Amberwell

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

  "It doesn't matter at all," she said, and then she added, "Anne used to feel like that."

  "Anne!" exclaimed Roger in surprise. "But Anne left Amberwell and went away!"

  "I think that was why," said Nell slowly. "It was something she said." "What did she say?"

  Nell hesitated, trying to remember. "We were looking at the old chestnut-tree in the wood; it was Spring and there were fat sticky buds on the branches. Anne said it was a part of Amberwell, its roots were in Amberwell ground and its leaves breathed Amberwell air. It's like us,' I said. Anne didn't say anything for a few moments and then she said, 'Yes, but it will die here. People won't pull it up by its roots and move it somewhere else.'"

  "What on earth did she mean?"

  "I didn't understand at the time, but I do now. She knew she would have to leave Amberwell someday. That's what she meant."

  "But why?" asked Roger in bewilderment, "She needn't have gone away. Amberwell was her home, just as it's your home—and mine."

  "It's your home," said Nell, smiling a little.

  Roger was silent for a minute. "You're thinking I shall marry and turn you out! That's absolutely ridiculous. Amberwell will always be home for all of us if I have any say in the matter."

  "Your wife might have something to say."

  "I shan't marry," said Roger soberly. "I know it sounds silly. Fellows who say they're never going to get married usually meet some fascinating girl and get married within a year, but—well, it's different in my case. I mean I've met the girl I want to marry—and it's no good. She isn't for me."

  "Isn't for you?"

  He shook his head. "She's so wonderful," he said with a little sigh. Then he smiled and added, "Don't worry, I'm not going to drivel about her, but you take it from me she really is wonderful. Now that I've seen her I shall never want to marry anybody else."

  "But Roger, perhaps—"

  "No, it's hopeless. She's engaged to another fellow. As a matter of fact he's one of my best friends—a frightfully good chap—in the regiment—so you see—"

  Nell saw. She did not know what to say.

  "Well, come on!" exclaimed Roger leaping to his feet. "We haven't been to the rocks yet; I must see the Smugglers' Cave. And we haven't been to Ponticum. Come on, Nell! Let's go to Ponticum first."

  It was difficult for Roger to squeeze in between the gnarled branch of rhododendron and the wall, for he was large and solid, but he managed it somehow and sat down upon a stool.

  "Gosh, how small it is!" he exclaimed. "I thought it was much bigger. I haven't been here for years. What fun we had!"

  Nell nodded. There had been five of them, having fun: now there were only two, and the world seemed joyless.

  Roger was looking round and remembering. He said, "I wonder what became of that funny little lead soldier that you found."

  "It's here," she replied, opening the treasure-box and taking it out. "We always kept it here—"

  "Well I never!" exclaimed Roger. "It's the uniform our chaps wore at the Battle of Waterloo. Yes, honestly, Nell. This little man is one of Wellington's soldiers."

  "More than a hundred years old!"

  "Much more, my girl. The Battle of Waterloo was fought in 1815."

  They tried to count backwards and to decide which of their ancestors could have possessed the lead soldier (and lost him amongst the accumulated leaves of Ponticum) and finally decided that it must have been Stephen. Their father could have told them of course. As a matter of fact Mr. Ayrton would have been interested in the little lead soldier (he would have looked up dates in the Family Bible and enjoyed himself immensely) but never for one moment did it occur to Roger and Nell to show their father the treasure.

  CHAPTER XII

  1

  Nell drove Roger to the station and saw him off. She managed to see him off cheerfully. She managed to wave her handkerchief and to call out "Haste ye back!" in the good old Scottish tradition. But somehow the words (which had often been said in fun when Roger and Tom went off to school after the Summer Holidays) were now so full of hidden meaning and emotion that she was suddenly swamped with tears.

  Fortunately by this time the train was steaming off and there was nobody on the platform but the station-master— who appeared not to notice. She groped her way to the car and climbed in and sat there in the station-yard until she had recovered sufficiently to be able to see where she was going.

  On the way home Nell decided that the car was another responsibility which would shortly be placed upon her shoulders. She knew how to drive it, of course, but its inward parts were a complete mystery to her. Cameron would have to teach her before he left how to look after the car and keep it in order.

  Lessons from Cameron and from Mrs. Duff began forthwith and these, in addition to Roger's letters, kept Nell busy. She wrote long letters to Roger, as she had promised, and called at the Post Office in Westkirk for Roger's replies. Sometimes his letters were very short—a few words scrawled in pencil—and sometimes they were very long indeed. Nell reported faithfully all that happened; it was small beer of course, but small beer was what Roger wanted.

  "Your last letter arrived when I was feeling blue," wrote Roger. "You can't think how comforting it was to read about the snowdrops coming out in Stark Woods—and about your visit to Mrs. Gray. It was frightfully decent of her to make tablet for me—I always loved Mrs. Gray's tablet. I hope it will arrive safely and nobody will pinch it on the way. The socks are A.l. Did you really make them yourself? I didn't know you could knit socks—but there's quite a lot I didn't know about you. Sorry to hear there was such an awful blizzard about Tom, but they'll get over it all right—you'll see. Tom is off to the Mediterranean so he'll see all the places he's always wanted to see. He's as happy as a sand-boy. It seems funny that it should take a beastly, bloody war to give Tom his heart's desire. Good thing somebody is happy anyway. I suppose Connie is happy too. She wanted a son, didn't she? Connie always does the right thing. Your story about Mr. Gray and the Land Girl was awfully amusing, I laughed and laughed. Write lots more, won't you? There's no need to worry about me; this war isn't dangerous, in fact it's frightfully boring. If you could lay your hands on a French Grammar it would be useful. I find I've forgotten most of the French I learnt at school . . ."

  Nell took Roger's letters to Ponticum and read them there, sitting on the treasure-box in the damp green gloom. It was a good place to read them not only because she was safe from interruption but also because she could almost imagine Roger was there. Sometimes she took out the small figure of Wellington's soldier and held it in her hand while she read and re-read Roger's letters. It was frightfully silly of course—Nell knew that—but nobody could see her so it did not matter.

  2

  As the weeks went by it became increasingly important for Nell to have some place where she was safe from interruption, for as Roger had prophesied the staff of Amberwell melted away and Mrs. Ayrton (who had run the house perfectly for fifteen years with eight well-trained servants) was quite unable to cope with the new conditions. Gradually Nell took over everything; she battled with rationing and food cards, she made the beds, prepared all the vegetables and helped Mrs. Duff with the cooking. As a matter of fact Nell liked it; she enjoyed working in the big square kitchen with ^ts tiled floor and wide windows, and she enjoyed Mrs. Duff. Nell had scarcely ever been in the kitchen before and Mrs. Duff had been a shadowy sort of figure— not really human. But now Nell got to know the kitchen well, and discovered that Mrs. Duff was very human indeed. Mrs. Duff and her sayings provided good material for Nell's letters to Roger.

  Nannie worked about the house (clad in a flowered overall, instead of her large, starched apron) and Nell was fortunate enough to find a girl in Westkirk who was willing to come daily. The girl was lame and therefore unfit for the services but she was a good worker.

  With this little band Nell coped as best she could with all the hundred and one tasks of the household; she was so busy that there was not much time to
think about Anne, there was no time at all to brood upon her troubles . . . and the disquieting idea that she was "not quite right in the head" vanished completely.

  In March Roger wrote that he was getting ten days' leave but was not coming straight to Amberwell:

  "You remember I told you about Clare? Well, I made an idiotic mistake, she isn't engaged to John McDermott after all. He's engaged to a friend of Clare's and they are going to be married soon—so there may be a chance for me. Clare is nursing in a hospital in London so I'm going to see her and try my luck. I don't know whether there is any chance but it's worth trying. If it's quite hopeless I'll come on to Amberwell. I'll let you know what happens."

  Nell said nothing to her parents for it was all so vague and if Roger wanted them to know he would tell them . . . but of course she thought about it constantly and wished she knew more about it. She wondered who Clare was. Roger had said she was "wonderful" but that was all. It did not tell you very much, thought Nell, who would have liked to know whether she was tall like a goddess, or small like a fairy; whether she had fair hair or dark; blue eyes or brown . . . and most important of all whether she had a friendly nature. Probably Roger was under the impression that he had told Nell more about Clare—he could scarcely have told her less. Would there be "any chance" for Roger? Nell could not believe that any girl in her sane senses would refuse to marry Roger—but you never knew.

  For nearly a week there were no letters and then one morning when Nell came down to breakfast there were three letters lying on the table, one for each of the family.

  "Three letters from Roger!" exclaimed Mrs. Ayrton in surprise.

  "It's about time we heard from him," commented his father. "Roger never writes . . . and Thomas is almost as bad. When I was young I used to write home regularly once a week."

  Nell seized her letter and tore it open. The letter was long and incoherent; Roger had let himself go.

  "It's all right—she's going to marry me—it's too marvellous for words. She loved me all the time—wasn't I a fool? I told you she was wonderful. Oh Nell, you'll love her, I know you will! I've told her all about you—and all about Amberwell. She's the sort of person you can tell things to. She understands. This letter is crazy of course, but I've written to the parents quite sensibly and I think it's pretty sure to be all right. Clare's grandfather is Lord Richmore so that should please them, shouldn't it? It will be better for Clare's sake if they're pleased. Personally I don't care a damn. I would marry Clare if her grandfather was a gaol-bird, but if it's going to make things easier rub in Lord Richmore for all you're worth . . ."

  Nell glanced at her father, but she saw there was no need to rub in Lord Richmore. Mr. Ayrton was reading his letter with a complacent smile.

  "Clare's parents are dead," continued Roger. "She has nobody belonging to her except her grandfather. He's a queer old boy but fortunately he seems to like me and he's told us to go ahead. Clare wants to be married at once. She says she wants me to belong to her before I go back to France, so we're getting a Special Licence. I don't know if you could manage to come to London for the wedding—it would be great if you could—^but it's all a bit of a muddle and I can't tell you what day it will be— perhaps Thursday. It's too marvellous to be true. I can't believe it. Something will happen to prevent it . . ."

  Mrs. Ayrton was reading her letter too. "Goodness, Roger says he's going to be married!" she exclaimed.

  Mr. Ayrton chuckled. "The young rascal! He seems to have done pretty well for himself as far as I can see. Old Lord Richmore's granddaughter! He's going to be married at once."

  "But he can't—all in a hurry," objected Mrs. Ayrton. "I mean we must go to London or else they must come here. It would be nice to have Roger's wedding at St. Stephen's."

  "There's no time," said Mr. Ayrton. "He's only got ten days' leave and he says they intend to be married on Thursday by Special Licence. Lord Richmore is making all the arrangements so we had better not interfere. As for going to London it's quite out of the question for me—at the moment—and if you take my advice you will remain safely at home."

  "You mean because of the air-raids?" asked Mrs. Ayrton nervously. "Well, perhaps it would be rather silly to go—"

  "May I go?" asked Nell eagerly.

  "No dear," replied Mrs. Ayrton. "You couldn't possibly go alone."

  "But I'd like to," declared Nell. "I want to meet Clare— and it seems—it seems dreadful for Roger to be married with none of us there. I could easily—"

  "No, dear," said Mrs. Ayrton.

  "But Mother—" began Nell, and then she stopped for Mrs. Ayrton was not listening. It was Mrs. Ayrton's usual technique and (as Nell had found before) it was impossible to argue with somebody who did not listen—or at any rate pretended not to hear what one was saying.

  "I shall wire him a hundred pounds," declared Mr. Ayrton, rising. "That ought to see him through . . . and I must write to Dalgleish and arrange about settlements. Heaven knows what Dalgleish will say. He took three months to draw up Connie's marriage contract and complained that I was hurrying him. I had better write to Lord Richmore too. Are you going to write, Marion? There's no time to be lost if the letters are to catch the post."

  "I wonder what she's like," said Mrs. Ayrton anxiously. "What does your letter say, Nell?"

  "The same as yours, I expect."

  "Let me read it, dear."

  Nell took no notice of the outstretched hand; she pretended not to see or hear. It had suddenly occurred to her that there was a good deal to be learnt from her parents. She rose and slipping the letter into the pocket of her cardigan followed her father out of the room.

  It was a victory—a very small victory of course, but at least it was a beginning—and Nell was absurdly elated by her own courage. After this she would keep her correspondence to herself. She would tell Roger that he could write to her direct instead of addressing his letters to the Post Office . . . but perhaps Roger's letters would not be so frequent now, nor so private.

  Nell had enjoyed her position as Roger's confidante but she was not jealous of Clare—not the tiniest bit—she was sincerely glad that Roger had got what he wanted, and because she knew Roger so well she was sure he had chosen the right girl and that they would be happy. It was a pity she could not go to the wedding, thought Nell with a little sigh, but it would have been difficult to get away (so much depended upon her) and later on Roger would bring Clare to Amberwell. That would be something lovely to look forward to.

  Nell wrote a long letter to Roger and one to Clare as well and they both replied by return of post. Clare's letter was charming, it was friendly and understanding; she enclosed a little snapshot of herself (which Roger had taken) and asked for a photograph of Nell. It was obvious from her letter that she adored Roger and thought the world of him— which was as it should be, of course. Clare said that when Roger returned to France she was going back to the hospital; she thought it would be easier to bear the separation if she had plenty to do. She asked Nell to write to her as often as possible and to tell her about Roger when he was a boy— what he had done and said.

  "Roger has talked such a lot about Amberwell," wrote Clare. "Sometimes I almost feel as if I had been there. It will be wonderful to see it—the beautiful gardens and the woods where you used to play Indians, and of course the mermaid fountain. Roger told me about the night when he and Tom got you and Anne out of bed and turned it on for you to see. It must have been thrilling. I have no brothers or sisters so I have missed all that sort of fun. I am awfully sorry you can't come to the wedding, but I quite understand how difficult it would be for you to get away. We shall have three days together before Roger goes back to France and I have made up my mind that those three days are going to be blissfully happy—I am going to enjoy every hour and not think about what will happen when they are over. I think one can do that, don't you? I mean, live completely in the present. Roger is going to try and do the same. I hope you don't think it is horrid of us not to come to Amberwe
ll—I am afraid it is rather selfish—but I want Roger all to myself for the three days and he says he feels the same about me . . ."

  Nell liked Clare's letter—it was exactly right, she thought —and the little photograph was enchanting. Clare had a small eager face and her eyes sparkled with humour. Unfortunately Nell had no photograph of herself to send in return.

  3

  Roger and Clare had their three days' honeymoon and then Roger went back to France; but he had not been in France more than a fortnight when he was badly wounded in the leg and was sent home to a hospital near Coventry. Although this seemed a major catastrophe to Roger's relations it was really very fortunate, for he was in hospital when the Retreat to Dunkirk took place and he escaped all the horrors suffered by his regiment. He was in hospital for weeks and then went to Salisbury Plain where Regular Officers were needed for training.

  Clare went with him to Salisbury; they found a little house and settled down together. A baby was expected at Christmas time, and Clare (who had worn herself out nursing at the hospital) was not very well so the visit to Amberwell ha4 to be put off until she was better. They were both very anxious for Nell to go and stay with them but by this time it was impossible for her to leave home even for a few days because her father was unwell.

  Mr. Ayrton had been ailing for some time, he was troubled by attacks of dizziness and a pain in his chest; at first he refused to see Dr. Maddon (saying that he had never been ill in his life and he was not ill now, and he was sure he would be all right tomorrow), but instead of getting better he got worse. The doctor was consulted and diagnosed the complaint as high blood-pressure.

  "What does that mean?" asked Mr. Ayrton crossly.