“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.”
“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 bygone 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 FOUR
For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather.
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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 lie 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 had 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.
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.
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.
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 slice 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.
2
To-night 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 am 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 to-day — 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 — frightfully — 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 quiet 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.
Mr. Orme was leaning forward in his chair. The firelight shone upon his thin face and silver hair and his hands with their long sensitive fingers were lightly clasped between his knees. “What shall I tell Anne?” he asked.
“I could go and see her! She could come home!”
“Would your mother welcome her?”
Nell made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I feel as if I didn’t know Mother at all — what she’s thinking or feeling.”
“Well, never mind,” said Mr. Orme with a sigh. “The first thing is to find Anne. Then we can see what to do.” Nell gave a little sob of relief. “Oh dear,” she said. “I feel — I feel like Christian when the burden fell off his back. I’ve carried the burden for years. I’ve wondered and wondered where she was — and how she was. Of course I haven’t thought about it all the time — when I was busy — but the burden was always there. Sometimes I’ve had a horrible feeling that she was in trouble and needed help — a feeling that she was lonely and miserable. You see she depended upon me so much. I could always comfort her.” Nell was silent for a few moments, remembering, and then she continued, “I’ve lain awake at night for hours wondering about Anne, wondering why she didn’t write. They must have told her not to write to me, I suppose … but even so … I mean if she had just written one little line to say she was well and — and happy. I’ve tried willing her to write. I’ve tried saying over and over, ‘Anne, where are you? Please write to me.’ Then sometimes I’ve felt she must be dead … and yet I couldn’t believe it.” Nell sighed and added, “Now we shall find her and I can help her — if she needs help.”
“We’ll find her,” agreed Mr. Orme.
Nell rose. She said, “It’s frightfully late and I expect you’re tired. I’m sorry for — for bothering you and giving you so much trouble.”
Mr. Orme rose too. He took her hand and held it firmly. “Listen, Nell,” he said. “You haven’t bothered me. I like to help when I can; it’s a privilege I value very highly. Besides I’m very fond of Anne. I want to find her, and I shall find her if it is humanly possible. Do nothing and say nothing until you hear from me.”
“Thank you,” murmured Nell. “I don’t know how to thank you, but —”
“Go home and sleep soundly,” said Mr. Orme.
When Nell had gone Mr. Orme took up the little book and read it … and having been told that Anne had written it he found it very interesting indeed. It was a delightful little book, very simply phrased, and the children in it were real and human. The names were different, of course, but through the slight disguise it was easy to recognise the Ayrtons. The little pictures were quite definitely pictures of Amberwell gardens by somebody who knew them well. Reading the little book brought Anne before his eyes very clearly and his memory went back to the day when he had seen her dancing in the early morning sunshine on the bowling-green. She had been so beautiful in her youth and innocence, and so pathetic in her ignorance, that he had wanted to pick her up in his arms and take her home.
His mind was full of Anne as he went upstairs to bed, and full of plans for finding her. It was not until he had undressed and was getting into bed that a curious sort of feeling halted him. There’s something I’ve left undone, he thought. I’ve bolted the door and snibbed the windows and put the guard on the fire … but there’s something.
Mr. Orme stood there for a few moments, thinking, and then he remembered that he had had no supper. He smiled at his foolishness and got into bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nell trusted Mr. Orme, so she di
d exactly as he told her; she went home to bed and slept soundly, and the next day she got up and went about her usual avocations and said nothing to anybody about the little book. She thought about Anne of course — sometimes with pure joy at the idea of seeing her again, and sometimes with a feeling of unease. She had said to Mr. Orme that Anne could come home but now that the thing seemed possible the difficulties loomed larger. Anne was married to Martin Selby and naturally, she would not want to leave him … and what about Mother? thought Nell. Roger had said that Anne could come home but it would be utterly impossible to have her at Amberwell unless Mrs. Ayrton approved; it would be very difficult indeed for Nell to go and see Anne, wherever she might be, without Mrs. Ayrton’s approval.
The little household found Nell very distrait and at one time or another they all asked in their different ways what was the matter.
“Nell, you’re wool-gathering,” said her mother. “It was my reading spectacles I wanted. These are the tinted ones that I wear out of doors … and I’ve asked you twice to shut the window. I don’t know why you’re so strange.”
“Did you ring up the butcher, Miss Nell?” asked Mrs. Duff. “No, I thought not. Maybe I’d better go and ring him up myself and then I’ll know it’s done.”
“What’s wrong with you, Nell?” demanded Nannie. “You seem far away. Are you feeling well enough, this morning?”
“Aunt Nell, you’re not listening!” cried Stephen.
Nell tried to pull herself together but it was not easy.
There was no news from Mr. Orme for several days, nor did she see him. On Thursday Nell could bear the suspense no longer and on her way back from her usual shopping expedition she called at the Rectory. There was nobody about and the door was locked but she rang the bell and waited.
Amberwell (Ayrton Family Book 1) Page 20