The jackdaws had gone to roost, and for once even the owls were silent.
“I’m glad we did away with the paths and brought the turf close to the house,” he said.
“It would look better still if the grass went sloping right to the end there, by the pony’s paddock.
One day you must cut away the undergrowth to give a view of the sea.”
“How do you mean,” I said,
“I must do it?
Why not you?”
He did not answer at once.
“Same thing,” he said at last, “same thing.
It makes no odds.
Remember though.”
My old retriever, Don, raised his head and looked across at him.
He had seen the corded boxes in the hall, and sensed departure.
He struggled to his feet, and went and stood beside Ambrose, his tail drooping.
I called softly to him, but he did not come to me.
I knocked out the ashes of my pipe into the hearth.
The clock in the belfry struck the hour.
From the servants’ quarters I could hear Seecombe’s grumbling voice scolding the pantry boy.
“Ambrose,” I said, “Ambrose, let me come with you.”
“Don’t be a damn fool, Philip, go to bed,” he answered.
That was all.
We did not discuss the matter anymore.
Next morning at breakfast he gave me some last instructions about the spring planting, and various things he had in mind for me to do before his return.
He had a sudden fancy to make a small pool where the ground was marshy in the park by the entrance to the east drive, and this would have to be cut out and banked if we got some passable weather in the winter months.
The time for departure came all too soon.
Breakfast was over by seven, for he was obliged to make an early start.
He would pass the night at Plymouth, and sail from there on the morning tide.
The vessel, a trader, would take him to Marseilles, and from there he would travel into Italy at his leisure; he enjoyed a long sea trip.
It was a raw damp morning.
Wellington brought the carriage to the door, and it was soon piled high with baggage.
The horses were restless and eager to be off.
Ambrose turned to me, and laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“Take care of things,” he said, “don’t fail me.”
“That’s a hit below the belt,” I answered.
“I’ve never failed you yet.”
“You’re very young,” he said.
“I put a great deal on your shoulders.
Anyway, everything I have is yours, you know that.”
I believe then if I had pressed the matter he would have let me go with him.
But I said nothing.
Seecombe and I put him in the carriage with his rugs and sticks, and he smiled at us from the open window.
“All right, Wellington,” he said, “drive on.”
And they went away down the drive just as the rain began.
The weeks passed much as they had done during the two previous winters.
I missed him as I always did, but there was plenty to occupy me.
If I wished for company I rode over to visit my godfather, Nick Kendall, whose only daughter, Louise, was a few years younger than myself, and a playmate from childhood days.
She was a staunch girl, with no fancy ways, and pretty enough.
Ambrose used to jest at times and say she would make me a wife one day, but I confess I never thought of her as such.
It was mid-November when his first letter came, brought back in the same vessel that had landed him at Marseilles.
The voyage had been uneventful, the weather good, despite a bit of a tossing in the Bay of Biscay.