Amberwell

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

  "Yes," said Mr. Orme. "You go and put on the kettle. It will do us all good to have a cup of tea.

  Emmie sped off, bounding like a ball.

  "Oh dear," said Anne, trying to control her tears. "This is a funny way to—to welcome you. It's just that—I'm so— glad."

  "I know," said Mr. Orme. "Perhaps I should have warned you I was coming, but I was afraid you might run away."

  "Run away?"

  "Well, I didn't know whether you would be pleased to see me—or not."

  "Did they send you?" asked Anne in a trembling voice. "Did Father—has Father—forgiven me?"

  "Your father died," said Mr. Orme. "He died some time ago. It was Nell who sent me to you. Nell saw your little book and knew it was yours and brought it to me."

  "Nell," said Anne in a low voice. "Yes, of course Nell would know."

  "Nell loves you dearly, she has been very unhappy about you."

  "Oh poor Nell—all these years— "

  "All these years. We tried to find you before, but you seemed to have vanished. Why didn't you write?"

  "How could I?" she asked, looking up at him with brimming eyes. "I had been told not to write— and I had been so—so foolish—and—and—"

  "But I've found you," said Mr. Orme.

  "How?" asked Anne. "How did you know—"

  "Through your publishers," he replied. "I went to see them and got your address. It wasn't very difficult."

  They talked for a few moments longer and then he put his arm through hers and they went in to tea. Mr. Orme did not bother her with questions for he realised that his sudden appearance had been a shock; later, when she had recovered a little, they would talk and he would hear Anne's story. He noted the poverty of the cottage; the mean little room, the threadbare piece of carpet on the floor, the poor shabby clothes which had been darned and mended so carefully— all these things told a story—but he noted too that everything was spotlessly clean and there was a little bowl of primroses on the well-scrubbed table. Anne looked thin and worn but the child was plump and bonny. She was so like the little Anne of long ago that he had picked her out from the other children as they crowded out of the school, and had asked her name. What other child except Anne's could have looked so like the "fairy" who had danced on the bowling-green in the thin grey overall? There was a difference of course. Anne had always been shy and silent (he had tried so hard to make friends with her and to win her confidence, but without success) but little Emmie was not frightened of him and certainly was not silent. It was Emmie's gay excited chatter that gave him an insight into their life.

  "Wasn't it funny that you knew me?" said Emmie. "Fancy knowing me amongst all the others because I was like Mummy when she was little and lived at Amberwell. We talk about Amberwell a lot, you know. We wrote a book about it and drew pictures—at least Mummy did. I just helped. It was made into a real book that you can buy in the shops. We got money for it. So I could have a new dress for school and new shoes as well—and we had a Christmas Tree for Christmas. You see Mummy only gets just enough money to buy food—she gets it from Mr. Steele for working in the gardens—so it was very useful to have a little extra, wasn't it?"

  "Mr. Orme doesn't want to hear about that," said Anne trying to quell her excited little daughter.

  "Doesn't he?" asked Emmie, quite undaunted, "Well p'raps it's not very interesting. P'raps he'd rather hear about Nell. That's my little sister, you know."

  "Oh, you've got a sister," said Mr. Orme smiling and looking round the room for evidences of another little girl.

  Emmie laughed delightedly. "You can't see her, I'm afraid. She isn't real. At least she isn't real to other people— only to me and Mummy. You see I haven't got a real little sister to play with, like Mummy had, and it isn't much fun playing by yourself."

  "I see," said Mr. Orme nodding. He was seeing a good many things and taking them all in.

  "Do have some more gingerbread, Mr. Orme," said Anne.

  "Or a chocolate biscuit," suggested Emmie, handing it to him. "There's only one, because I ate the other one yesterday. I wouldn't have if I'd known you were coming."

  "You eat it," said Mr. Orme.

  "No," said Emmie earnestly. "No, I'd like you to eat it— honestly, I would."

  "We'll cut it into three pieces and then we can each have a piece. How would that do?" asked Mr. Orme.

  Emmie was delighted with the idea. She watched eagerly while Mr. Orme unwrapped the chocolate biscuit and cut it carefully into three equal portions. Anne watched too and again she was nearly in tears. How good he was—how understanding! She was glad he had come—and yet she was sorry. He will go away again, thought Anne. He will say good-bye—and go. It would have been better if he hadn't come!

  "Isn't this a dear little cottage?" asked Emmie, taking her piece of biscuit and eating it with enjoyment. "Mummy and I like it awfully and we don't want to go away; besides we've got nowhere to go."

  "We'll find somewhere to go," said Anne hastily.

  "But there isn't much time, is there?"

  "Go on with your tea, Emmie. Finish up your milk," said her mother. "You're talking too much."

  3

  Mr. Orme said nothing, but the little exchange of words was by no means lost upon him, and later when Emmie had run out to play in the garden he sat down upon the old wooden settle by the window and tried to make Anne talk. This was not very easy, for Anne was reserved and there was a pride in her which was hard to overcome, but Mr. Orme was patient.

  "I don't want to interfere in your affairs, my dear," said Mr. Orme gently. "But you see I'm Nell's messenger and she'll think me a very poor sort of messenger if I go back to Westkirk without finding out all about you."

  "It would take a long time to tell," replied Anne with a wan smile.

  "Yes, of course," he agreed. "But perhaps you could tell me a little; at any rate you could try."

  Anne looked at him sitting upon the settle with his silvery hair framed in the dark oak of the carved back. His fine old face was full of interest and sympathy.

  "I'm not very good at telling people things," she said doubtfully. "And I don't know where to begin . . ." But all the same she managed to tell him something of what she had come through and Mr. Orme listened and nodded and occasionally prompted her with a question.

  "Well, that's all, really," said Anne at last.

  It was not all by any means (Mr. Orme was aware that there were big gaps in the story which Anne did not want to fill) but it was quite enough to show that her path had not been easy.

  "That's all," repeated Anne. "The last few years have been happy; I've enjoyed working in the garden and of course it suits Emmie to be here. I know this little cottage must seem very primitive to you, but it has been our home."

  "Why are you leaving?" asked Mr. Orme. "Where are you going?"

  Anne explained. She added, "One thing I'm determined upon, I'm not going back to London, Emmie must have plenty of fresh air."

  "Emmie looks the picture of health."

  Anne smiled. "Yes, I know, but I want her to go on looking the picture of health. I must get some job which will suit Emmie."

  "What sort of a job?"

  "Oh, a housekeeper's job—I'm not fitted for anything else. I've answered dozens of advertisements for housekeepers but there's always some snag. Usually a child is an objection," added Anne trying hard to smile. "Usually people prefer housekeepers without encumbrances."

  Mr. Orme was silent for a few moments and then he said, "I need a housekeeper and a child would not be an objection."

  Anne stared at him in amazement.

  "Perhaps you think I'm mad," continued Mr. Orme with a helpless gesture of his hands. "I haven't thought it out properly—it's just a wild idea—but if you're really at a loose end and have nowhere to go—" He looked at her but she said nothing. She was speechless.

  "It's just—a wild idea," repeated Mr. Orme. "You would have to think it over very seriously. It might be very uncomfortable fo
r you—to come back to Westkirk—and of course there's your mother to consider. I can't tell you what she would feel about it. I simply don't know. She might be very angry and refuse to see you, or she might be glad."

  "But you—if she were angry—" gasped Anne.

  "It doesn't matter about me," Mr. Orme replied. "Ill risk it willingly. The whole thing has been so wrong—so dreadful—and this may be a way of putting it right. But if she refuses to see you I shall tell her what I think." As he spoke he threw back his head and his face grew stern. "I tried before," he continued. "I spoke to your parents several times but they wouldn't listen and it seemed to me that I was doing more harm than good so I was obliged to let it alone. It's different now that I've found you. There's more hope of bringing about a reconciliation."

  "If Mother was very angry—"

  "Well, what of it!" exclaimed Mr. Orme—and oddly enough there was a twinkle of humour in his eyes. "Listen, Anne. Seven years ago I was told, very politely of course, that the domestic affairs of the Ayrton family were none of my business. Needless to say I disagreed, for a shepherd's duty is to look after his flock . . . but it certainly is none of Mrs. Ayrton's business to interfere with my domestic affairs, and if I choose to engage a housekeeper to look after—"

  "Mr. Orme!" said Anne trying to speak calmly. "Do you really mean it? Would you really have Emmie and me? She's a good little girl, and she—she wouldn't—bother you—and I'm quite a good cook—honestly—and—and—" suddenly she bowed her head to her hands and burst into tears. "Don't—say it—if you don't—mean it—" she sobbed.

  "My dear child, I mean every word!" exclaimed Mr. Orme in distress. He rose and went over to her and patted her shoulder. "You shall come home with me," he said. "Now that I've found you I'm not going to lose sight of you for a moment. I shall take you home—both of you—"

  "Kind—" murmured Anne brokenly. "So—kind— "

  "Not kind at all," declared Mr. Orme, running along at a great rate and hardly knowing what he was saying in his desire to comfort her. "Not kind at all, just a selfish old man. I've been miserable ever since Mrs. Green left; I'm at the mercy of a daily-help who comes in 'to oblige' and is anything but obliging. You've no idea how dreary she is, poor soul; you've no idea how grudgingly she makes my bed and how reluctantly she cooks my porridge and how unappetising it is when she has cooked it—full of lumps—and sort of gritty, like sand. And the house is not as clean as I should wish. A little dust is nothing—I don't mind a little dust—and I used to think Mrs. Green was a trifle too particular—she was always polishing things and moving my papers so that I couldn't find them—but now things are positively dirty— and sad to say Mrs. Kenny herself is not very—er—particular about her own—er—personal hygiene—so you see, my dear, if you and Emmie will come and look after me I shall be the happiest man alive."

  Anne had recovered a little. She looked up and smiled through her tears.

  "That's right," said Mr. Orme. "That's splendid! It's all settled isn't it? I shall give you the same—er—salary that I gave Mrs. Green."

  "But that would be—too much," said Anne. "You'll have to feed Emmie, and—and housekeepers with encumbrances always get less."

  "Nonsense!"

  "It isn't nonsense! Oh dear, I wish I could come for nothing, but of course I can't because clothes wear out—and shoes."

  "I shall give you what I gave Mrs. Green—no more and no less," said Mr. Orme firmly. He smiled and added, "We shall be happy together—you and I and Emmie—and I know another person who will be happy too."

  "Nell," whispered Anne.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  1

  Anne had told some of her long and complicated story to Mr. Orme, and now she told some of it to Nell—just the bare outline with all the miseries and agonies left out. They sat in Mr. Orme's study and talked, and all the time the flaxen-haired doll lay upon Anne's knee with its blue eyes staring at the ceiling. Anne had forgotten it (she did not seem to notice it at all) but Nell could not take her eyes off the doll; there was something almost horrible about it. The doll with its pink cheeks and staring eyes seemed part of the incredible story.

  Every now and then Anne would break off in the middle of her narrative to ask about some member of her own family. Mr. Orme had given her most of the news but there were all sorts of things which Mr. Orme had not been able to tell her. Was Tom really happy in the Navy? How was Mr. Gray? Did Nannie still hold sway in the nursery?

  Nell answered the questions of course. She answered them fully, and from various matters which cropped up in her replies she was led into further explanations. She found herself telling Anne about the night when she had gone to Carlisle to meet the unknown woman and little Stephen . . . and broke off to say, "But I want to hear about you. It must have been dreadful when Martin died and you were left all alone with the baby. Weren't you terrified?"

  "Terrified?" echoed Anne in surprise.

  "Terrified of being alone—and dreadfully miserable! Oh poor darling, how miserable you must have been!"

  Anne gazed into the fire. It was impossible to reply.

  "Well, never mind," said Nell, misreading the cause for her silence. "It's over now. You're coming home to Amberwell."

  "To Amberwell? Oh no! I'm staying here with Mr. Orme as his housekeeper."

  "Anne!"

  "Why not?"

  "You can't! It's ridiculous! Of course you're coming home."

  Anne shook her head.

  "You must come home," declared Nell. "Roger said we were all to look upon Amberwell as our home. He mentioned you especially; he said if you could be found you were to come home."

  "It was very kind of Roger but I'm staying here," said Anne smiling. "Mr. Orme needs me. The house is in an awful mess and the kitchen is absolutely filthy. It's a wonder the poor darling hasn't been poisoned! I'm starting to clean the whole place tomorrow morning, and I must wash all the blankets. You needn't look so surprised, I'm quite a good housekeeper."

  Nell smiled too; she said, "I'm not as useless as I was in the old days. The war taught me a lot . . . but that isn't the point. Amberwell is your home, so—"

  "No, it isn't any more. Besides you haven't told Mother about me, have you?"

  "It's Roger's house."

  "But Mother lives in it. No, Nell, you can't persuade me. I've taken on this job—it's a worth-while job to look after the dear old man—and I'm going to stick to it."

  "But Anne— "

  "And there's another thing; what should I do about money?"

  "About money?" asked Nell blankly.

  Anne could not help smiling. "Money to buy clothes," she explained. "Money to buy shoes and to have them mended; money to buy a toothbrush."

  "Oh but—but you could—" She hesitated.

  "You've never had to think about money—to buy a toothbrush," said Anne with just the slightest hint of bitterness in her tone.

  Nell was silent for a moment and then she said, "But Anne, people will think it so funny."

  This aspect of the matter had not occurred to Anne. It was years and years since she had worried about what people thought. Life had been much too grim and bare for her to bother about the opinion of her neighbours . . . but of course it was different here. She saw that quite clearly now that Nell had mentioned it.

  "Will it matter very much?" she asked. "I mean people are doing all sorts of jobs nowadays, aren't they? Of course if it's going to make things uncomfortable for you Emmie and I must go away. I'll try to find another job."

  "Oh no!"

  "Well what? Look here, Nell," said Anne earnestly. "I've been on my own for years. I've been independent— "

  "You could be independent."

  "Not if I lived at Amberwell. You aren't independent, are you? You can't go out in the evening without a fuss. That's not being independent."

  "Oh dear, I don't know what Mother will say," declared Nell. "She's getting old—and sometimes she gets muddled. I wish I knew what to do."


  Anne hesitated, she saw that Nell was upset. "You can ask her," said Anne in a gentler tone. "If Mother wants to see me I'll come—and I'll be as nice as I possibly can—but nothing will persuade me to come back and live at Amberwell—nothing."

  Nell gave it up. She saw how firm Anne was and how clearly she knew her own mind and she was obliged to admit that it might not work. People might think it a little odd for Anne to go to Mr. Orme as his housekeeper instead of coming home, but they would get used to it—and it was true that nowadays everybody was doing a job of some sort.

  Nell's one object now was to reconcile Anne and her mother; if they could be "friends" everything would be smooth and pleasant. Anne could come to Amberwell when she liked; she could come and spend the day and bring the child—perhaps little Emmie would get on well with Stephen. On the other hand, if the feud continued, there would be constant friction, and everything would be very unpleasant indeed. It would be an impossible situation to have Anne living so near and not be able to see her without a fuss. She explained all this to Anne.

  "I'll do what you think best," said Anne. "I'll come and see Mother tomorrow if you like. You had better tell her I'm coming."

  "Come tomorrow afternoon, I'll meet you at the wicket-gate," said Nell.

  It was late when Nell went home; they had talked for hours, but as she walked up through the gardens she remembered all sorts of things she wanted to ask . . . and somehow she did not feel very happy. It was strange that she did not feel happy (for she had seen Anne, her beloved sister, who had been lost to her for years) but the truth was she could not envisage the future. If only . . . thought Nell . . . if only I could persuade Mother . . . if only they could be reconciled . . . if only they would both be sensible!

  2

  The next day was fine and sunny. Nell set out for the wicket-gate soon after two o'clock taking Stephen with her. She had not said anything to Mrs. Ayrton. She had not mentioned Anne's name. Several times she had tried to broach the subject but her heart had failed her. Now, when it was too late, she realised how foolish she had been. She ought to have been brave, she ought to have spoken to her mother and prepared her. I've muddled the whole thing, thought Nell miserably. I'm just a coward, that's all. I'm no good to anybody.