The last day for sending in the 'Plays' was July 31st. That was now but a fortnight off, and Audrey, in a state of feverish nervousness, had completed her last clean copy. She had worked hard each afternoon, and conscientiously, only to be filled at the last with despair and despondence. She had read, re-read, written and re-written it, until she knew every word by heart, and all seemed stale, dull, and trivial.
Irene, coming up to her room one afternoon, had found her with flushed cheeks and swelled eyelids, and despair plainly visible in every line of her face and form.
"It is no good," she groaned. "I shall not send it. I couldn't send anything so dull and foolish. They will only laugh."
"That is what you want them to do, isn't it?" asked Irene, cheerfully.
"Not the kind of laughter I mean. Oh, Irene, it is miserably bad."
Irene shook her head. "I simply don't believe it. You have been through it so often, you can't judge. Will you let me read it? I will tell you quite honestly how it strikes me."
Audrey coloured, but she looked grateful. "If you would care to, but I am ashamed for anyone to see it. And, oh, Iamso disappointed, and, oh," throwing herself wearily on her bed, "oh, so tired of it. The mere sight of it almost makes me ill."
"Poor old girl, you are tired and over-anxious. Is this it?" pointing to a little heap of MS. on Audrey's writing-table in the window.
"Yes."
"May I read the old one, too? The first copy you finished, I mean, before you began to alter it."
Audrey opened her desk and took out another heap of paper, tumbled, scribbled over, and evidently much used.
"Now I am going to shut myself up in my room, and," with a laugh and a nod at the despairing author, "I want no-one to come near me until I show myself again."
"Very well," said Audrey, "but I shall not come near you then. I shall be much too nervous."
"Then I will come to you and stalk you down. Look here, Audrey, don't shut yourself up here all the afternoon. You have no writing to do now. Take my advice, and go for a good long walk, and try not to think about the play, or—or anything connected with it. Keep your heart up, old girl. I am sure it is good, even if it won't be the best."
Audrey sighed heavily. She had long since given up hoping that it might be the best, or even second best, or third. To be 'Commended' was an honour she had ceased to hope for. She had written and re-written, and altered and corrected, until all the freshness and originality were gone, and the whole was becoming stiff and stilted, and she was incapable of seeing whether she was improving or spoiling it.
It was with a distinct sense of relief that she gave in to Irene's suggestion, and handed it over to her for her opinion.
And, as soon as Irene was gone, she took her second piece of advice and went out for a walk. By going quietly down the back-stairs to the back-door she escaped from the house unnoticed; then by going through the vegetable garden she got into a little lane which skirted the village, one end of it leading to the moor, the other to the high road to Abbot's Field. Her one idea was to escape meeting anyone. She felt in no mood for talk. She could not force herself to play with the children, or to chatter to the old village people, who would all be at their doors just now, anxious to see someone with whom to gossip. She meant to go up to the moor, where she could be sure of solitude. The air and the peace up there always did her good. The sight of a figure coming towards her made her turn the other way, though. She felt she could not meet anyone, and be pleasant and sociable. She was sorry, for she loved the moor better than any place. However, this other way there was the shade of the trees and the hedges, she consoled herself. And she walked on, well content through the silence and solitude of the hot summer afternoon.
Well content, at last, until suddenly she saw a well-remembered horse and rider coming along the road towards her.
Audrey was vexed. She wanted only to walk and think, and walk and think. But, though she would have found it difficult to realise, it was best for her that the break should come. She had already walked two miles, and, oblivious of everything but her thoughts, and of every thought but one— her play—was as full of nerves, and hopes and fears, as though she had stayed at home.
Mr. Vivian's sturdy common-sense was as good for her as a tonic. At sight of her he reined up Peter and dismounted. "Miss Audrey," he cried, "it is the greatest treat in the world to see you. I have scarcely seen a friend to speak to for weeks. And I was tired to death of my own company. No, I will not shake hands, and we will keep the width of Peter between us, though I am really safer than nine persons out of ten, for I have lived in such an atmosphere of disinfectants I must be saturated through and through. I honestly believe I could not catch a measle, or any other disease, if I wanted to."
"I am not afraid," said Audrey, stroking Peter's soft nose. "How are you all? Are you all out of quarantine?"
"Yes."
"Oh!" Audrey's face fell, and her tone was not one of congratulation.
"You don't seem quite as pleased as we are, Miss Audrey."
Audrey laughed and blushed. "I am—I am, really," she said, looking up at him with an apologetic smile. "But I am afraid I was selfish. I was thinking of Irene. You will want her home now, of course, and—well, I do not like to think of her going. I—we shall miss her horribly."
Mr. Vivian had slipped the reins over his shoulder, and was searching his pockets. "I have a letter here for your mother and father. I was on my way to deliver it. We don't want to part you, but of course we want Irene. We have missed her sadly."
"It has been lovely having her," said Audrey softly. In her overwrought state, she felt inclined to cry at the mere thought of losing her. Indeed, she felt so stupid, so miserable, so tongue-tied, she could not stand there any longer lest the sharp-eyed old gentleman should see the tears in her eyes. What a weak, silly baby she was!
She turned away abruptly as though to resume her walk. "Oh, you are not going yet.—I forgot, of course you were walking away from home. I just wondered——"
She had intended to, for she was tired, and it would be tea-time before she got home, if she did not hurry. But her longing was to go in any direction but his.
"I—I am soon," she said lamely, forcing down her feelings and her tears. "Did you want me to do anything?"
"I just wondered if you would take this note to your parents for me. I have to go to the mill first, and be at the station by five o'clock, and I am afraid I shall hardly do it."
"Of course I will. I beg your pardon. I did not understand."
The old gentleman's kind eyes looked at her very keenly as he handed her the letter. "You don't look very well, Miss Audrey; I hope you aren't going in for measles too! Or have you been working too hard, taking care of Irene? You look tired."
Audrey smiled back at the face so full of sympathy and kindly concern. "I don't think I am really tired," she said, speaking as brightly as she could, "and I am quite sure I am not going in for measles, and I certainly haven't been doing too much for Irene. I have walked rather far, that is all, and it is dreadfully hot, isn't it? I think I will go home now, after all. It must be nearly tea-time."
Tea was laid and waiting for her by the time she reached home. But before she noticed that, her eyes had sought Irene's face, as though she expected to read her verdict there.
Irene's face was beaming. "Splendid," she whispered, reassuringly. Audrey felt as though a great load had been lifted off her heart. "I will just run up and take off my hat and shoes," she said, more gaily than she had spoken for a long time. Irene followed her to her room. "I couldn't wait," she panted, as she reached the top stair. "Oh, Audrey, I do like it; it is lovely. I am sure it—will be one of the best." She wound up with sudden caution, remembering that it would be cruel to raise her hopes too high. "But do send the first one—the untidy one. Copy that one out just as it is; it is ever so much the better of the two. You have tried to improve and improve it until you have improved most of the fun out of it. Now I must fly down to tea. I am so excited, I hardly know what I am doing."
But her excitement was nothing compared with Audrey's. She, in her joy, forgot everything—Mr. Vivian, the letter, the news he had brought, and never remembered either again until some time later, when Mr. Carlyle came in.
"I met your grandfather at the station, Irene," he said at once. "He told me——"
Audrey leaped out of her chair. "Oh, I hadquiteforgotten," she cried remorsefully. "I am so sorry. I had a letter——" and she darted away and up the stairs, leaving them all startled and wondering. "I don't seem able to think of anybody or anything but that play," she thought. "I shall be glad when I have seen the last of it."
When she went down again she fancied Irene looked at her reproachfully. "How was grandfather looking?" she was asking Mr. Carlyle, "and the others—did he say how they were?"
Audrey felt more and more ashamed. Irene had been so good to her, and this was her return.
"Yes, he said they were all perfectly well now, and they are all going to Ilfracombe for a long change, as soon as they can arrange matters."
Irene clapped her hands ecstatically. "Keith and Daphne will love that, and mother too. Ilfracombe suits her so well. Will they want me to go with them?"
Mr. Carlyle smiled ruefully. "I am afraid so. Where is the letter, Audrey. Have you taken it to your mother?"
"Yes, father, and she wants you."
Mr. Carlyle rose, picked up Baby Joan, and went upstairs with her in his arms, leaving Audrey to tell her tale, and make her apologies to Irene.
Faith came in presently from the garden, where, rather late in the day, she had been tying up the sweet peas and sunflowers Debby and Tom had planted. "Oh, dear, I don't like weather quite as hot as this; it makes one so dreadfully tired," she sighed wearily, as she stretched herself full-length upon the shabby sofa. "Has anyone seen Joan? I ought to be giving her her supper."
Irene looked at her attentively. "Let me give her her supper, and put her to bed to-night, Fay. I would love to. Do let me. She will be quite good with me now."
Faith stirred lazily and half rose. "Oh no—we shall leave everything to you soon, Irene. I can do it quite well. I am not so very tired, really; only hot and limp."
She was very pale, though, and Irene noticed for the first time how white her lips were, and how dark the marks under her eyes. She got up, and, going over to the sofa, pressed Faith back on to the cushions again. "Do let me, Faith," she pleaded, "please. You see, I shall not be able to many times more." And Faith, anxious to give what pleasure she could, let her have her way.
Irene, satisfied, folded her work, and departed. Faith sank down contentedly, and fell into a doze. Audrey sat for a while, wondering what she should do next. "I think I will go up and work at that manuscript, as long as the daylight lasts," she decided; "the sooner it is done the better," and crept softly out of the room, so as not to disturb Faith. But halfway up the stairs she met Irene dashing down like a wild thing.
"Oh, Audrey," she cried, "come quickly! Where is Faith? and, oh, I want Debby and Tom too. Such news! Oh, do call them. Mr. Carlyle wants you all." But the end of her sentence came in broken gasps as she tripped over the mat and disappeared into the dining-room.
A moment later three flying figures dashed up breathlessly, with Faith panting on more slowly in the rear. "What has happened?" she gasped. "What is it all about?"
"I don't know," cried Audrey, "but it can't be anything bad." And they hurried after the others into their mother's room.
Mrs. Carlyle was sitting up on her couch looking happy and excited. Mr. Carlyle looked pleased too, but a little grave.
"Irene, dear, you tell them, will you?" said Mrs. Carlyle, eagerly. And Irene told, and what she told seemed to them all too wonderful to be true. Mrs. Vivian had taken a furnished house at Ilfracombe for two months, a house much larger than she needed for her own brood, and she begged Mrs. Carlyle to let her have her brood too for three or four weeks, "to fill the house up comfortably."
It was so wonderful, so unlooked-for, such an undreamed-of event in their lives, that for a second an awed silence filled the room. Then came a long-drawn "O-o-oh-h-h!" of sheer amaze and delight; and the spell was broken.
"Is it really, truly true!" gasped Debby, "or is it only a 'let's pretend'?"
"It is a really—truly true, Debby darling," cried Irene, seizing her in her arms and lifting her high enough to kiss her.
"Wantsallof us?" gasped Audrey, incredulously. "What,all five!"
"' All—if you can spare them,'" read Mr. Carlyle, turning to the precious letter once more.
"But you can't spare them," said Faith, suddenly sitting down on a chair at her mother's side. Then, with a little gulp, and a little laugh, "You can't spare me, mummy, you know you can't. We will send off Audrey to be nursemaid to the babies, and—and you and I will have a nice quiet time at home alone!" Her lip quivered just for a moment, but her big brown eyes, full of a strained look of excitement, glanced from one to the other with half-laughing defiance, as though daring them to say her nay.
Audrey's spirits dropped from fever-heat to several degrees below zero. For one moment the prospect had been so beautiful, so ideal. A change, a holiday, a journey, the sea, servants, comforts—no more dishwashing or cooking. Oh, it was unbearably enticing. But almost with the same she realised that none of these were for her. Faith was to go, if no one else went. A glance at Faith's face made that quite plain. Yes, Faith must go; and she, Audrey, must stay at home. And so she told her when, after all the rest of the household was asleep, she crept down in her dressing-gown to Faith's room. Fearing to knock, she had entered the room with no more warning than a gentle rattle of the handle. But her warning was lost on Faith who, hot night though it was, was lying with her head buried under the bed-clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs.
"Faith! What is the matter? tell me. Oh, what is it? do tell me!"
At the touch of Audrey's hand, Faith had thrust her head up suddenly.
"Oh, I was afraid it was father! I mean, I was afraid he had heard me."
"What is the matter?" asked Audrey, her voice full of anxiety. "Oh, Faith, do tell me. Perhaps I can help."
"It—it isn't about not going to Ilfracombe," declared Faith stoutly. "Audrey, I don't want to go, I would rather not. You must go. I really want to stay at home."
"Why?"
"Because I do."
"That is no reason. You need a change and a holiday more than any of us, and you know you would love it. You must go."
"I can't."
"But why?"
"I am too tired. I don't want the fag of it all."
"But you will be less tired if you do go. The change will do you heaps of good, and it will not be a fag. I will pack for you."
Finding herself thus cornered, Faith's usually sweet temper gave way. "I haven't anything to pack," she snapped impatiently, "nor anything to pack in. I can't go. I can't possibly go. I haven't any clothes. Don't worry me so, Audrey."
Audrey showed no resentment. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. "Oh, I see. Well, we won't bother about that now. But, Faith, I do want you to go. I came down on purpose to ask you to. I want you to go as—as a favour to me. I will tell you why. I want to stay at home, I—I mean I can't go away just now, for I want to finish some writing very, very particularly," and she breathed in Faith's ear the precious secret about her 'play.'
Her ruse answered perfectly.
"Youhavewrittena play!" Faith sat erect in her bed, all her tiredness, all her depression gone. "A real play! Oh, Audrey, do you mean it? How clever you are! Of course I'll go and take the children, to leave you here in peace to finish it. I don't care how shabby my clothes are!"
Audrey winced. She would have liked—or, rather, it would have been pleasant—if Faith—and all—could just have realised her self-sacrifice— how much it cost her to stand aside, and give up so great a pleasure.
"Oh, I could——" she began, but, to her lasting joy, recovered herself in a moment, and never finished her sentence.
"Audrey, will you let me read it, some day?" Faith's eyes were full of appeal.
Audrey coloured. "Some day, perhaps," she said shyly. "Now I must go to bed."
"Thank you," said Faith simply. "Oh, Audrey, Iamso happy!" She turned her pale face to the window, her eyes to the stars in the blue-black sky. "I am so happy that I feel I must get out and say my prayers again. A few minutes ago everything seemed black and dreary, but now——"
"I will say mine too," said Audrey gently, "before I go." And the two sisters knelt down side by side in the darkness, and said their prayers again together, 'because they were so happy,' with the happiness which comes of giving up something for one another.
The next morning Audrey got up early, and, going to the box-room, dragged out from their coverings her pretty green box and portmanteau. Then she went back to her room, and from her cupboards and drawers she collected a pair of house-shoes and a pair of boots, gloves, stockings, a soft grey cashmere dress that she had a little grown out of, and a Leghorn hat, which, she knew, had long filled Faith's heart with envy. All these she popped into the trunk.
"There is something towards going away," she said, as she dragged the boxes into Faith's bedroom; "the dress is as good as new, but I have grown so, and—and I will lend you my writing-case, and a nice hairbrush." And before Faith had recovered herself sufficiently to speak, Audrey had darted away again and locked herself in her own room.
The sacrifice had cost her more than anyone would ever know. The thought of the lost holiday, and such a holiday, was hard to bear, and a great longing for the sea was tugging at her heart-strings until the pain of it was almost unendurable.
Audrey finished her clean copy of her play and posted it on the very day the family departed for Ilfracombe. But she did not tell Faith so. Faith must still believe that Audrey wanted nothing so much as a peaceful time at home for her work.
"And now I shall have to wait three whole weeks before I hear anything," she thought dolefully, as she hurried home from the post office and into the house by way of the back door, before any of the others were down.
She was rather surprised and disappointed that she felt none of the thrills and delight she had expected to feel when she at last sent off her first piece of work to try its fortune. Indeed, she felt nothing but a painful consciousness of its faults, which was very depressing.
And still more depressing was it to feel that she would not have Irene there to talk things over with, and get encouragement from. Those three long weeks of waiting she would have to live through alone, without anyone to confide her anxieties to, or to give her fresh hope.
Under the circumstances it was not easy, all things considered, to keep up a smiling face, and live up to the joyful excitement of the five travellers. And as she left the station with her father, after the train with its fluttering array of hands and handkerchiefs had glided away out of sight round the sunny curve, she had hard work to keep the tears out of her eyes, and the bitterness out of her heart.
Mr. Carlyle had to go and pay some calls in the village, so Audrey walked home alone; and very, very much alone she felt, after the lively companionship of the last month. The garden, when she reached it, wore a new air of desolation, and when she caught sight of one of Debby's dolls lying forgotten on the grass, she picked it up and hugged it sympathetically, out of pity for its loneliness. The silence in the house and out was just as oppressive. Audrey, still holding Debby's old doll, hurried through the silent hall and up the stairs to her room, and dropping on the seat by the window, she leaned her head over the ledge. Now, at last, she might give way to her feelings and sob out some of the pent-up misery in her heart.
"But—mother—she will be expecting me." The thought came to her more swiftly than the tears forced their way through her lids. It was nearly lunch time too, and there was no one but herself to get it.
"Oh, dear," sighed Audrey, "there is not even time to be miserable!" But that thought made her laugh, and she ran downstairs to Mary.
Mary had evidently shed a few tears, but she was already cheering herself up with plans for the homecoming.
"At first it seemed that melancholy and quiet, Miss Audrey, I felt I'd never be able to bear it, speshully when I remembered that Miss Irene wouldn't be coming back any more. It's like losing one of ourselves, isn't it, miss? And when I think of that dear baby gone so far,"—the tears welled up in Mary's eyes—"and there'll be no rompseying with her to-night before she goes to bed—well, I can't 'elp it. I may be silly, but I can't 'elp it, though there, she's happy enough, I daresay, with her little bucket and spade and all, and she won't miss us 'alf as much as we'll miss 'er!"
"Yes, baby will love it, Mary, they all will. We have got to cheer ourselves up by thinking of how happy they all are. And they will come back looking so well and strong. We shall get more accustomed to the quietness in a day or two, and the time will soon pass."
"Oh my, yes, miss! The time won't 'ang when once I begin to get my 'and in. It won't be long enough for all I'm going to do by time they come back. I am going to have their rooms as nice as nice can be; and I'm going to paint Master Tom's barrow, and I'm going to make a rabbit 'utch for Miss Debby and mend her dolls' pram——"
"But Mary, what about your holiday. You must have that while the house is so empty. I must speak to mother about it."
"Oh, I don't want any holiday, Miss Audrey." Mary's voice was quite decisive. "I mean, I don't want to go away. I haven't got any money to waste, and holidays do cost more'n they are worth. Leastways, mine do, for I'm so home-sick all the time, I'm only longing for them to be over. It seems waste, doesn't it, miss?"
"It does," agreed Audrey gravely, "but I suppose you have the joy of coming back, and you appreciate home all the more for having been away."
"Well, miss, it seems rather a lot to pay, for only just that. And a lot to bear too, when you are 'appy enough already. What I do want to go to is our own treat, when it comes, and I'd like to go to the sea for a day."
"Well, I am sure you can, Mary. I will speak to mother and father about it."
Audrey was busily collecting the things for her mother's lunch-tray. She had to make her an omelette, and she felt nervous about it, for hitherto Irene had helped her, and Mary was not capable of doing so.
As soon as it was ready she hurried upstairs with the tray. She had not seen her mother yet since they had all departed, and she had suddenly begun to wonder how she was bearing it.
"Of course I ought to have run in at once to see her," she thought remorsefully, "but I did feel miserable."
Mrs. Carlyle was lying propped up on her cushions with Debby's kittens beside her. "Well, darling," she said, looking up with a glad smile of welcome, "how did they all go off, I am longing to know. I have been picturing their enjoyment of everything they see and do on the journey, and their joy when they first catch sight of the sea."
"Oh dear," sighed Audrey, "everyone is thinking of their happiness. I can only think how miserable it is without them; and I should have thought you would have felt it even more than I do, mother."
"Perhaps it is that I have had more experience, dear, I seem to live again my own first visit to the sea; and time does not seem so long to one when one is older either, and it passes only too soon. I feel too full of gratitude to feel miserable, I had been thinking for such a long time about a change of air for them, and worrying myself because it seemed absolutely out of the question. Then quite suddenly the way was opened and all was made possible without my help or interference. One could sing thanksgiving all day long one has so many blessings to be thankful for."
"I shouldn't have thought you felt that, mother, shut up here week after week as you are; with nothing to look out at but the garden and the road." Audrey strolled over to the window, "and such a garden too!" she added sarcastically.
Mrs. Carlyle glanced out at it and sighed. "I often wish,"—she said, but did not finish her sentence.
"What do you often wish, mother?"
"I often long for the time when I shall be able to go out there again and help to keep it nice. If I ever am permitted to," she added in a lower tone.
"Well, at any rate I can," cried Audrey, with an effort to recover her spirits. Here was something more waiting for her to do. It was hard that her mother, having a garden to look on, should have only this neglected place with but one spot of brightness in it—the bed that Faith had made and Debby and Tom had sown with seeds.
Job Toms' herbaceous border was but a melancholy spectacle as yet. He had sown parsley and put in roots of mint and sage; and then, in Job's own way, had left the things to look after themselves, to grow or not to grow as they could or would.
Here was a task to set herself. She would get that bed, and Faith's too, as pretty as she could. Faith would be so delighted when she came home and saw it, and they would be able to vie with each other in keeping them nice, for mother's sake. If Jobey objected, well, he must go on objecting, and they would try and make him understand, without hurting his feelings, that a herbaceous border and a herb bed were not one and the same things.
Audrey's spirits went up with a bound.
"Are you awfully tired with what is called 'Gay'?Weary, discouraged, and sick,I'll tell you the loveliest game in the world—Do something for somebody quick!Do something for somebody quick!"
"Are you awfully tired with what is called 'Gay'?Weary, discouraged, and sick,I'll tell you the loveliest game in the world—Do something for somebody quick!Do something for somebody quick!"
"Are you awfully tired with what is called 'Gay'?Weary, discouraged, and sick,I'll tell you the loveliest game in the world—Do something for somebody quick!Do something for somebody quick!"
She sang blithely and felt in her heart that there was nothing like it for lifting a load off one's spirits.
"Mother dear," she said, when her mother had eaten her omelette, and laid aside her knife and fork, "I have been talking to Mary about her holiday. I thought she ought to have it while the house is so empty, but she does not want to go. She only wants one day for the Sunday School treat and one to spend by the sea."
"Yes, dear, of course she can. She must, she so thoroughly deserves it. And Audrey, I have another plan that I want to talk to you about. Don't you think it would be nice to ask granny to come and stay with us while the house is quiet?"
"Granny!" For a moment Audrey's heart leaped with pleasure, then it sank. Even with all the improvements they had wrought in the house, and the meals, and the way they were served, everything seemed very different from what granny was accustomed to at home. What would she do without her comforts! Audrey's mental eye ran over the carpets, the bed and table linen; even the best was as shabby as that which granny, at home, condemned and put aside.
"Are you ashamed for her to see our poverty?" asked Mrs. Carlyle in her patient, gentle voice, and Audrey coloured at finding her thoughts thus read.
"Darling, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Granny knows what our means are, and she must realise what heavy expenses we have to meet, so she should not expect us to be anything but shabby. She would understand that with five children things need replacing more often, and that there is less to replace them with."
"Oh, I know, mother, I know. But granny had only one little boy, and a very well behaved one, and I think she couldn't realise how five of us knock the things about."
"But don't you think she would be so glad to see her one little boy, that she would overlook that?"
Audrey still looked doubtful.
"Think of it in this way, dear. Suppose we missed this opportunity, and suppose dear granny died before we invited her here. Do you think we should ever cease to feel remorseful? And don't you think she would rather be asked to come, and made to feel that we wanted her, than remain unasked because our home is shabby? Try by all means in one's power to have things as neat and nice and comfortable as possible, but don't let us put outward show before kind feeling."
Audrey listened eagerly. She had learnt one great lesson—not to trust entirely to her own opinion and she was very, very anxious to learn what was right, and to do it.
Mrs. Carlyle looked at her smiling. "Don't you think it is often a help to ask oneself, 'what would I like others to do to me? What would I myself prefer?'" But Audrey coloured painfully, as the thought of her own return home came back to her. How entirely she had lost sight of the love and the welcome in her care about external appearances. She was silent so long that her mother looked at her anxiously more than once.
"I think you are very tired, aren't you, dear?"
"Oh no, mother."
"Perhaps you need a holiday. Would you like to go back with granny to Farbridge for a week or two?"
"Oh no, mother, no I don't want any holiday. I don't want anything to do but stay here. Oh, mother." Her secret hovered on the tip of her tongue, her longing to confide in her mother almost overcame all her other feelings, but she checked herself. "Oh mother," she added lamely, "I want to do so much but—but——"
A voice came calling up the stairs, "Audrey, Audrey, are you coming to give me my dinner, or am I to dine alone?" Mr. Carlyle put his head in round the door. "Don't you think the remnant of the crew should cling together?" Then kissing his wife and lifting away her tray, he drew Audrey's hand through his arm and made for the door.
"Audrey will tell you of the plans we have been hatching," Mrs. Carlyle called after them. "Come up here when you have finished your dinner and tell me what you think about them."
"Mother thought that now would be a good time to ask granny here to stay," said Audrey.
"Did she!" Mr. Carlyle looked up with almost boyish pleasure on his face. Audrey was surprised. She had not dreamed that he would care so much.
"That really looks as though your mother felt a little stronger. Don't you think so?" he added, and looked at her with such eager questioning eyes, she had not the heart to say that mother never thought of herself when she was planning happiness for others. She really was better though, and stronger. She herself said so, and the doctor said so. She could do several little things now that she could not have done a few months ago.
"I am sorry granny will not see the children," her father was saying when her thoughts came back to him again. "She has never seen Joan yet. But your mother and she will have a more quiet time for talks together than they have ever had, and I am glad of that. We must try and make her as comfortable as we can, Audrey."
"Yes, daddy, we will," she said, but not very hopefully.
The meal ended, she got up from the table and strolled over to the window. As her eyes fell on the herb bed once more she remembered all her plans for making it a pleasant sight for her mother to look out on. She thought of her other plans too. Of all the writing she had meant to do while the work in the house was slacker, and here were all her plans upset, and a fresh load laid upon her shoulders.
Across her thoughts came Irene's voice, and a fragment of their merry talks. "I know I shall never paint a big picture, nor write any great books, nor be a pioneer of any kind; but I know I can help to make a few people happier, and it is grand to feel that there is something onecando. Something that is of use. I always feel as though people were my little children, and I've got to mother them."
With her eyes fixed on the herb bed, Audrey first felt the responsibility of controlling her own words and temper. "I know I can help to make a few people happier." It rested with her to make or mar the pleasure of her grandmother's visit. By letting her feelings have their own way she could spoil everyone's pleasure. By putting her own feelings aside, and thinking only of others, she could, to a large extent, make their pleasure.
"How odd things are," she sighed aloud. "No one is of very great importance, yet everyone matters to someone——"
"To lots of someones as a rule," said her father, rising and joining her at the window. "And that is one of the most serious and most blessed facts of life. I think that almost the saddest thing human beings can feel is that no one is the better or the happier for their existence."
"But can we help it, father? If I had no relations, nor anyone belonging to me——"
"You would still have all the world to 'mother,' Audrey. There is always someone, close at hand too, needing help and sympathy. Always bear that in mind, my child wherever you may be. Now I am going up to talk to your mother. I think we had better ask granny to come next week."
"Next week!" thought Audrey. "At any rate then I shall have no time to worry about my play or anything else before granny comes, whatever I may do after."
"Oh Mary," she sighed as she took a turn at the ironing while she told her the news, and Mary washed the dinner things, "I am dreadfully nervous. I wish we had a cook and a parlourmaid, and I wish we were able to buy all the best things that can be got. Granny does so like to have nice food and nice everything. She has always been accustomed to it."
But Mary, never having seen her master's mother, much less lived with her, was not so filled with fears as was Audrey herself.
"Well, miss, we'll do our best—and we can't do more. And after all, people don't come to stay with you for what you can give them, but because they want to see you."
And with that thought Audrey tried to allay her nervous fears, and face the coming visit with only happy anticipations.
Old Mrs. Carlyle tried to face the coming visit with happy anticipations only; but, with a lively recollection of her last visit to her son's home still impressed on her mind, she could not help it if her feelings this time were a little mixed. Her longing though to see her son and his wife, and her favourite grand-daughter, overcame every other; and the warmly affectionate terms in which they invited her, sent a glow to her lonely old heart.
"There is something better than comfort," she thought to herself, "and some things that means cannot buy. I wish Audrey had her dear father's affectionate nature," she added wistfully, for she had never forgotten the lack of feeling Audrey had shown when the summons came which was to break up their happy life together.
Granny Carlyle came, and though her visit was but a short one, she learnt many things while it lasted. One was that her son's home was more comfortable but more shabby than she had thought. Another was that poverty and the need to work had developed in Audrey a stronger character and a sweeter nature than comfort and plenty could ever have done. The grandmother noticed the change in her almost as soon as she alighted at Moor End station.
Audrey had not only grown in inches, but, though older-looking, she was yet younger. She was less self-conscious, but more self-reliant; less concerned for herself, and more for others. When they reached the Vicarage, and the luggage had been deposited in the hall, Audrey picked out the special cap-basket and ran up at once with it to her granny's room.
"I knew you would want this, the first thing," she said cheerfully, "and Mary has put hot water ready for you; the can is under the bath towel. And tea will be ready when you are, granny. It will be in mother's room, we thought you would like it there."
And as Mrs. Carlyle came out of her bedroom to go to her daughter-in-law's room she met Audrey flying up the stairs with a rack of dry toast on a tray. "I remembered that you used to eat toast always for tea, granny, so I thought you might still. Oh, granny, it is so nice to see you in your pretty caps again, it seems so—so natural."
It also seemed to her, though, that granny had grown to look much older in the last three months, and thinner, or was it only that she had been away from her, and amongst younger people.
With a sudden sense of sadness, Audrey thrust her arm affectionately through her grandmother's arm. "Mother is longing so to see you," she said, with a sort of longing on her to make her granny feel that they all loved her. Her mother's words came back to her hauntingly, "Don't you think granny would rather be asked to come to us, and be made to feel that we want her, than remain unasked, because our home is shabby?"
Then Mr. Carlyle appeared, and taking granny by the other arm, they all entered the invalid's room together.
When she had started for her visit Mrs. Carlyle had wondered how she would get through a whole week without the comforts and the peace she was accustomed to. At the end of ten days she sighed that she could not stay longer. "If I hadn't invited a friend to pay me a visit," she said, "I should be very tempted to stay the fortnight. I have enjoyed myself so much, dear Kitty, and feel better for the change." And both Audrey and her mother felt very very happy, for they were both of them aware that granny had not enjoyed her former visit. She had not hesitated to say so.
During the ten days granny, too, had done her share in making happiness. "Gracious me, child," she cried, when she saw the carpetless floor in the drawing-room, "I did not know that it was as bad as this. I have so much furniture at home I can scarcely move for it, and two carpets sewn up with camphor, to keep the moths and mice away, I will send them both as soon as I get back, and—a few other things that may be useful."
She hesitated for a moment, then, with her old severe manner, "I don't want to be prying, Audrey, as you know, but how are you off for china—odd plates for the kitchen, and cups and saucers and things."
"Not very well, granny. We aren't well off in any kind of china. If the children had been at home we should not have had enough of anything to go round," she added, with a rueful little laugh. And though granny looked shocked for a moment, and felt so, she was obliged to laugh too.
"Oh!" she said. "Well, I will pop in some useful odds and ends, so that when I come again on purpose to see the children, we shall have a plate each, and not have to share a cup."
But, though they little thought it then, poor Granny Carlyle was never to come again. And none of those she loved best could feel thankful enough that they had had that pleasant time which had brought them all closer together than they had ever been before, and had left not only one happy lifelong memory, but many.
"I think I would like to go for a walk, daddy, if you are going home, and will see that mother is all right."
"Yes, I will take care of mother. Are you very tired, dear? I am afraid you must be, you have worked very hard looking after us all so well."
Audrey smiled up at her father, but it was rather a wistful smile. "No, I am not exactly tired, but I feel as if I wanted a walk."
"I expect you do, you have been shut up in the house so much. Well, I will hurry home now; and you will be back in time for tea?"
Audrey nodded, and, with a sigh of contentment, turned up the winding road which would presently lead her out on the moor.
Granny Carlyle's visit was over, and it was as she and her father were turning away from the station after seeing her off, that there had come to her suddenly a great desire to be alone, to be out on the great, wide, open, silent moor, where she could think and think without fear of interruption.
At home there was so little time for thought, and she had so many things to think about. Only yesterday granny had said: "Well, Audrey, and are you coming back to me when the year is up?" And Audrey, shocked at the thrill of dismay the mere suggestion sent through her, had tried to tell her as gently and kindly as possible, that she could not be spared from home, at any rate, until Joan was some years older.
"Even when mother gets about again, she will not be fit for hard work," she explained hurriedly, "and, of course, there is a lot of hard work. Father says we can't possibly keep another servant, for there will soon be the governess to pay, as well as Mary and Job Toms."
"I know, child, I know," granny answered, almost sadly. "I scarcely expected to be able to have you." And Audrey, feeling a little uncomfortable lest she should have even suspected her changed feelings, had again been struck by her aged and fragile look, the weariness in her eyes, and in her voice, and had been troubled by it.
It had troubled her, too, ever since, but she did not know what she could do. Indeed, she knew that she could not do anything, and that was saddest of all.
Up on the moor she threw herself down on a bed of heather, and with only the bees, and the larks, and the little westerly breeze for company, tried to think the matter out. And soon the breeze blew some of her worries away, and the sun and the birds' songs between them so raised her spirits that she found courage to face things more hopefully and trustfully. "I can't alter things," she sighed, "I can only do the best I know, or what seems best."
Presently remembrance of her play came back to her. For the last week or two she had been so busy, and her mind so occupied with other things, she had really not had time to worry about it, and now: "There are only three days more to wait!" she cried. "Only three days more. I wonder how I shall first know? Will they write? or shall I see it in the papers? or—or what? And how shall I bear it—if—if, whichever way it is?"
But, in spite of herself, her mind wandered on, picturing what she would do with her money. Should she send away for one of those pretty, cool, cotton rest-gowns for her mother, that she longed so for. They were often advertised, it would be quite easy to get one. She would still have a good deal left for other things. Or should she give the money to her father for a new great coat? His old one was fearfully shabby. It would take the whole of her money, but it would be lovely when winter came, to know that he was not cold. Oh! but she did want to get some new curtains, or sheets, and—and Faith was dreadfully in need of a rain coat, and: "Oh, dear!" she cried, rousing out of her day-dream, "and, after all, I shall probably not even have a five-shilling consolation prize! How silly I am to let myself think of it. It is enough to prevent its coming."
She got on to her feet, and shook herself, to shake the dried grass and heather from her skirt and her long hair—to shake off her foolishness too. Well, five shillings would be useful. It would buy mother some fruit, and wool for socks for father. "I wish though I could forget all about it. I wish something would happen to drive it out of my head again." And already something was happening—was on its way to her.
A letter had come for her while she was out, a letter from Irene.
"I can see that it is from Ilfracombe," said her mother as she handed it to her. "Open it quickly, dear, I have been longing for you to come home and tell me what it says about them all."
But Audrey's eyes were already devouring the pages. "Oh!" she gasped, "oh, how lovely! How perfectly lovely!"
If there is one thing more aggravating than another, it is to hear someone exclaiming over a letter, without giving a clue as to the cause of the excitement.
"Audrey! Audrey, darling, don't tease me any more."
Audrey looked up, ashamed of her selfishness. Her mother's cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Oh, mummy, I am so sorry," she cried, repentantly.
"Never mind, dear. I could see that the news, whatever it was, was pleasant."
"Oh, mother, it is lovely, perfectly—perfectly glorious. What do you think? They are actually coming here to live—no, not in this house," laughing, "but in Moor End. Irene says that her grandfather has bought the Mill House for them, and they hope to have it done up and ready for them to move into before winter sets in. Won't it be lovely? Oh, mother, aren't you glad?"
Mrs. Carlyle was more than glad. She was thankful. Her mind was relieved of a care which had increased as the days sped on. Now her girls would have companionship, and with friends whose influence and example would be all for good. Tom, too, would have a companion. And, perhaps, who knows, they could share their lessons too. Mrs. Carlyle's thoughts flew on; but her thoughts were all for her children. She had not yet considered what it would mean to herself,—the companionship, the kind friends at hand in case of need.
"You are very, very glad about it, aren't you, dear?" she asked, her heart and her eyes full of sympathy with her child's gladness.
"Glad! Oh, mother. I was never so happy in my life. It seems now as though everything is just perfect!"
"And granny? Have you given up wanting to go back to her, dear?"
A shadow fell on Audrey's happiness. "Granny was speaking about it," she said hurriedly, "only yesterday, and I told her I could not come. I thought I was—I felt I ought to stay here, even after you are well again, for there is a lot to do, and—and, mother—you don't think I must go back, do you?"
Her voice was full of anxiety. She had little dreamed at one time that she would ever be overjoyed at being told she could not do so; but now. Her eyes sought her mother's face anxiously. She longed to hear her say reassuringly that there was not the slightest need, that she could not be spared.
But for a moment Mrs. Carlyle did not answer at all, and when she did she spoke slowly and hesitatingly. "I hardly know, dear, what to say. As she is at present, there is no actual need, and I am glad, for I don't know what we should do without you here. But, well, I feel I could not grudge her one—when I have so many, and she is so lonely. You could be such a comfort to her, Audrey."
Audrey's face grew white and hard. "Of course," she thought bitterly, "it was only for her to feel happy for life to seem jollier and more full of happy prospects than ever before, and she must be dragged away from it all."
If she had been asked what, above all else, she would have chosen, she would have asked for just this: that Irene should come to live close by; and she was really coming. Better still, they were all of them coming, and life, for one brief moment, had seemed full of sunshine. "So, of course, a black and heavy cloud must come up, and shut the sunshine out, and darken all her happiness," she told herself dramatically.
"Audrey, dear. Don't look so unhappy, so—so disappointed. We will not anticipate. No one knows what the future may bring. It is seldom exactly what we hope, or dread; and if we just go on trustfully day by day, taking all the happiness God sends us, and ready bravely to face the clouds. We know that He will make the sunshine show through. He wants His children to be happy, not miserable."
"I—don't know," said Audrey, doubtingly. "It seems that if ever I want a thing very much it is taken away, or I am not allowed——"
"Audrey, darling, do not say such things. Do not let yourself ever think it. Do you honestly believe that the great God above demeans Himself and His Majesty and Might to annoy one of His children? That He plans to torment you? My dear, dear child, don't get into that bitter, wicked way of talking. It is so wrong—so insulting to your Heavenly Father. It is so ruining to your own character, and your happiness. The mistake that we make, Audrey, is that we want to choose our own way, and follow it—not His. That we think we can see better than He what is for the best, and what our future should be.
"Now, let no imaginary cloud in the future overshadow the sunshine of to-day. Enjoy the happiness that is sent to you, and, if the call to duty elsewhere comes, obey it as all good soldiers of Christ should."
Audrey was on her knees by her mother's side, her face buried in her lap. "Oh, mother, mother!" she cried remorsefully, "I am not a good soldier—I am a coward. I never want to obey—unless—it pleases me to."
"You did not want to come here when the summons came, did you, dear?"
Audrey shook her head. "No, mummy," she admitted reluctantly. "When I came I counted the days until I could go back again."
"But you are happy here? You are glad now?"
"Oh, yes, yes," cried poor Audrey.
"You would not be happy, though, if you stayed on here, refusing to go to granny. You would be in the place you want to be, you would be near your friends, and be doing the things you want to do; but you would not be happy. You would enjoy nothing."
"Is one only happy if one does one's duty?" queried Audrey faintly.
"Yes, little soldier. That is why you have been so happy here since——"
"Since Irene showed me what my duty was," said Audrey softly. She rose to her feet, kissed her mother fondly, and for a moment stood by her side silent, and very still.
"I—I will try," she said at last, "I will try, but—but——" Her voice broke.
Mrs. Carlyle put her arm about her, and held her very close. "That will do, darling. That is all God asks of any of us—just to try and shoulder bravely the duties He lays on us."