely to Mr. Strow and does what Arnold tells him. Has Arnold told you about Mr. Lumsden’s son? He was wounded at the crossing of the Rhine and has an artificial hand. Of course this makes a tremendous bond between Arnold and Mr. Lumsden. One morning when I blew into Summerhills to see how things were going I found the two of them sitting together upon a packing-case in the bathroom—Arnold demonstrating to Mr. Lumsden how his foot worked! Arnold thinks young Lumsden might make a suitable janitor but I expect he will be telling you about this. If you could manage to get a few days leave and come over I should like to speak to you about an Idea of mine. It would be rather difficult to explain my Idea in a letter. Of course I could tell Arnold about it, but I would rather see you first.

  The next letter from Arnold was full of young Lumsden. Arnold had seen him and liked him; he was just the sort of fellow they wanted, strong and sturdy and cheerful. Did Roger think it mattered about his missing hand? It was his left hand—fortunately—and it was surprising what a lot he could do with the artificial gadget he had got in its place. Could Roger possibly get a few days’ leave and come over and see the fellow himself?