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 XXII
1
Nell trusted Mr. Orme, so she did 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 Amber-well 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 woolgathering," 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.
After some moments there was a shuffling sound in the hall and the door was opened by Mrs. Kenny looking even more drab than usual in a dirty overall and with curlers in her hair.
"He's away," said Mrs. Kenny and shut the door in her face.
Nell did not mind the rude reception—if reception it could be called—for if Mr. Orme were away it meant that he had discovered Anne's whereabouts. Or at least Nell hoped it meant that. She walked home on air and meeting Stephen in the drive had a boisterous game with him, chasing him round and round the palm trees and eventually catching him and kissing him and tickling him and behaving in a perfectly ridiculous manner . . . and then they went up to the house hand in hand and arrived there late for lunch, breathless and dishevelled.
Mrs. Duff met them at the door with an anxious face. "It was the butter I was wanting, Miss Nell. We haven't a bit in the house."
"Oh goodness!" cried Nell. "I've lost the basket. I must have put it down somewhere."
"When you were tickling me," suggested Stephen. "I'll get it, Aunt Nell."
"Do you know the time?" enquired Mrs. Ayrton emerging from the dining-room.
"I'm sorry," said Nell.
Nell had been saying she was sorry all week.
There was no news from Mr. Orme on Friday, nor on Saturday, and Nell could not ring him up because the Rectory was not on the telephone, but surely he would be back on Sunday.
Nell decided to go to church early; she enjoyed the quiet peaceful service at eight o'clock and often went to it, slipping out of the nursery door and going down to St. Stephen's through the gardens. This morning was beautiful; the sun was shining, the hills were swathed in a pearly mist and there were tiny green leaves on the hedges. Browning must have been thinking of a morning like this when he wrote Pippa's song:
"The years at the Spring,
"The day's at the morn;
"Mornings at seven;
"The hill-side's dew-pearled;
"The lark's on the wing;
"The snail's on the thorn;
"God's in His heaven —
"All's right with the world!"
The lark was singing—Nell could hear him—but the dew was more like diamonds than pearls. As she pushed open the wicket-gate into the little churchyard she tried to make herself believe that all was right with the world. Perhaps Browning had meant the natural world of hills and trees and flowers; he could not have meant that all was right with the world of human beings. So many things were wrong— people were unkind and unforgiving—but God was in His Heaven. Nell believed that.
The church was empty when Nell got there (for she was early) so she went to one of the front pews and kneeled down. She prayed for Anne and for her mother—that they might be reconc
iled—and she prayed for wisdom so that she might know what she ought to do and how she could unravel all the tangles.
Presently Nell heard other people come in and take their places in the pews behind her with the usual quiet scufflings; then Mr. Orme appeared and the service began.
Nell could not help wondering as she looked at Mr. Orme whether he had been able to do anything about Anne . . . and then with an effort she controlled her thoughts and fixed them on the service. She had found, as most people do, that sometimes this service meant a great deal and sometimes not. One always hoped to be caught up out of the world and all its problems and sorrows and to lose oneself completely. This morning the little miracle happened and a beautiful feeling of peace filled the little church.
Nell waited for a few minutes after the service was over (she always waited so that she should not be brought down to earth too quickly by meeting people and having to talk) and then she rose and came out into the sunshine, feeling a little dazed but happy and at peace.
Everybody had hurried home to breakfast except one woman—a slender woman in a shabby grey coat and skirt— and as Nell came down the path the woman turned and smiled at her.
It was Anne.
Nell had often imagined a meeting with Anne but she had never imagined it would be like this—alone, quiet and peaceful in the early morning sunshine. She had sometimes feared that her first meeting with Anne might be a little—difficult—a trifle embarrassing, but here and now there was no embarrassment at all. It was not even exciting, nor strange; it was perfectly natural; it was almost as if they had parted only yesterday.
Nell held out her hands and said, "Anne."
Anne said nothing; she took Nell's hands in hers and they stood there looking at each other for what seemed quite a long time.
"You haven't changed a bit," said Anne at last.
Nell wished she could say the same. This was her own dear Anne but how thin she had become, how worn and tired she looked!
"He found you," said Nell in a low voice.
Anne nodded. "Yes, he found us. Dear, kind Mr. Orme, how glad I was to see him! He brought us back to his own house—"
"Do you mean you're staying with him?"
"Yes."
"But, Anne— "
"Darling, I've no time to tell you anything now, and there's so much to tell that I don't know where to begin. I must hurry back and get the breakfast. When can I see you?"
Nell tried to think. Sunday was a difficult day to escape from everybody.
"Come tonight," said Anne urgently. "Promise me you'll come."
"Yes, of course," said Nell. "But Anne, tell me— "
"Not now—it's no good beginning—I must go, honestly." She gave Nell's hands a little squeeze and turned and ran down the path. She ran lightly, as if she were used to running, and when she reached the little gate which led into the Rectory garden she turned and waved. Then she was gone.
For a minute or two Nell stood there, dazed. It had been so unexpected; it had happened so suddenly, and was so quickly over, that she could hardly believe it was real. Had she really and truly seen Anne—and held her hands?
Then she came to earth with a bump and glancing at her watch realised that if she did not hurry home she would be late for breakfast—in fact she was already late for breakfast—so she hurried home.
2
"You didn't tell me you were going to church early," said Mrs. Ayrton fretfully. "I wish you would tell me the night before. Mrs. Duff had boiled my egg hard—I can't think why she does it. She knows I don't like hard-boiled eggs."
Nell heard herself commiserating with her mother over the hard-boiled egg but the real part of her mind was thinking of Anne, wondering about her. What had Anne been doing all these years? Why was she so thin and worn? Where had Mr. Orme found her? Anne had said, "He brought us back to his own house." Did that mean Martin Selby was there too, staying in the Rectory? Would they come to Amberwell and try to make up the quarrel? Perhaps that was Mr. Orme's idea. Perhaps that was why he had brought them . . . and if so what would happen?
It seemed strange to Nell that her mother could not see all these thoughts chasing each other through her head, but went on talking about how long an egg should be boiled and complaining that the tea was too strong.
"Mrs. Duff always makes it far too strong," said Mrs. Ayrton. "And why don't you sit down and eat your breakfast? Your egg will be like a stone and the tea is getting cold. Mrs. Duff has forgotten the tea-cosy."
Nell went to the drawer of the sideboard and took out the tea-cosy. It struck her as she did so that her mother might have done this herself. There was nothing to prevent her—except that she had never done such a thing in her life. Mrs. Ayrton had never done anything in her life, she had never boiled a kettle or fried a rasher of bacon, she was as helpless as an infant and, left to herself, she would have starved. It was dreadful to be as helpless as that, thought Nell, looking at her mother pityingly . . . and then her thoughts swung back to Anne. She would see Anne tonight!
"You look a little feverish, Nell," said Mrs. Ayrton. "I hope you haven't caught a chill. Sometimes it's very cold in St. Stephen's."
"No, I'm quite well, Mother."
"Your eyes look feverish."
"I'm perfectly all right—honestly."
"Why haven't you eaten your breakfast? You haven't eaten anything."
"Haven't I?" said Nell in surprise.
It was not easy for Nell to go out after dinner for the simple reason that she never did—except occasionally to the Lamberts' or to the Women's Rural Institute. Mrs. Ayrton disliked anything unusual; she liked Nell to sit with her in the evenings, sewing or knitting and listening to the wireless. All day as Nell went about the house, doing the hundred and one things that had to be done, she tried to think of some way in which she could escape without telling an actual lie. Unless she could think of a reasonable excuse for going out there would be endless arguments. It even occurred to her to tell the truth, to say quite simply that Anne was at the Rectory and she was going there to see her—but of course that was impossible because she did not know Anne's plans. She might wreck everything by telling her mother the amazing news.
Nell always prepared supper on Sundays when Mrs. Duff was out, and as they ate their simple meal she suddenly decided to take a firm line. Never explain, thought Nell smiling a little to herself. She cleared the dishes and washed them up and then looked into the cosy little morning-room where her mother was settled by the fire reading the papers.
"Listen to this, Nell," said Mrs. Ayrton. "It's perfectly frightful. I don't know what the world's coming to—"
"Not now," said Nell. "You must tell me about it tomorrow. I'm going out."
"Going out!" exclaimed Mrs. Ayrton in amazement. "Where are you going?"
"Just—out," replied Nell. "You'll be all right, won't you? If you want anything you can ask Nannie. Don't wait up for me."
"Nell, where are you going?"
"Out," repeated Nell smiling cheerfully. "Why shouldn't I go out? It's a lovely evening."
"But you can't!" cried Mrs. Ayrton. "I mean you can't go out—at night—for a walk—by yourself. Are you going to the Lamberts'?"
"No," said Nell. "Don't wait up for me; I may be late, I'm taking the key."
"Nell—"
"Goodnight, Mother!" She kissed her mother and ran.
As she went out the front door she heard her mother calling but she took no notice. I'm not a prisoner, she thought. There's no earthly reason why I shouldn't go out, Nannie and Mrs. Duff go out, so why shouldn't I? It's ridiculous to feel guilty . . . but she felt guilty all the same.
The feeling of guilt persisted uncomfortably as she ran down the path through the gardens and did not vanish until she got to the Rectory and rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately and Anne was there and the next moment they were in each other's arms.
"Oh Nell," whispered Anne. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
"
I couldn't get away before," explained Nell. "Mother wanted to know where I was going—and of course I couldn't tell her. Anne, you must tell me everything."
"It would take days and days!"
"But you're here—and well. That's the main thing. I was so terribly worried about you—so miserable. Why didn't you write?"
"I did write—and then I got your letter saying that you hadn't heard—and a letter from Father to say I was not to write to you again; saying that my own foolishness had cut me off; saying . . . Oh well, never mind. What he said was true. I was terribly foolish."
"But you've been happy?" asked Nell, drawing back and looking at her. "You married him because you loved him. It isn't foolish to marry somebody you love."
Anne did not answer directly. She said, "Oh I don't regret what I did, because it's given me the most valuable thing in all the world."
"You're talking in riddles!"
"I know, but I can't help it. How can I begin to tell you everything that's happened to me in all these years. I will tell you some of it if you give me time."
"All of it," urged Nell.
"No, darling, just some of it. Come into Mr. Orme's study. He was tired so he went to bed early. He gets tired very easily you know. He's so kind and good and never thinks of himself; he really needs somebody to look after him."
They went into the study and the first thing Nell saw was a large doll with flaxen hair lying upon a chair. It was such an unexpected sight and seemed so out of place that she gave a gasp of amazement.
"This is Jenny," said Anne smiling and picking it up. "Isn't she lovely? Mr. Orme bought her and gave her to Emmie . . . but of course you don't know about Emmie—I keep on forgetting that you don't know anything about us— Emmie is my most valuable possession."
CHAPTER XXIII
1
Nell had said she wanted to hear "all of it" but of course that was impossible. Anne knew before she began her story that she could never make Nell understand. Anne herself did not understand how it had happened. When she looked back and thought about her visit to Edinburgh (when she had stayed with Aunt Beatrice and met Martin Selby) the whole thing seemed crazy.
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