CHAPTER XIV.
Audrey finished her clean copy of her play and posted it on the very daythe family departed for Ilfracombe. But she did not tell Faith so.Faith must still believe that Audrey wanted nothing so much as a peacefultime 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 intothe 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 thethrills and delight she had expected to feel when she at last sent off herfirst piece of work to try its fortune. Indeed, she felt nothing but apainful consciousness of its faults, which was very depressing.
And still more depressing was it to feel that she would not have Irenethere to talk things over with, and get encouragement from. Those threelong weeks of waiting she would have to live through alone, without anyoneto confide her anxieties to, or to give her fresh hope.
Under the circumstances it was not easy, all things considered, to keep upa smiling face, and live up to the joyful excitement of the fivetravellers. And as she left the station with her father, after the trainwith its fluttering array of hands and handkerchiefs had glided away outof sight round the sunny curve, she had hard work to keep the tears out ofher eyes, and the bitterness out of her heart.
Mr. Carlyle had to go and pay some calls in the village, so Audrey walkedhome alone; and very, very much alone she felt, after the livelycompanionship of the last month. The garden, when she reached it, wore anew air of desolation, and when she caught sight of one of Debby's dollslying forgotten on the grass, she picked it up and hugged itsympathetically, out of pity for its loneliness. The silence in the houseand out was just as oppressive. Audrey, still holding Debby's old doll,hurried through the silent hall and up the stairs to her room, anddropping 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 thepent-up misery in her heart.
"But--mother--she will be expecting me." The thought came to her moreswiftly than the tears forced their way through her lids. It was nearlylunch 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 herselfup with plans for the homecoming.
"At first it seemed that melancholy and quiet, Miss Audrey, I felt I'dnever be able to bear it, speshully when I remembered that Miss Irenewouldn'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,"--thetears welled up in Mary's eyes--"and there'll be no rompseying with herto-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 herlittle bucket and spade and all, and she won't miss us 'alf as much aswe'll miss 'er!"
"Yes, baby will love it, Mary, they all will. We have got to cheerourselves up by thinking of how happy they all are. And they will comeback looking so well and strong. We shall get more accustomed to thequietness 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 'andin. It won't be long enough for all I'm going to do by time they comeback. I am going to have their rooms as nice as nice can be; and I'mgoing to paint Master Tom's barrow, and I'm going to make a rabbit 'utchfor Miss Debby and mend her dolls' pram----"
"But Mary, what about your holiday. You must have that while the house isso empty. I must speak to mother about it."
"Oh, I don't want any holiday, Miss Audrey." Mary's voice was quitedecisive. "I mean, I don't want to go away. I haven't got any money towaste, 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 ofcoming 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 lotto bear too, when you are 'appy enough already. What I do want to go tois 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 aboutit."
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, forhitherto 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 notseen her mother yet since they had all departed, and she had suddenlybegun to wonder how she was bearing it.
"Of course I ought to have run in at once to see her," she thoughtremorsefully, "but I did feel miserable."
Mrs. Carlyle was lying propped up on her cushions with Debby's kittensbeside her. "Well, darling," she said, looking up with a glad smile ofwelcome, "how did they all go off, I am longing to know. I have beenpicturing 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 havethought 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 againmy own first visit to the sea; and time does not seem so long to one whenone is older either, and it passes only too soon. I feel too full ofgratitude to feel miserable, I had been thinking for such a long timeabout a change of air for them, and worrying myself because it seemedabsolutely out of the question. Then quite suddenly the way was openedand all was made possible without my help or interference. One could singthanksgiving 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 afterweek 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 addedsarcastically.
Mrs. Carlyle glanced out at it and sighed. "I often wish,"--she said, butdid 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 andhelp to keep it nice. If I ever am permitted to," she added in a lowertone.
"Well, at any rate I can," cried Audrey, with an effort to recover herspirits. Here was something more waiting for her to do. It was hard thather mother, having a garden to look on, should have only this neglectedplace with but one spot of brightness in it--the bed that Faith had madeand Debby and Tom had sown with seeds.
Job Toms' herbaceous border was but a melancholy spectacle as yet. He hadsown parsley and put in roots of mint and sage; and then, in Job's ownway, had left the things to look after themselves, to grow or not to growas 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 homeand saw it, and they would be able to vie with each other in keeping themnice, for mother's sake. If Jobey objected, well, he must go onobjecting, and they would try and make him understand, without hurting hisfeelings, that a herbaceous border and a herb bed were not one and thesame 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!"
She sang blithely and felt in her heart that there was nothing like it forlifting a load off one's spirits.
"Mother dear," she said, when her mother had eaten her omelette, and laidaside 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, b
ut she doesnot want to go. She only wants one day for the Sunday School treat andone 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 uswhile 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 themeals, and the way they were served, everything seemed very different fromwhat granny was accustomed to at home. What would she do without hercomforts! Audrey's mental eye ran over the carpets, the bed and tablelinen; 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 herpatient, gentle voice, and Audrey coloured at finding her thoughts thusread.
"Darling, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Granny knows what our meansare, and she must realise what heavy expenses we have to meet, so sheshould not expect us to be anything but shabby. She would understand thatwith five children things need replacing more often, and that there isless to replace them with."
"Oh, I know, mother, I know. But granny had only one little boy, and avery well behaved one, and I think she couldn't realise how five of usknock the things about."
"But don't you think she would be so glad to see her one little boy, thatshe would overlook that?"
Audrey still looked doubtful.
"Think of it in this way, dear. Suppose we missed this opportunity, andsuppose dear granny died before we invited her here. Do you think weshould ever cease to feel remorseful? And don't you think she wouldrather be asked to come, and made to feel that we wanted her, than remainunasked because our home is shabby? Try by all means in one's power tohave things as neat and nice and comfortable as possible, but don't let usput outward show before kind feeling."
Audrey listened eagerly. She had learnt one great lesson--not to trustentirely to her own opinion and she was very, very anxious to learn whatwas right, and to do it.
Mrs. Carlyle looked at her smiling. "Don't you think it is often a helpto ask oneself, 'what would I like others to do to me? What would Imyself prefer?'" But Audrey coloured painfully, as the thought of her ownreturn home came back to her. How entirely she had lost sight of the loveand the welcome in her care about external appearances. She was silent solong 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 toFarbridge for a week or two?"
"Oh no, mother, no I don't want any holiday. I don't want anything to dobut stay here. Oh, mother." Her secret hovered on the tip of her tongue,her longing to confide in her mother almost overcame all her otherfeelings, 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 togive me my dinner, or am I to dine alone?" Mr. Carlyle put his head inround the door. "Don't you think the remnant of the crew should clingtogether?" Then kissing his wife and lifting away her tray, he drewAudrey's hand through his arm and made for the door.
"Audrey will tell you of the plans we have been hatching," Mrs. Carlylecalled after them. "Come up here when you have finished your dinner andtell 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 eagerquestioning eyes, she had not the heart to say that mother never thoughtof herself when she was planning happiness for others. She really wasbetter 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 fewmonths ago.
"I am sorry granny will not see the children," her father was saying whenher 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 togetherthan they have ever had, and I am glad of that. We must try and make heras 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 plansfor making it a pleasant sight for her mother to look out on. She thoughtof her other plans too. Of all the writing she had meant to do while thework in the house was slacker, and here were all her plans upset, and afresh load laid upon her shoulders.
Across her thoughts came Irene's voice, and a fragment of their merrytalks. "I know I shall never paint a big picture, nor write any greatbooks, nor be a pioneer of any kind; but I know I can help to make a fewpeople happier, and it is grand to feel that there is something one _can_do. Something that is of use. I always feel as though people were mylittle children, and I've got to mother them."
With her eyes fixed on the herb bed, Audrey first felt the responsibilityof controlling her own words and temper. "I know I can help to make a fewpeople happier." It rested with her to make or mar the pleasure of hergrandmother's visit. By letting her feelings have their own way she couldspoil everyone's pleasure. By putting her own feelings aside, andthinking only of others, she could, to a large extent, make theirpleasure.
"How odd things are," she sighed aloud. "No one is of very greatimportance, yet everyone matters to someone----"
"To lots of someones as a rule," said her father, rising and joining herat the window. "And that is one of the most serious and most blessedfacts of life. I think that almost the saddest thing human beings canfeel 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 belongingto me----"
"You would still have all the world to 'mother,' Audrey. There is alwayssomeone, close at hand too, needing help and sympathy. Always bear thatin mind, my child wherever you may be. Now I am going up to talk to yourmother. I think we had better ask granny to come next week."
"Next week!" thought Audrey. "At any rate then I shall have no time toworry about my play or anything else before granny comes, whatever I maydo after."
"Oh Mary," she sighed as she took a turn at the ironing while she told herthe 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 allthe best things that can be got. Granny does so like to have nice foodand 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 becausethey want to see you."
And with that thought Audrey tried to allay her nervous fears, and facethe coming visit with only happy anticipations.
Old Mrs. Carlyle tried to face the coming visit with happy anticipationsonly; but, with a lively recollection of her last visit to her son's homestill impressed on her mind, she could not help it if her feelings thistime were a little mixed. Her longing though to see her son and his wife,and her favourite grand-daughter, overcame every other; and the warmlyaffectionate terms in which they invited her, sent a glow to her lonelyold heart.
"There is something better than comfort," she thought to herself,"and some things that means cannot buy. I wish Audrey had her dearfather's affectionate nature," she added wistfully, for she had neverforgotten the lack of feeling Audrey had shown when the summons came whichwas to break up their happy life together.
Granny Carlyle cam
e, and though her visit was but a short one, she learntmany things while it lasted. One was that her son's home was morecomfortable but more shabby than she had thought. Another was thatpoverty and the need to work had developed in Audrey a stronger characterand a sweeter nature than comfort and plenty could ever have done.The grandmother noticed the change in her almost as soon as she alightedat Moor End station.
Audrey had not only grown in inches, but, though older-looking, she wasyet younger. She was less self-conscious, but more self-reliant; lessconcerned for herself, and more for others. When they reached theVicarage, and the luggage had been deposited in the hall, Audrey pickedout the special cap-basket and ran up at once with it to her granny'sroom.
"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 bathtowel. And tea will be ready when you are, granny. It will be inmother'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'sroom she met Audrey flying up the stairs with a rack of dry toast on atray. "I remembered that you used to eat toast always for tea, granny, soI thought you might still. Oh, granny, it is so nice to see you in yourpretty caps again, it seems so--so natural."
It also seemed to her, though, that granny had grown to look much older inthe last three months, and thinner, or was it only that she had been awayfrom her, and amongst younger people.
With a sudden sense of sadness, Audrey thrust her arm affectionatelythrough her grandmother's arm. "Mother is longing so to see you," shesaid, with a sort of longing on her to make her granny feel that they allloved her. Her mother's words came back to her hauntingly, "Don't youthink granny would rather be asked to come to us, and be made to feel thatwe want her, than remain unasked, because our home is shabby?"
Then Mr. Carlyle appeared, and taking granny by the other arm, they allentered the invalid's room together.
When she had started for her visit Mrs. Carlyle had wondered how she wouldget through a whole week without the comforts and the peace she wasaccustomed to. At the end of ten days she sighed that she could not staylonger. "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 somuch, dear Kitty, and feel better for the change." And both Audrey andher mother felt very very happy, for they were both of them aware thatgranny 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 thedrawing-room, "I did not know that it was as bad as this. I have so muchfurniture at home I can scarcely move for it, and two carpets sewn up withcamphor, to keep the moths and mice away, I will send them both as soon asI get back, and--a few other things that may be useful."
She hesitated for a moment, then, with her old severe manner, "I don'twant to be prying, Audrey, as you know, but how are you off for china--oddplates for the kitchen, and cups and saucers and things."
"Not very well, granny. We aren't well off in any kind of china. If thechildren had been at home we should not have had enough of anything to goround," she added, with a rueful little laugh. And though granny lookedshocked 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 thatwhen I come again on purpose to see the children, we shall have a plateeach, and not have to share a cup."
But, though they little thought it then, poor Granny Carlyle was never tocome again. And none of those she loved best could feel thankful enoughthat they had had that pleasant time which had brought them all closertogether than they had ever been before, and had left not only one happylifelong memory, but many.
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