Archibald Cronin - The Spanish gardener

When he returned to the vestibule it was evident that he was satisfied and Alvin's brown eyes glistened with relief.

“I trust everything’s in order, sir. There’s not been much time since Mr. Tenney left. I’ve done my best.”

“Of course,” the Consul replied suavely, yet with his most cryptic air. He knew better than to begin his regime with indiscriminate praise of his assistant. Nothing so easily impaired strict discipline, or fostered more quickly the disaster of familiarity. Besides, he had already decided that this raw, nervous young man in the tight-fitting suit—burst, indeed, in one place, at the armpit—was socially impossible, best kept at a distance. And as Alvin hung on, turning his straw hat in his hands, as if hoping to be asked to stay a little, for a glass of sherry perhaps, Brande civilly, yet firmly, conducted him towards the door.

“I shall see you at the office tomorrow, then, Mr. Decker."

"Very good, sir."

"You are always there at nine sharp?"

"Oh, of course." Rather red above the collar, Alvin prepared to take his leave but hesitated on the front steps and, in a manner which made Nicholas look appealingly at his father, stammered: "May I express the hope, sir, that you will honour Mrs. Decker and myself by a visit to our apartment in the Calle Estrada? It’s a small place, but we've tried to make it a little bit of the good old U.S.A." The Consul replied with perfect politeness, but when Alvin had gone his lip curled. No one could question his loyalty to his country, yet was he not now a complete cosmopolitan, refined and polished by European culture—a citizen of the world, in fact? No wonder Alvin's naïve phrase made him smile.

It was now seven o'clock and, with admirable anticipation of his master's wishes, Garcia announced that the dinner was served. Two places had been laid in the large dining-room and, seating themselves at either end of the long carved refectory table with a sconce of lighted candles between, father and son began the first meal in their new home.

For the most part, occupied by his own thoughts and deeply solicitous of Nicholas's fatigue, the Consul kept silent. But the excellence of the cooking and the service, the pleasing atmosphere of the dim, cool, lofty room, gradually soothed his spirit, and erased the manifold irritations which had tried him so sorely during the day. With his heavy, brooding eyes he followed the movements of the butler, and finally he raised the barrier of his reserve.

"Your name is Garcia, I understand?"

"Yes, señor."

"You have always been in San Jorge?"

Garcia straightened himself without a movement of his impassive face. The flicker of the candle flames was reflected for an instant at the back of his expressionless eyes.

"No, sir. I have been in much larger cities. And always with the best people. My previous situation was with the de Aostas in Madrid."

"You mean the Marquesa de Aosta?"

"A branch of that family, señor."

Harrington Brande nodded in recognition of the fact. He would have been the first to resent the imputation that he was a snob. Nevertheless, he was strongly conscious of the social order and it did not displease him that this silent personage who now served him should bear, so to speak, an aristocratic recommendation.

“Tell the cook I will see her in the morning. My son is somewhat delicate and will require a special diet." When the man bowed and noiselessly departed he remarked to Nicholas, with satisfaction: "He seems a superior fellow."

The word "superior," whether he applied it to a horse, a servant, or to his intimate friend Professor Halevy of Paris, was the Consul's most favoured expression of approbation. Yet for once Nicholas could not share his father's feelings. Indeed, the butler had produced in him, from the moment of his first sidelong glance, a sensation curiously disagreeable which he could not well explain.

After the Consul had finished his coffee he looked significantly at his gold repeater watch. However, Nicholas, upon whom the exciting strangeness of the place was already working like a ferment, pleaded most eagerly that they might take a turn in the garden before he went upstairs, and his father indulgently consented.

Outside, with a coat wrapped about his thin shoulders to protect him from any chance of chill, the little boy drew in deep breaths of the soft, spicy air which seemed to sweep in from infinity, submerging all consciousness of time and space. Although his head still rang with the tumult of the journey, he felt the peace of the falling evening upon him and upon the garden. It was larger, oh, much larger, than he had expected, and gloriously rank. A path led downwards from the portico under three pergolas bent beneath great braids of roses, flanked on either side by a broad herbaceous border, wild with primulas and great white peonies. To the left there stood a thicket of myrtle and of oleanders, pink and white, already in full scented flower. Upon the other hand the garden opened to a kind of meadow, which might once have been a lawn, bearing two lovely trees, a wide catalpa and a tamarisk; then, beyond a low boundary wall and a wooden tool shed, there lay a rocky heath, studded with white boulders, spiny cacti, and tufts of purple azalea. Behind, clumps of laurel masked the stables and domestic quarters, while in front the land fell, not steeply, to some woods of stunted cedar, thence to the level of the shore.

Standing beside his father, viewing all this beauty, intoxicated by the scents of earth and springing growth, Nicholas was conscious suddenly of a presentiment, a surging confidence, never before experienced in any of their previous abodes, that he could—that he would—be happy here. From below there came the wild yet gentle sighing of the surf. An access of joy made him shut his eyes lest tears should flow from them. He felt his chest rising in deep, slow breaths of glad anticipation.

“Isn’t it nice, Father?” He murmured, to prolong the moment.

Despite himself, the Consul smiled, that rare smile which only Nicholas could evoke. He too was not indifferent to the charm of the garden and, with his eyes upon the tangled oleander bushes and the rangy mimosa hedge which Tenney had "let go," his thoughts ran, a little grandly, to a policy of reclamation, of fresh planting, landscaping and topiary work.

"It could be nice ," he agreed indulgently… “We must have a gardener . I shall see about it tomorrow."

As they went back to the house he gazed tenderly at his son wondering, hopefully, if this garden, this pure strong air, sweeping from the Sierras and the sea, might not bring health to him.

On the first floor, he had chosen for Nicholas and himself two adjoining front bedrooms connected by a curtained doorway through which he would be available if his son should call him in the night. He himself was a light sleeper who suffered severely from insomnia. Yet his ever watchful and protective love had always demanded that he should be close at hand during these nocturnal hours when, so frequently, distressing nightmares caused Nicholas to start into palpitating wake- fulness, his heart beating frantically, his forehead bathed in a cold sweat of dread. This was a feature of the child's invalidism which caused the Consul most concern.

Upstairs, the valises were already unpacked and it was not long before Nicholas had undressed and washed himself, swallowed through a glass tube the iron tonic which Professor Halevy had prescribed for him, and brushed his teeth. Then, in a fresh nightshirt, he knelt at his father's side to say his prayers. Despite the sophistication that his long sojourn in Europe had given him, Harrington Brande was still—he gravely admitted it—a religious man. He might smile a little at his New England ancestors, yet their Puritan spirit remained strong within him. He listened with bowed head, his hand upon his dear son's shoulder, and at the end he himself added a special petition that the Almighty might protect them both and bless their sojourn now beginning in this new habitation. Then he paused and in a low and muffled voice, in words which seemed wrenched from the centre of his being he added: "We ask God's mercy for all transgressors … and in particular, dear child… we ask it for your mother.”