Roger must have sensed her thought, or perhaps his own thoughts had followed the same line. "No news of Anne, I suppose?" asked Roger.
Nell shook her head.
"Do you think she's—alive?"
"Yes," replied Nell slowly. "I have a sort of feeling—but perhaps it isn't worth much. Sometimes when I'm in the gardens by myself I feel as if we were all here, running about and playing as we used to do. And sometimes I feel as if there were other children too—children who played here long before we were born."
"Little ghosts?"
"Not frightening ghosts, just nice friendly children."
"I've been thinking," said Roger after a short silence. "I've been wondering what I should do to 'improve the amenities of Amberwell in the traditional way. Have you any bright ideas on the subject?"
Nell had not. She had been far too busy trying to hold the place together and to prevent it from slipping back into primeval jungle to think of anything else.
"I don't want a fountain—or anything like that," added Roger.
"The poor fountain!" said Nell with a sigh. "We never have it playing; Mother won't have it—not even to please Gerry and Joan. It seems such a waste, doesn't it? Mr, Gray keeps it oiled and turns it on sometimes to prevent it from getting rusty, but we have to do it when Mother isn't there."
"I wonder why."
Nell did not know. She had never understood her mother.
"I thought of trees," said Roger, returning to the previous subject. "Not very spectacular, of course."
"Oh yes—trees," agreed Nell. "Trees are much nicer than fountains, but even trees cost a good deal of money you know."
"Yes—well—I wanted to talk to you about that," said Roger a trifle diffidently. "There's quite a lot of money. Father left enough to keep things going comfortably and there's all Clare's money as well. Lord Richmore was a wealthy man and he left his money to Clare—who left it to me. Of course I look upon it as belonging to Stephen and I don't intend to splash it about, but there's plenty for everybody. You can easily have more to spend on the house and the gardens and get everything put right, and you ought to spend more on yourself."
"You give me a good allowance," said Nell quickly.
"Not nearly enough—considering all you do."
"More than enough, Roger. I mean what would I spend it on?"
"Well, we'll see. We'll talk it over later."
"If you have enough for your needs you don't need more," Nell told him.
"It's funny that you should say that," declared Roger. "It's absolutely true, but very few people would agree with you. Money is a queer thing. If you haven't got enough it's terribly important, but if you have plenty you don't think about it at all, and what's even stranger you don't spend any more. I could live on my pay quite easily—in fact I do." He hesitated for a moment and then added thoughtfully. "Sometimes when I hear other fellows in the regiment talking about not being able to make ends meet I feel quite ashamed."
"Couldn't you help them?" asked Nell anxiously.
Roger smiled. He reflected that his little sister was very unworldly. "Not really," he said. "There are various snags. The people you would like to help won't accept it—or if they're in an awful mess they take it as a loan and come and pay you back a little at a time, which makes you feel quite sick and completely spoils your friendship. Then of course there are the other kind—the spongers—who approach with a Cheshire Cat grin and murmur, 'I say, old boy, could you possibly lend me five quid?' They always give you a long explanation of how they happen to find themselves in Queer Street . . . and of course they'll pay it back at the end of the month . . . and of course they never do."
Nell could not help smiling for Roger's predicament reminded her of a picture entitled "The Boy with Many Friends" a print of which hung upon the wall of the upstairs landing. The Boy was engaged in unpacking a hamper of "goodies" while his school-mates hung round him with affectionate smiles.
"I suppose it's funny—in a way," admitted Roger. "But it's rather horrid too. I wish I knew the right thing to do about it. It's all very well to say 'Neither a borrower nor a lender be' but if you've got the money to lend the fellow you simply can't refuse—at least I can't—and is it right to let him get away with it (which is much the easiest) or should you remind him that he hasn't paid you back?"
Nell gazed at Roger. The matter was beyond her.
"Well never mind," said Roger. "Let's talk about trees."
They talked about trees as they walked on through the walled-garden and into the bowling-green. Here they stopped and looked round. The other parts of the garden were bad enough but this was worst of all for Mr. Gray had given it up in despair. Bob Glaister cut the grass occasionally but his other duties left him no time to keep it trim and neat. The yew hedge had straggled wildly and the stone steps which led up to the stage were covered with green moss. Everywhere there were dead leaves, scattered upon the ground or blown into untidy heaps and mouldering where they lay.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Nell. "It must be sad for you to come home to this changed place."
It was sad of course, but perhaps not as sad as Nell thought, for Roger had been about the world and had seen far worse sights than a neglected garden. His own perfect marriage and its tragic end had at least rendered him invulnerable to lesser sorrows; he had realised that life went on whatever happened and it was useless to grieve over the past. If something knocked you down you had to pick yourself up and go on as best you could. He had learned that much about life.
Certainly Amberwell was a "changed place." The house was very shabby after six years of war, carpets were worn and walls needed redecorating. The gardens were in a frightful condition, it would take years to get them right. Roger noticed a change in the people as well. His stepmother was autocratic and self-centred and she was still very handsome, with her pretty complexion and her wavy silvery hair, but she was definitely old; occasionally her mind wandered a little and she was apt to tell you the same thing twice over. Nannie was wrinkled and bent and moved more slowly—she was very different from the trim bustling Nannie of bye-gone days. Even Nell had changed, but in Roger's opinion Nell had changed for the better; she was very good-looking indeed, and there was more life about her (more pep, thought Roger, glancing at her sideways) but all the same she was still unsure of herself and still terrified of her mother . . . which was a pity. Roger had a feeling that this little sister of his would never grow up properly and be a whole person unless she got right away from Amberwell and her mother's influence.
"You ought to get away from here!" Roger said.
"Away—from here?" asked Nell in amazement. "What do you mean? Who would look after Stephen—and Amberwell —and everything?"
"Don't you ever want to get away?"
"Never. I should be lost if I had to go away."
"That's lucky for me," said Roger, smiling.
Roger had asked the question with a purpose, for Tom had written and told him about Dennis Weatherby (it was right that Roger should know for he was the head of the family). According to Tom, Dennis Weatherby was the best fellow in the world, a paragon of all the virtues, but with somewhat peculiar views about girls . . . but Roger, when he had read the letter carefully, decided that Dennis Weatherby's views were sound. Nell was certainly not the sort of girl to be rushed, and she might be wooed more easily by "long friendly letters" than by word of mouth. All the same it was sad, thought Roger. Nell ought to have married and had children of her own instead of spending all her mother-love upon Stephen. Probably, if it had not been for the war, she would have been happily married by this time; the war had broken and twisted a great many lives.
"Well, anyway we've got Stephen," said Roger after a long silence. It seemed to him that this was the one valuable possession which he and Nell between them had saved from the wreckage.
Part IV
"For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather."
Christina Geo
rgina Rossetti
CHAPTER XXI
1
Mr. Orme had not been able to get in touch with the older Ayrtons, but he was friends with the youngest Ayrton from a very early age.
"Make Stephen feel safe," said Nell earnestly. She had said it for the first time at Stephen's christening and she continued to say it frequently; so one of the first faces in little Stephen's world was the gentle saintly face of the Rector . . . and later, when Stephen was able to run about the gardens, it never occurred to him for a moment to hide from Mr. Orme. Indeed it was Stephen's practice to He in wait for him and to pounce out suddenly with a joyful cry. This was not particularly good for Mr. Orme's heart, but you can't have everything exactly right in this world . . . and Mr. Orme would have risked worse dangers for the pleasure of Stephen's friendship.
One afternoon when Stephen was six years old they met in the woods. It was early Spring; the trees were beginning to bud and the rooks were nesting. They had a long interesting chat, sitting upon the old mossy stone from which you could look down upon Amberwell House and the bowling-green and the walled-garden. By this time Amberwell was beginning to look more like itself—less shabby and neglected—but there was still a long way to go before everything could be put into the apple-pie order so dear to Mr. Gray's heart.
Stephen told Mr. Orme all the Amberwell news: Daddy was in Germany, but might be coming home on leave before very long; Uncle Tom's ship was on its way to Australia; Aunt Nell had gone to Glasgow for the day. Mr. Orme told Stephen about the birds that had come to his bird-table and, on being asked for a story, related the story of the Prodigal Son.
"What were the boys' names?" asked Stephen with interest. •
This reaction surprised Mr. Orme considerably and he was obliged to admit that he did not know, and to explain that the story was just a story, and had been told to illustrate the enduring quality of the love of God.
"Yes, I see," nodded Stephen. "And it's very nice, but all the same I wish we knew their names. It makes a story much more real if you know the people's names."
As Mr. Orme walked home he reflected how very interesting it was to talk to somebody with a perfectly fresh mind; a mind which had not been cluttered up with too much study and which did not run in a groove. He knew the story of the Prodigal Son by heart—indeed he had repeated it to Stephen word for word as it was written in St. Luke's Gospel —but the mere fact of thinking that the "boys" might have names gave it added reality . . . and this was by no means the first time Stephen had given Mr. Orme a new angle upon an old story and jolted him out of a well-worn rut.
The Rectory was not as comfortable as it used to be, for Mrs. Green had been obliged to leave (not without tears and lamentations) and to go and look after an invalid sister whose husband had been killed in the war. Her place had been taken by a "daily woman" who did as little as possible and that with reluctance. Mr. Orme did not complain of her work (he had been far too comfortable when Mrs. Green held sway at the Rectory) but sometimes he wished that Mrs. Kenny were a little more willing and obliging, a little less grudging of her services.
As Mrs. Kenny did not "live in" it was the habit of the Rector to prepare his own supper. Sometimes Mrs. Kenny left him a dish of macaroni-cheese to warm up, and sometimes she did not. Quite often if Mr. Orme were reading or writing he forgot all about his supper, until the pangs of hunger reminded him that it was long past the proper hour, and as it was then too late for the warming-up process he would cut a sHce of bread and make himself a cup of cocoa. If Mrs. Green had known of these goings on she would have been frantic—but of course she did not know.
Curiously enough in spite of the discomfort of his home, and in spite^ of his increasing age, Mr. Orme's heart had become less troublesome. It was seldom now that he experienced the uncomfortable sensation that everything was slipping sideways which was the warning signal that he was about to be attacked. The second phase of his illness was even more uncomfortable: a violent battering as if his heart had become a mad bird trying to escape from its cage. The third phase was black oblivion and the fourth an uncontrollable trembling in all his limbs which sometimes lasted for an hour and then gradually died away leaving him exhausted. Dr. Maddon had a string of long words to describe these attacks but Mr. Orme preferred to think (like St. Paul) that the messenger of Satan had come to buffet him lest he should be exalted beyond measure. It certainly kept one humble to be laid out in this ignominious manner . . . and quite apart from being laid out it was humbling to have to be careful; to pause with one's hands upon the cords of a window and to decide that it would be wiser—and in the long run much less bother—to go and get somebody else to shut the window. It was humbling to start out to visit a friend who was in trouble and to realise suddenly that one felt a little tired and had better go home unless one wanted to add to the trouble by collapsing on his doorstep.
Naturally Mr. Orme was very glad that Satan's messenger came less often. Dr. Maddon was both glad and surprised for he had expected Mr. Orme's heart attacks to become worse rather than better as the years went by. However, after some thought. Dr. Maddon found a reason for the improvement and explained it to his old friend; it was a very ingenious reason and his old friend listened to it indulgently but did not believe a word. Mr. Orme's explanation was very simple: as he grew older the consciousness of his Master's presence came to him more often and more easily, it warmed him and comforted him and shielded him from harm.
2
Tonight was one of the nights when Mr. Orme's supper was forgotten for his talk with Stephen had given him material for a sermon. It was nearly eleven o'clock and he was still hard at work when he heard a tap on the window. This was not a very unusual occurrence at the Rectory for sometimes people found their troubles worse at night and wanted to share them, to pour them into a sympathetic ear.
Mr. Orme rose and, pulling aside the curtain, looked out. The window was open at the bottom and the garden was bright with moonlight; a slim figure in a dark cloak was standing on the path below. She pushed back her hood and he saw that it was Nell Ayrton.
"Mr. Orme," she said in a breathless voice. "I'm so sorry to disturb you—I meant to come earlier but I couldn't get away—and I saw your light through the chinks—"
"There's nothing wrong with Stephen!" cried Mr. Orme in alarm.
"No—not Stephen—"
"Come in, my dear child. Come round to the front door."
As he went to open it for her he conquered all feelings of surprise, for it did not help people who needed help if they realised you were surprised to see them.
"You'll think I'm mad to come at this hour," said Nell. "It is mad, of course, but I didn't want Mother to know—"
"Come in and tell me about it." He took her arm and put her into the chair by the fire. The fire was low—nearly dead—but he piled on some dry wood and it began to burn up briskly. "That's better, isn't it?" he said. "Now we can talk comfortably."
Nell did not speak and when he looked at her he saw that her lips were trembling and her eyes were full of tears.
"Nell!" he said gently. "What is it, my dear? What has happened? You can tell me about it, can't you?"
For a few moments she hesitated and then she took a little book out of her pocket and handed it to him, still without speaking.
Mr. Orme took it and looked at it in bewilderment—it was a child's book, a little story-book with coloured pictures—the dreadful thought crossed his mind that Nell had gone mad.
"Anne," said Nell in a trembling voice.
"Anne?"
She nodded. "I bought the book today—when I was in Glasgow—for Stephen—and I looked at it coming home in the train. When I looked at it—I knew."
"You mean—"
"Anne wrote it—and—and drew the pictures. Pictures of the garden—" Her voice broke and she could not go on.
"Are you sure?" asked Mr. Orme incredulously.
"Yes, it's Anne. I'm sorry to—to be so silly, but—but it upset me—fr
ightfully—reading all about what we used to do. It brought Anne back—all her funny little ways. I must find her! Oh, Mr. Orme I must find Anne!"
"Perhaps we could find her," said Mr. Orme thoughtfully. "I mean we could certainly find the author of the book. The publishers are bound to know where she lives."
He spoke in a quite matter-of-fact voice which had the effect of calming Nell and helping her to control herself.
"It's Anne," she said with conviction. "I know Anne so well. It was the garden pictures that first caught my eye. Then I read it carefully—every word. I made myself read it carefully."
"And you were sure?"
"Absolutely certain. There are things in it—all sorts of things which nobody else could possibly know—things that we did and said. There was one thing for instance: the two little girls' cots were close together and they put their heads through the bars and touched noses—with their eyes shut —and then they said, 'Owls!' and opened their eyes wide. Quite silly," said Nell in a shaky voice. "Quite silly—I expect you'll laugh."
He did not laugh.
"We did that every night. Then one night I couldn't get my head back—I forgot you had to twist your head sideways to get it through the bars—and it was dark and I panicked—and Anne put out her two little hands and twisted my head and pushed it back. Anne never panicked. Anne! Oh Mr. Orme, perhaps she's poor and lonely!" Nell was crying now—but very quietly.
"We'll find her, my dear. I'll find her for you."
"You?"
"Yes, of course."
"How kind you are!" Nell exclaimed.
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