Anne's enquiring gaze did not embarrass Mr. Orme at all for although he was a bachelor he understood children and loved them dearly . . . and this child was so sweet and innocent. She was as sweet and innocent as the June morning.
"Why are you out so early?" asked Anne after a long silence.
"I've been to see a man who was very ill. I'm on my way home."
"You're not a doctor."
"No, not a doctor—but sometimes when people are very ill they like to see me."
"You can tell them about Heaven," nodded Anne understandingly.
"I try to tell them," he agreed.
There was another silence. A blackbird was singing on a tree. The sunshine was warm and pleasant.
"God likes boys better than girls, doesn't He?" asked Anne suddenly.
"No," replied Mr. Orme. The question startled him—in fact it horrified him—but he answered it quite quietly. "No," he repeated. "Certainly not."
"I thought He did," said Anne. "Boys are more important, aren't they?"
"No, we are all of equal importance in the sight of God. He loves us all."
"When we're good," agreed Anne.
"He loves us just as much when we're bad. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there Thy hand shall guide me and Thy right hand shall hold me."
This was queer sort of talk. Nobody in Anne's small circle of people ever talked like this. As a matter of fact no grown-up person had ever talked to Anne before—not really talked. In Anne's experience grown-up people told you to change your shoes or sit still and not fidget, or run along and play. Her religious education had consisted of Bible stories read by Miss Clarke and singing hymns accompanied by Miss Clarke on the nursery piano . . . and Nannie had taught her to say, "Gentle Jesus meek and mild, Look upon a little child." Anne did not understand what it meant (nobody had thought of explaining it to her), but she said it every night at bed-time. Then there was the large engraving which hung upon the wall in Mrs. Duff's sitting-room. The picture was intended to represent Elijah being taken up to Heaven in a cloud; but Anne and Nell and Connie thought it was a picture of God: God with a long white beard and a stern expression upon His countenance. It was for this reason that Anne was surprised to hear He would bother about an unimportant little girl.
Mr. Orme saw incredulity upon the expressive little face and he began to talk to her and to question her gently and he discovered that she was, to all intents and purposes, a heathen. It was dreadful. Something must be done about it at once. The other children belonging to his congregation came to Sunday School and he taught them himself but he had imagined that the Ayrton children were receiving religious instruction at home.
"Will you come to Sunday School?" he asked.
Anne did not reply. For one thing she did not know what Sunday School was, and for another it was not in her power to say whether or not she would go. If she were washed and dressed and taken to Sunday School she would go, and if not she would stay at home—it was as simple as that.
"Will you come?" repeated Mr. Orme earnestly.
Anne remained silent.
Mr. Orme sighed. He said, "I'll ask your mother." There was a long silence after that. The blackbird was still singing and the sun was still warm but Mr. Orme was not so happy. It seemed ridiculous that he should feel this child was neglected, that she was "a lost lamb," but that was what he felt. He would have liked to pick her up and take her home and care for her and teach her about God's goodness and love.
4
The next time Mr. Orme dined at Amberwell House he broached the subject of Sunday School to his hostess.
"I think not," said Mrs. Ayrton. "There's chickenpox in Westkirk just now."
"They receive religious instruction from Miss Clarke," added Mr. Ayrton.
"I should like them to come," said Mr. Orme. "There are about twenty children. I teach them myself."
"Perhaps later on," said Mrs. Ayrton. "They're quite small, you know. Anne is only five. Miss Clarke is quite capable of teaching them."
Mr. Orme had evidence that she was not, but he could not produce the evidence.
"Try one of these apples, Mr. Orme," said Mr. Ayrton. "They don't look up to much but they have a particularly sweet flavour. If you like them we could send you a basket."
Mr. Orme accepted the apple and began to peel it. He felt angry and frustrated—there was nothing he could do— he saw quite clearly that it was no use saying any more. Sometimes he wondered if it were any use going to Amberwell House once a month and dining with the Ayrtons. They were very kind but the conversation was always trivial and he always came away feeling that the evening had been wasted. The time would have been better spent in his study or in visiting people who had need of him. But the Ayrtons were his responsibility—just as much as the poorest member of his flock—and perhaps some day they would need him.
After dinner they strolled into the garden and Mr. Orme was shown the site that had been chosen for the lily-pool. It was a stretch of green lawn at the south side of the house. All round the lawn there were flowering shrubs and trees.
"It will be here," said Mr. Ayrton. "It will be a round basin about fifteen feet in diameter with a stone rim. In the middle of the pool we intend to have a rock with a bronze mermaid reclining on it. Marion, my dear, we must show Mr. Orme the sketches. Of course it will take time. Pipes will have to be laid for the water and that can't be done in a day. I think we shall be lucky if the fountain is in working order a year from now."
Mr, Orme tried to simulate interest in the fountain but it was very difficult and presently he made his excuses and came away.
As has been said before Mr. Orme had permission to walk in Amberwell gardens whenever he pleased. He often took advantage of the privilege but hitherto he had walked there in the evening so he had never seen the children. Now he altered his routine and began to take his walk in the afternoon. If the children were not to be allowed to come to him for religious instruction he must go to them. He knew they played in the gardens and was sure he would find them . . . but he was disappointed.
The children saw him, of course, but they avoided him— as they avoided all grown-ups—and they were so adept at the game that they were able to melt into the bushes or curl up in a convenient ditch until he had passed. It was a game, really, and quite an amusing game. Mr. Orme gave them a great deal of excitement and pleasure. They had no idea he was looking for them ( that never occurred to them for a moment) but if it had occurred to them they would have avoided him just the same.
"'Ware Mr. Orme!" Connie would cry. "He's coming through the gate!"
Immediately the others would leave whatever they were doing and take cover behind the raspberry-canes or rush into the potting-shed and close the door. They would remain there, trembling with delicious excitement, until the danger was past.
CHAPTER III
1
On a warm afternoon towards the end of July there was a flitting taking place at Ponticum House. A doll's pram had been brought to the south gate of the walled-garden and was being loaded with all sorts of odds and ends which had accumulated since the Easter holidays. The three little girls were as busy as ants, running to and fro, but unlike ants they were chattering as they worked.
"We'll have to make another journey," said Nell. "The pram won't hold everything."
"I think well manage," said Anne. "If one of us wheels the pram and the others hold the things on—"
"I don't know how we collect so much stuff,'* declared Connie with a sigh.
There was certainly a lot of stuff. Most people would have said "a lot of rubbish" but to Connie and Nell and Anne it was very valuable indeed. There were two wooden boxes with some hay in the bottom which had done duty as dolls' beds. There was a tin tea-set, somewhat battered, and two small enamel mugs. There was a blue glass vase with dandelions in it and a shabby little chest full of dolls' clothes . . . All this in addition to the dolls themselves, a varied collect
ion but all rather the worse for wear. A doll dressed as a sailor, with a square collar and bell-bottomed trousers, was the smartest of the collection though not the most loved. He belonged to Nell (Aunt Beatrice had given him to her for her birthday). He had a supercilious smile and his clothes would not "take off." Even his round sailor cap was fixed securely to his fair curly hair. How could you love a creature that you could neither cuddle nor undress? Jack was the bane of Nell's existence for he made her feel guilty of hard-heartedness. One day she slipped him into a drawer and tried to forget about him; she almost succeeded . . . and then, when she was going to bed, she saw him sitting upon her pillow, sneering at her.
"Look!" said Nannie cheerfully. "There's Jack. I found him in the drawer with your winter woollies. Had you forgotten about him?"
"Nearly," said Nell with a sigh.
After that it was no use trying to forget Jack so he was taken about with the other dolls.
The pram had been loaded and Connie was giving a last look round in Ponticum House to make sure that nothing had been left.
"Oh!" she cried. "Look at this!" and she pounced upon a tiny glass feeding-bottle with a rubber teat which had fallen down behind the shelf.
The others looked at it in horror.
"It's a good thing you found it!" exclaimed Nell.
Anne leant over the seat and poked about to see if there was anything else which might offend masculine sensibilities. She poked amongst the pile of withered leaves and came up with something in her hand. It was a china saucer with little flowers on it.
"I've never seen that before," declared Nell.
None of them had ever seen it before. The three heads were close together as they looked at it.
"Isn't it pretty?" said Anne.
"How can it have got here?" wondered Nell.
"Somebody must have left it here—" began Connie.
"But nobody knows about Ponticum House except us!" cried Anne.
"Long ago, perhaps—"
They all looked round their secret hiding-place with widely-open eyes. It was very curious to think that somebody else had played here long ago.
"It's like Robinson Crusoe," said Anne vaguely.
"What do you mean?" asked Connie in surprise.
"I mean when he found Friday's footprint in the sand."
"Friday's footprint!" echoed Connie in bewilderment. "But it's a doll's saucer!"
Anne could not explain. It was always difficult for Anne to explain things even when they were clear to herself, and in this case she scarcely knew what she meant.
"Well, anyway, we can keep it, can't we?" said Nell. "It will be lovely when we have tea-parties for the dolls."
They had so few toys that the little saucer was a treasure. It really was beautiful. The pattern of tiny flowers was delightful, and it was so delicate that when you held it up to the light you could see through it.
Nell began to dig in the heap of leaves to see if there was another saucer—or better still a cup—but the only thing she found was a lead soldier about three inches tall, dressed in a sort of uniform. The paint had flaked off him in parts but there was enough left to show that he had once been clad in a gay scarlet jacket and white breeches.
"Funny!" said Anne, looking at him curiously.
"We'll put him in the treasure-box," said Nell. "The boys would like him."
It was now nearly tea-time so they set off home through the walled-garden, Connie wheeling the pram and Nell and Anne walking beside it and steadying the load. They were hurrying along, intent upon their task, so unfortunately they did not notice the little group of people at the door of the greenhouse until it was too late.
Mrs. Ayrton had been showing Sir Andrew and Lady Findlater the vine. Mr. Gray was there too; he had been explaining his method of pruning.
When Mrs. Ayrton looked round and saw the cavalcade she was aghast. The girls were dirty and untidy; the dolls' pram, laden with rubbish, was disreputable in the extreme. In fact her three little daughters looked for all the world like tinkers. The effect was considerably worsened by a confusion of ideas on the part of the children: Connie tried to stop and turn back and the other two tried to push on quickly. The pram overturned and everything fell off in a heap.
"Goodness, what have you been doing!" exclaimed Mrs. Ayrton angrily.
"Nothing," said Anne, replying to the usual question in the traditional manner.
"Nothing!" cried Mrs. Ayrton. "You look as if you had been digging in the rubbish heap. You're absolutely filthy! Where did you find all those broken boxes?"
Lady Findlater had thought at first that these were the gardener's children but now she realised that they must be Ayrtons. "Are these your three little girls?" she enquired sweetly.
"Yes— I don't know what they've been doing," replied Mrs. Ayrton, trying to control her rage.
"It looks like a flitting to me," said Sir Andrew smiling.
The children said nothing. They began to collect their treasures off the path.
"Leave it," said Mrs. Ayrton. "Leave all that rubbish where it is. Mr. Gray will burn it. Run straight home to Nannie and get washed; you're not fit to be seen. Do you hear what I say?"
They heard and obeyed. They left everything and ran off as fast as they could.
"It's all right," gasped Nell as they climbed the nursery-stairs. "I've got the saucer—and Mr. Gray—winked at me— "
2
As has been said before the nursery-flat at Amberwell was self-contained; it could be reached by two staircases, one of these led to the house, and was shut off by a green baize door, the other led directly to the gardens. Nursery meals came up from the kitchen in a small service-lift which had been put in by Mr. Ayrton's father. Before that everything had to be carried up three flights of stairs from the kitchen. The nursery itself was a large square room with a cork carpet and a few shabby old mats on the floor; there were several cupboards and basket chairs, a large solid table and an ancient rocking-horse. The two boys shared a large room at the end of the passage; Nell and Anne shared a smaller room; Nannie and Connie each had a room to herself. In addition there was a bathroom, a small pantry and a cupboard for drying clothes.
Nell and Anne had shared a room since they were babies. In those days their cots had been close together so that they could chatter to each other quietly before they dropped off to sleep. Now that they were older and the wooden cots had been replaced by two small beds they still slept side by side and still chatted quietly after the light had been put out. Nannie knew this of course but she saw no harm in it. Sometimes she listened at the door and heard the two little voices getting lower and more drowsy until they died away into silence. Connie was different; she went straight off to sleep the moment her head touched the pillow and no more was heard of her until she was wakened in the morning.
In term time the nursery-flat was very quiet and moved in an orderly routine, but when the boys came back from school it was suddenly transformed and life became exciting. Roger and Tom (who were now twelve and eleven years old respectively) were full of fun and high spirits. Although they were so much older than their half-sisters the little girls amused them and, after three months of boys and nothing but boys, they were not averse to a spell of feminine society. Sometimes the five children played together in the gardens; the boys decided what was to be the order of the day and the girls did as they were told with admirable submission. As a matter of fact they would have done anything the boys told them for they realised it was a great privilege to be allowed to join in the games. They did not enjoy it quite so much when other children came to play. The two Findlater boys were older than Roger and Tom, and were apt to take charge and to order the others about; Mary Findlater was the same age as Connie. There were Dr. Maddon's two children, Arnold and Harriet, and there was Gerald Lambert.
Gerald went to the same school as the Ayrton boys and was Tom's particular friend. He was a large ungainly boy and had the habit of saying the rudest things in a quite unconsciou
s manner. The Ayrton children (trained by Nannie in the time-honoured tradition that "personal remarks" were bad form) disliked Gerald's derogatory comments upon their appearance. Gerald referred to Nell and Anne as "Skinny" and "Fatty"—in fact he never called them anything else. They thought it most extraordinary that Tom should like Gerald.
Gerald's father was a director of a Glasgow firm of shipbuilders and travelled to Glasgow several times a week. The Lamberts had bought a piece of land adjoining Amberwell, they had built a fine house upon it and laid out a pleasant garden.
In addition to the Findlaters, the Maddons and Gerald Lambert, there were several other families of children in and around Westkirk . . . all these children were at home in the holidays and occasionally came and played in the gardens. They played hide-and-seek, they tracked Indians in the woods and sometimes they played stump-cricket in the meadow. If they grew tired of these activities they went down to the shore and paddled or bathed. There was no end to the joys and the variety of entertainment at Amberwell.
On wet days Roger and Tom got out their clockwork trains and spread the rails all over the nursery-floor. They built stations and goods-yards and tunnels with bricks. It took a long time to get everything in running order and Connie and Nell and Anne were allowed to help if they did not offer too many suggestions. The boys found them quite useful (sometimes they were allowed to wind up the engines under careful supervision) and more often than not it was left to Connie and Nell and Anne to tidy up the mess when the game was over and the boys remembered that they had other important business to attend to.
Connie and Nell and Anne did not mind at all, they rather enjoyed putting everything away neatly in the proper boxes; they would have undertaken far less pleasant work for the privilege of playing with the boys.
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