Aunt Martha was stunned. I had never seen her so shaken. It was clear now that with the possibihty of my father's return she had had plans for Celia.
"And left no address. . ." put in Aunt Mabel.
"We cannot get in touch with her . . . een if we wanted to. And I thought she was such a sensible girl!"
Aunt Martha hated to hae her plans frustrated and she was really annoyed with Celia for the first time since she had known her.
I tried to explain. "It was a job to her, Aunt Martha, a means of earning a Hving. And when she came into money that was no longer necessary."
"We treated her hke one of the family and were prepared to . . ."
I turned away, unable to hide a smile. So she really had planned to marr' Celia to my father! Was there no end to her scheming? Then I thought of that night in my mother's room with the windows open and the fire doused.
No, I told myself. Impossible!
It was a strange summer. I missed Celia ven,' much and found myself more and more in the company of the Cannon girls, who were indefatigable in their pursuit of good for the church. The curate had not yet been captured, but, said Aunt Martha, his days of freedom were numbered; and how he was going to keep a wife she did not know.
I pointed out that it would be his affair and that of the chosen Miss Cannon.
"Young Effie is not so bad," she said speculatively, and it occurred to me that Effie could well have been selected to take the place which Celia's defection had made vacant. For my father was definitely coming home.
He had written to say that he would come in October. By that time the summer monsoon, which lasted from May to September, would be over and most of the necessary planting would be completed. He might be traveling with his neighbor, Clinton Shaw, who would have business in London with the merchants there, as my father would. At the same time he was to have some sort of examination which the doctor in Kandy had suggested he should. What he wanted most was to see me.
It was good to have this to look forward to and feel excited about. It helped me to get over the loss first of my mother and then of Celia.
I couldn't help being amused by the way in which Effie Cannon was invited to the house, almost as though she were being groomed. She came to dine and we talked about Ceylon and my father's plantation there.
"We were coffee planters at one time," said Aunt Martha, "and then we went over to tea. It's a beautiful country, I believe, and it is our duty to develop it. After all, it is one of the jewels in Britain's crown, you know."
Effie looked suitably impressed but she had no notion of what was in Aunt Martha's mind, and when they were beginning to get ready for the harvest festival, she announced her engagement to the curate. Aunt Martha was incensed.
"A stupid girl," she said. "How they are going to live on a curate's stipend I do not know."
"As long as they do, that's all that matters. Aunt," I said.
"You are being pert, Sarah, and it is not becoming. You always were ... in your early days. When your father comes home we must entertain a little. There are some pleasant families in Kandy we used to know." I could see that she was thinking of a wife for my father and it occurred to me that sooner or later I too should be a target for her schemes.
Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to live at the Grange all one's life. Should I become like the aunts, concerned with the trivia of manners and conventions, planning for other people, caring passionately about things like the Ashington Pearls?
I could never do that.
In my heart I believed that when my father went back to Ceylon, I should go with him.
KfngM m the Forest
My father was sailing on the Bristol Star, which was to arrive at Tilbury in the first week of November. I should be nineteen years old that month. He would come straight to the Grange from the docks, traveling by train to the station, and as he could not be sure of the time of arrival he would take the station fly to bring him to the house.
He would be accompanied by Clinton Shaw, who was traveling with him. Clinton Shaw had decided to come rather eariier than he had intended in order that they might come together. The doctor had some notion that it would be a good idea.
I was a little disturbed by the repeated mention of the doctor. I spoke of it to Aunt Martha. She said: "He was never one to think much about his health. People change. And I wonder what this man will be like ... this Clinton Shaw. I have heard of the Shaw plantation. I always imagined the Shaws were rogues."
*'They must be good friends or they would not be traveling together," I pointed out
*Tve told Ellen to get two of the rooms ready for them. That large one with the bay windows was your father's when he was here with your mother. I doubt he would like that again. The bridal chamber, that was! Give that to Clinton Shaw, I told Ellen. It's one of the best rooms in the place and after all he'll be a guest for a night or two. He won't stay. He'll have business in London. Your father can have either the one next to it or one on the floor above."
The preparations were made. Both aunts were excited and I guessed that Aunt Martha was determined to get my father mar-
ried before he returned to Ceylon. She was going through lists of people who lived not too far away and might visit us.
"It is long since we entertained in any style/' she said, "but there is a time for everything."
Under the direction of Mrs. Lamb, the housekeeper, the maids were set doing an autumnal spring clean; not that Aunt Martha would have allowed an annual cleaning to have been passed over at the appointed time. She had new cushions made and in one case new curtains. "Something a little more bright and festive," she commented. "The Merridews have two daughters," I heard her say to Aunt Mabel; and she added ominously: "And one son."
After my father, my turn would come. I wondered why Mabel had escaped. I supposed that after Edward Sanderton had turned to Margaret, Aunt Martha had determined on a life of single blessedness and decided that she would need a companion. I pictured any possible suitor for Aunt Mabel being shooed away as determinedly as those for others would be beckoned forward.
At last the day of my father's arrival was at hand. There was tension in the atmosphere and I kept flying to the window every time I thought I heard the approach of carriage wheels. It was dark before five o'clock and still he had not come. The lamps were lighted in the hall as had been the lanterns on either side of the porch. I was continually going from the hall to my room. "Like a cat on hot bricks," said Aunt Martha. But she herself was not unmoved and was, I could see reluctantly, caught up in the excitement which pervaded the general atmosphere throughout the house. Appetizing smells came from the kitchen and the elder servants were telling the others what they remembered of Ralph Ashington.
It was half past six when the station fly came up the drive. We were all at the door—myself. Aunts Martha and Mabel; and I knew that several of the servants were looking through some of the windows while others hovered in the hall.
My heart was beating wildly as a man stepped out of the fly. He was very tall and wore a black homburg and a black coat with a short cape attached to it. He did not look towards the house but back to the fly from which he began to help a man. My fatherl
He looked very slight beside the other and I felt a great rush of tenderness towards him.
I ran out and cried: "I'm Sarah, Father. I'm Sarah."
I felt weak with emotion. He looked so frail—a shrunken image of the man I knew from the portrait in the gallery.
The other man said in a somewhat authoritative tone: "Let*s get him in, shall we? This damp is no good for him."
"Ralph!" It was Aunt Martha.
*Tm home," said my father. "Yes, I've come home at last. . . . Sarah!" He was looking at me with a kind of rapture.
His companion spoke imperiously. "I said let us get him inside."
I felt an irritation with the guest right from the beginning because he had started by telling us what to do. It was not cold. In fact it was
rather muggy. Surely it was for us to invite him inside.
Nevertheless we went in.
My father kept his eyes on me. "Sarah," he said. "Just as I pictured you. Oh, I'm forgetting. This is Mr. Clinton Shaw, who kindly agreed to travel with me."
"Welcome to Ashington Grange, Mr. Shaw," said Aunt Martha. "We were expecting you."
He had taken off his hat to expose a thatch of blond hair, which was rather startling because his face seemed to be dark.
"Thank you, Miss Ashington," he said. "I'm glad to be here."
I noticed that my father was breathing with difficulty. "It must have been a tiresome journey," I said. "Are you cold? Do come to the fire."
"Sarah, I've wanted you to meet Clinton."
"How do you do?" I said briefly, my eyes still on my father.
"Yes," he answered. "I've been waiting to meet you, Miss Sarah."
I led my father to the fire.
"He has been used to a rather different climate," said Mr. Shaw. "This takes a bit of getting used to."
"I am sure that's true," Aunt Mabel put in. "We've told Mrs. Lamb to have fires lighted in your rooms."
"Good old Lamb!" said my father. "Is she still here then?"
''There's been little change here, Ralph," Aunt Martha told him.
He was smiling at me rather shyly. "We shall have lots to say to each other, Sarah."
"I shall look forward to that/' I replied.
"Mr. Shaw, would you like to see your room?" asked Aunt Martha.
He said he would and that it was very kind of them to offer him hospitality.
"Naturally we are pleased," said Aunt Martha. "Sarah, you take Mr. Shaw and Mabel will take Ralph ... if he needs to be taken. You haven't forgotten the Grange, Ralph?"
"I remember every nook and corner, Martha."
"They must be hungry," put in Mabel. "Are you?"
Mr. Shaw spoke for both of them. "Very," he said.
"Dinner will be served very soon," said Aunt Martha.
"If you will follow me, I will take you to your room," I told him.
I led the way upstairs. Mr. Shaw's eyes were on me as we mounted and crossed the gallery.
"Ah," he said. "The family!"
He stopped still and looked at me. "You have a look of them," he added.
"I suppose that's to be expected since I am one of them."
He paused before the pictures and I could not, in politeness, hurry on.
"Where have they put you?"
"I am not here. I'm only a recent acquisition, you might say."
"You mean a recently recognized acquisition."
"Exactly."
"I know. I'm in your father's confidence. You would stand up well amongst those fine ladies."
"How kind of you to say so."
"It's true. I shouldn't say it otherwise. I rarely flatter. Only when it would be foolish not to, of course."
I looked at him intently. I couldn't help it. It was almost as though he willed me to. His height and the breadth of his shoulders gave him presence. His blond hair and heavy-lidded dark eyes
were such a startling contrast that he could not fail to be noticed; he was bronzed, which I suppose was inevitable, living where he did. I noticed his strong white teeth and rather sensual lips. He had annoyed me from the start by giving orders and I had made up my mind to dislike him. I had never seen a man like him before, but then what men had I seen? Those who paid court to my mother? Everard, who always looked like the model of an English gentleman. Toby, who was also one, though of a slightly different mold. Those other admirers. This man had lived abroad a great deal, and that had no doubt distinguished him from the others. I had been aware of him from the moment he had stepped from the carriage, which was disconcerting. He was the sort of man who demanded attention. My entire interest should have been for my father—but this man kept intruding.
"Ah!" He had paused before a portrait of a female Ashington. "The famous pearls. Quite a number of ladies are wearing them, I see. You must admit they look very fine."
"I had no intention of not admitting it," I said lightly. "You will want to wash and perhaps change before we dine." I was reminding him that we had dallied long enough in the gallery.
He bowed his head and we went up the stairs to the next floor. My room was on this one and at the far end of the corridor was that one which had been assigned to him. I took him along to it.
"A very fine house," he commented.
"It has been in the family for generations."
"Very commendable."
"To the house or the family?"
"Both. The house for standing up all those years and the family for keeping its hold on it."
"Your room is along here." I opened the door.
"Charming," he said; and indeed it looked so. The firelight flickered on the furnishings and a lighted oil lamp with a fluted shade stood on the dressing table.
"We have no gaslight at the Grange," I told him.
"It would be sacrilege. I am not accustomed to it. In my house it is lamps and candles. We have no gaslight either."
"Then I have no need to apologize."
"My dear Sarah, why should you apologize to mel"
I stood back a little and regarded him coldly. I had not expected him to address me by my Christian name.
He understood at once, I could see that he was quick-witted and would rarely be at a loss. He said immediately: "You must forgive my rough colonial manners. The fact is your father has spoken of you so often and it was always Sarah. You could hardly expect him to give you the quite impressive title of Miss Ashing-ton, could you?"
"Certainly not my father, but with strangers it would be expected."
"Strangers, yes. But you are not a stranger to me. Let that be the excuse for my forwardness."
I turned to the door. "If there is anything you need, there is the bell pull. Dinner will be served soon."
"Good. I shall see you then."
There was a lazy, almost insolent smile on his face as he watched me leave.
I am not going to like him, I told myself as I went to my room. It is a pity my father had to bring him with him. I entered my room and as I turned to shut the door something made me look around. Clinton Shaw was standing at his open door watching me. I shut my door with a bang. I lighted my lamp hastily and looked at my reflection. My face was scarlet.
"No," I said aloud, "I do not like him at all."
I was still thinking of him when I went downstairs.
I remember ever}' detail of that meal: the dining room with the blue tapestry-covered chairs worked by an Ashington in the Georgian era, those other tapestries older than the house itself hanging on the walls, the gleaming silver which had been with us since Queen Anne, the candles in their sconces—all of which were fa-mihar to me, but looked different on that night. Aunt Martha sat at the head of the table with Clinton Shaw on her right. My father was at the other end with me on his right; and as, with Aunt Mabel, we made only five, there seemed to be long distances between us.
I thought we should have used the winter parlor as we were
such a small party, but Aunt Martha evidently felt this was a somewhat ceremonial occasion.
My father looked better than he had on arrival. There was a little more color in his face and his eyes were very bright. He was thin, I noticed, but animated. He was clearly feeling deeply the fact that he was in his old home.
He talked a great deal about the past and how the house had not changed at all, and I was aware that his eyes rarely left me. Then he went on to talk of the plantation and Clinton Shaw joined him. They talked of planting, plucking and the trouble they had with pests. Last year it had been nettle grub, the year before that, capsid bugs.
"That's how it goes, Miss Ashington," said Clinton Shaw. "As in life, so with tea. We have our joys and our tribulations and there seem to be more of the latter than the former."
I wanted to hear more about the domestic life. I longed to ask questions
about my sister, but I felt that was something for when I was alone with my father.
"Have you a good domestic staff?" Aunt Mabel wanted to know.
"That is never difficult," replied my father. "There are always those who are eager to earn a living."
He loved the island, I could see; he knew a great deal about history and he talked of it glowingly. I fancied he wanted to interest me and make me love it and that he was planning to take me with him when he returned. I listened avidly.
"Poets call it the 'pearl on the brow of India,'" he said.
"Others have called it the pearl which was dropped into the sea," added Clinton Shaw. "You note the emphasis on pearls. That's good business. We have some flourishing pearl fisheries."
"Clinton is a cynic," said my father with a smile. "It is said that King Solomon once sought the jewels of Sri Lanka—as it was called then—to adorn himself and the Queen of Sheba. There are a thousand legends and superstitions. I could tell you stories of the great dynasties and the early kings . . ."
"We would rather hear about your life there, Ralph," said Aunt Martha firmly.
"The life of one tea planter is very like that of another. Is that not so, Clinton?"
"Quite false," replied Clinton. "Your life, my dear fellow, is not in the least like mine. And that, ladies, is something for which you should rejoice."
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Shaw?" asked Aunt Mabel.
"I mean your brother is a model of rectitude and I am scarcely that."
"You are joking of course," said Aunt Martha, making it a statement of fact. I thought that incorrigible man was going to contradict her and then give us an account of the life he led, which I could believe was very disreputable. I guessed he would have a native mistress. Perhaps two. I was sure that he was that sort of man. There was something which told me so in the way he looked at all women ... at least I hoped it was all women and he had not singled me out. That would have been even more offensive. I was disliking him more and more as the evening wore on. He made me feel uncomfortable as I never had before.
The Spring of the Tiger Page 12