Anxious Audrey
Page 15
CHAPTER XV.
"I think I would like to go for a walk, daddy, if you are going home, andwill see that mother is all right."
"Yes, I will take care of mother. Are you very tired, dear? I am afraidyou 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 roadwhich would presently lead her out on the moor.
Granny Carlyle's visit was over, and it was as she and her father wereturning away from the station after seeing her off, that there had come toher 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 ofinterruption.
At home there was so little time for thought, and she had so many thingsto think about. Only yesterday granny had said: "Well, Audrey, and areyou coming back to me when the year is up?" And Audrey, shocked at thethrill of dismay the mere suggestion sent through her, had tried to tellher as gently and kindly as possible, that she could not be spared fromhome, 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 bethe governess to pay, as well as Mary and Job Toms."
"I know, child, I know," granny answered, almost sadly. "I scarcelyexpected to be able to have you." And Audrey, feeling a littleuncomfortable lest she should have even suspected her changed feelings,had again been struck by her aged and fragile look, the weariness in hereyes, and in her voice, and had been troubled by it.
It had troubled her, too, ever since, but she did not know what she coulddo. Indeed, she knew that she could not do anything, and that was saddestof all.
Up on the moor she threw herself down on a bed of heather, and with onlythe bees, and the larks, and the little westerly breeze for company, triedto think the matter out. And soon the breeze blew some of her worriesaway, and the sun and the birds' songs between them so raised her spiritsthat 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, orwhat seems best."
Presently remembrance of her play came back to her. For the last week ortwo 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 onlythree days more to wait!" she cried. "Only three days more. I wonder howI 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 woulddo 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 oftenadvertised, it would be quite easy to get one. She would still have agood deal left for other things. Or should she give the money to herfather 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 wintercame, to know that he was not cold. Oh! but she did want to get some newcurtains, 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 itscoming."
She got on to her feet, and shook herself, to shake the dried grass andheather from her skirt and her long hair--to shake off her foolishnesstoo. Well, five shillings would be useful. It would buy mother somefruit, and wool for socks for father. "I wish though I could forget allabout it. I wish something would happen to drive it out of my headagain." 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 itto her. "Open it quickly, dear, I have been longing for you to come homeand 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 someoneexclaiming over a letter, without giving a clue as to the cause of theexcitement.
"Audrey! Audrey, darling, don't tease me any more."
Audrey looked up, ashamed of her selfishness. Her mother's cheeks wereflushed with excitement. "Oh, mummy, I am so sorry," she cried,repentantly.
"Never mind, dear. I could see that the news, whatever it was, waspleasant."
"Oh, mother, it is lovely, perfectly--perfectly glorious. What do youthink? They are actually coming here to live--no, not in this house,"laughing, "but in Moor End. Irene says that her grandfather has boughtthe Mill House for them, and they hope to have it done up and ready forthem 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 relievedof a care which had increased as the days sped on. Now her girls wouldhave companionship, and with friends whose influence and example would beall for good. Tom, too, would have a companion. And, perhaps, who knows,they could share their lessons too. Mrs. Carlyle's thoughts flew on; buther thoughts were all for her children. She had not yet considered whatit would mean to herself,--the companionship, the kind friends at hand incase of need.
"You are very, very glad about it, aren't you, dear?" she asked, her heartand her eyes full of sympathy with her child's gladness.
"Glad! Oh, mother. I was never so happy in my life. It seems now asthough 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 wellagain, for there is a lot to do, and--and, mother--you don't think I mustgo back, do you?"
Her voice was full of anxiety. She had little dreamed at one time thatshe 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 sayreassuringly that there was not the slightest need, that she could not bespared.
But for a moment Mrs. Carlyle did not answer at all, and when she did shespoke 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'tknow what we should do without you here. But, well, I feel I could notgrudge her one--when I have so many, and she is so lonely. You could besuch 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 fullof happy prospects than ever before, and she must be dragged away from itall."
If she had been asked what, above all else, she would have chosen, shewould 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, ofcourse, 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 notanticipate. No one knows what the future may bring. It is seldom exactlywhat we hope, or dread; and if we just go on trustfully day by day, takingall the happiness God sends us, and ready bravely to face the clouds.We know that He will make the sunshine show through. He wants Hischildren to be happy, not miserable."
"I--don't know," said Audrey, doubtingly. "It seems that if ever I want athing very much it is tak
en away, or I am not allowed----"
"Audrey, darling, do not say such things. Do not let yourself ever thinkit. Do you honestly believe that the great God above demeans Himself andHis Majesty and Might to annoy one of His children? That He plans totorment you? My dear, dear child, don't get into that bitter, wicked wayof talking. It is so wrong--so insulting to your Heavenly Father.It is so ruining to your own character, and your happiness. The mistakethat we make, Audrey, is that we want to choose our own way, and followit--not His. That we think we can see better than He what is for thebest, and what our future should be.
"Now, let no imaginary cloud in the future overshadow the sunshine ofto-day. Enjoy the happiness that is sent to you, and, if the call to dutyelsewhere 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--Iam 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 Icame 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 togranny. You would be in the place you want to be, you would be near yourfriends, and be doing the things you want to do; but you would not behappy. 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 toher feet, kissed her mother fondly, and for a moment stood by her sidesilent, and very still.
"I--I will try," she said at last, "I will try, but--but----" Her voicebroke.
Mrs. Carlyle put her arm about her, and held her very close. "That willdo, darling. That is all God asks of any of us--just to try and shoulderbravely the duties He lays on us."
It was just three days later that Audrey heard the news so longed for, yetso dreaded. By the early post that morning there came several letters,and one of them for her.
When she opened it, and unfolded the sheet of paper it held, a chequedropped out and into her lap. A cheque for three guineas!
For a moment Audrey held it, staring at it incredulously. Then she hadwon a prize! The first prize, too! Her play had not been utter rubbish,but the best! The best!!
The blood rushed over her face and neck, dyeing both scarlet; her handstrembled, her heart beat suffocatingly. She turned to the letter, but fora moment she could see nothing. Then gradually her sight cleared, and sheread: "The Editor of _The Girl's World_ has much pleasure in informingMiss Audrey Carlyle that her play has been adjudged the best of all thosesent in; and encloses a cheque for three guineas. The Editor would beglad to have a copy of Miss Carlyle's latest photograph, to print in ournext number."
Audrey read no more. With her face glowing with happiness, her red maneflying behind her, she rushed up the stairs to her mother's room. At lastshe could tell her secret.
Sure of her mother's interest and sympathy she burst into the room withonly the faintest apology of a tap at the door. Her father was there too,standing by the bed with a letter in his hand.
"Oh, mother! What do you think!" Audrey's voice broke off suddenly, forher mother's eyes when she looked at her were full of tears.
"Oh, what has happened? Father--mother--what has happened? Not--anaccident?"
Her thoughts flew at once to her brothers and sisters. "Not----!"She could not finish the awful question. She turned so white and faintthat her father stepped across the room, and taking her in his arms,guided her to a chair by the open window. "No, no, dear, not, thank God,as bad as that. A letter has come from Dr. Norman to say that yesterdaygranny fainted, and was unconscious a long time. She recovered, but--hewants me to come as soon as possible, he is afraid--her condition may beserious."
"I am never to be allowed any great happiness," said Audrey in her heart."If something good comes my way, something bad comes with it."Even through her anxiety the thought would come, adding bitterness to hertrouble. The letter and cheque she held slipped from her fingers to thefloor. She would not even tell her news, she thought bitterly.Perhaps if she showed that she did not care, Fate would find no pleasurein being so cruel to her.
"Do you want me to go too?" she asked. She knew that her voice was hardand unsympathetic, but she felt, at that moment, as though she could nothelp it.
"No, not now, dear." The gentleness of her mother's voice brought a lumpto Audrey's throat. "Your father will go first, and see how things are.They may need a trained nurse, or--well, we don't know; but, oh, Audrey,Audrey, the bitter part is that we haven't the money to take him there.We dare not draw any more from the Bank until some has been paid in, andthat cannot be for a few days yet. What can we do? There is no one wecan appeal to, no one we can confide in. If Mr. Vivian were onlyhere----"
But Audrey, instead of answering, was groping on the floor. Tears were inher eyes, shame and remorse again filled her heart. After all, God wasgiving her a greater opportunity, a more perfect way, of using her money,than any she had dreamed of.
"Father," she said shyly, "I have just had this," holding out the twoslips of paper. "I came up to tell you and mother, but--but----"The varying emotions of the morning, the joyful surprise, the excitement,the shock which had turned her faint, the drop from the height of herhappiness to the depths of bitterness and sorrow, proved too much forAudrey, and, dropping on her knees beside her mother's bed, she burst intotears.
She felt her mother's gentle hand on her head, she felt her father raiseher in his arms. She heard her father, as he kissed her forehead, murmur,"My blessed child, my God-send." She heard her mother say, with a catchin her voice, "My Audrey, what should we do without you!"
But all Audrey could do was to sob brokenly. "No, no, no, I don't deserveit, don't, please don't. You don't know----"
"I do know," whispered her father kindly, as he held her. "You feltaggrieved, hurt; you came up in the full flush of your happiness,and found us filled with selfish sorrow, wrapped in our own cares.You thought all your pleasure in your success was spoilt. I thought onlyof my trouble. Really, God was giving us both our opportunity.Doubling your happiness, and teaching me a lesson in Faith."
"And me," said Mrs. Carlyle softly, "that under us are always Hissupporting arms."
That afternoon Mr. Carlyle left for Farbridge, but Audrey's summons didnot come for a while yet.
Granny Carlyle rallied considerably, and they all began to hope that shemight be spared to them yet. But it was only a temporary rally; and Faithand the little ones had been home but a few days when a telegram came fromFarbridge, asking that Audrey might come at once, and, instead of startingfor Ilfracombe for a week or two's stay before the Vivians left there too,Audrey went on a very, very different visit, one that none knew the endof, for old Mrs. Carlyle was in that state that she might live for years,or for only a few weeks or days.
Never, in all her life after, did Audrey forget that journey on that hotAugust day. The sun poured in at the window on her, the smuts came in inshowers, the compartment felt like an oven, and the hot air was heavy withthe mingled odours of blistering paint, coal smoke, and tar. At everystation at which they stopped the engine panted like an exhausted thing.The sight of beds of scarlet geraniums glowing in the sun ever afterbrought back to Audrey the sights, sounds, and sensations of that hotsummer afternoon.
But at last the journey was over, and Audrey, feeling almost as though shewas walking in a dream, crossed the well-remembered park--where the onlychange was that the grass was now burnt brown, and summer flowers took theplace of the tulips and daffodils she had left behind her--and enteredonce more the orderly, ro
omy house which was so little changed that shemight have gone out from it only the day before, except that now themoving spirit was gone, and the silence was not restful, as of old, butoppressive.
Phipps met her, with tears in her eyes. "Perhaps you would like to go toyour room first, Miss Audrey. Are you very hot and tired, miss?"
"I think I am," said Audrey wearily, "but that is nothing. How is grannynow, Phipps?"
But Phipps only shook her head, and the tears brimmed over. "I can't sayshe is any better, Miss Audrey, and--and I won't say she is worse, I can'tbring myself to," and Phipps began to sob aloud.
"Poor Phipps!" said Audrey in a choky voice. "Is she as bad as that!"She knew what it all meant for Phipps. If Granny Carlyle died, her homeof forty years was gone from her. For the first time in her life Audreyrealised what we all come to realise as we grow older--that thesorrowfulness of death is not with those who go, but with those who areleft behind.
"I shall lose everything," sobbed Phipps, "everything I care for.My dear mistress, my home--everything, and I shall never be happy inanother."
"Oh, poor Phipps!" cried Audrey, genuinely troubled. What could one do orsay to comfort such sorrow! But her sympathy comforted Phipps a little,and she cheered up somewhat.
"If you will come down when you are ready, miss, I will have tea waitingfor you," she said as she left the room, "and after tea the mistress wouldlike to see you."
But, tired and exhausted though she was, Audrey could only make a pretenceof taking the meal. To be sitting alone in that big room, which she hadhitherto never known without her granny, and feeling that in allprobability she would never, never see her there again, was sufficient initself to destroy any appetite she had. Her thoughts, too, were full ofthe coming interview. What could she say and do? Would granny be muchchanged? These and a dozen other questions hammered at her brain as shepoured herself out a cup of tea. How she had once longed to be allowed topour tea from that silver tea-pot, and pick up the sugar with those daintylittle tongs, which granny would never allow her to touch. What a proudday it would be, so she used to think, when she might! But now--now thatthe day had come, she found no pride or pleasure in it, only a sort ofshrinking. It seemed to her to be taking advantage of granny'shelplessness--that she had no right. She was haunted by the sight ofgranny's fragile, delicate hand clasping that handle, and delicatelyturning over the lumps of sugar to find one of a suitable size.
"Would she be much changed?" Her thoughts flew again to the cominginterview, which she so dreaded.
Yet, after all, though sad, it was very quiet and simple. Granny lay flatin her bed, looking much as usual, save that the face surrounded by thenight-cap frill was thinner, and gentler, perhaps, and more kind.
"Come round to the other side, dear," she said softly, as Audreyapproached her, and only then did Audrey realise that granny's right armand side were helpless.
She was very white as she stooped down to kiss her grandmother, and herlips trembled.
"It is all right, dear; don't you grieve about me," granny whispered.She was so weak she could not speak very well. "I am quite ready--anxious--to go. I am very glad you came to me, Audrey; you have made mevery happy."
Audrey knelt down by the bed, holding her granny's hand in both hers."I--oh, granny, I wish I had never left you!" She pressed the fragilehand against her cheek caressingly. "I--I didn't want to go.I shall have home and the others always, and you only for a little while."Her sobs choked her.
"Dear, you do not know--no one knows--how long you may have each other,and it was your duty to go. Your mother was ill, and needed you; I waswell, and had many to take care of me. I did not want to let you go, butI was glad afterwards, when I saw you again, I knew it had been best foryou. Keep to the path you have set your feet on so bravely, dear."
Granny's voice died away. She was too tired to talk any more."To-morrow," she gasped; "send nurse--now."
So Audrey, with another lingering kiss, crept softly away, to spend thelong lonely evening among the shadows in the great drawing-room, whereeverything seemed to speak to her of her granny. Here was her work-table,with her work neatly folded, as she had left it. Here was her book with afolded piece of paper in it for a marker. She could not bear it anylonger. In her own room the pain might be less cruel.
Audrey sobbed herself to sleep that night, but before that she had madeone more resolution, with her prayers. In all the days to come, Godhelping her, she would 'Leave no tender word unsaid.' She would strivehard that these bitter memories, this reproach, should never again behers.
"Out of sight and out of reach they go. These dear familiar friends who loved us so, And sitting in the shadows they have left, Alone with loneliness, and sore bereft, We think, with vain regret, of some kind word That once we might have said, and they have heard."
Audrey did not know those lines then, but they expressed the thoughtswhich haunted her in those days, even in her dreams.
Early the next morning, after her breakfast, Phipps came to ask her to goto her granny's room as soon as convenient.
"I will go now. How is she, Phipps? Do you think she is any better,just a shade better?"
But Phipps only shook her head, and hurried out of the room with her headbowed. Poor Audrey! Phipps had dashed all the hopes which had risenafresh with the morning, and sent her to the sick-room unnerved and fullof fears.
But face to face with her granny, so calm and placid and content, fearsseemed wicked, out of place.
"Audrey, dear, before I have my sleep I want to say something to you incase, later, I may not be able to. When I am gone there are certainthings which I wish you children to have. The lawyer knows--it is allwritten down--but I wanted to tell you myself. I want to ask you--and toask the others through you--when you wear them to wear them not asornaments only, but as reminders; will you, dear Audrey? As remindersto--to give your sympathy and love, while it can help, not only at thehour of parting. That is where I have failed. I see it now, and askGod's pardon." For a moment there was silence in the quiet room; a tearfell from the dying eyes. Audrey's were falling fast.
Presently the weak voice began again. "To you, Audrey, I have given mypearl brooch, and the ring your grandfather gave me as my engagement-ring.You will value it, will you not, dear? I wish you not to wear the ringuntil you are eighteen. I was just eighteen when he gave it to me.To Faith I am giving my ruby cross and brooch--Faith with her warm heartglowing with kindness towards the world, always reminds me of rubies.Tom is to have his grandfather's watch and chain, and Debby is to havemine. To Baby I have given my string of pearls." Her voice had grownmore and more feeble, and now for a moment died away. But very soon shespoke again. It was as though she felt she had not much time, and couldnot waste a moment of it. "To you, dear, I leave my work-table, too; youloved it so when you were very little. Do you remember?"
Audrey smiled as the memory came back to her of the joy with which she hadturned it out, and dusted and rearranged it daily. But her smile changedto tears. "Granny, granny, you must get well, and use it again yourself.There is your work in it now, waiting to be finished."
A little flicker of pain passed over granny's face. "I shall never finishit now," she whispered. "Whenever the end comes, one leaves many thingsundone. Some do not matter so very much. It is the thought of the thingsthat do matter--neglected--those we might have helped, that stab one tothe heart."
With a deep sigh she turned her face on her pillow. Audrey, kneelingbeside her, holding her hand, presently laid it gently down, thinking thatshe had gone to sleep, and, stepping softly to a chair by the window, satdown to wait for her to wake and speak again.
Over in the park the children were playing gaily; the elder folk werealready seated on the seats with books or newspaper, or sewing.How familiar it all was, how dear! Minute after minute passed, whileAudrey, with her eyes fixed on the distant hills, turned over and over inher mind those last words her g
randmother had spoken. How they rang inher ears, as warning bells! By and by the nurse came in.
"Granny is having such a lovely sleep," said Audrey happily. But thenurse, already at the bedside, did not return her smile. Her eyes were onthe face on the pillow, her hand on the frail hand lying where Audrey hadlaid it down.
"She is," she said at last, very softly--"She was. She has had such abeautiful wakening, dear. She has passed through the Valley of Shadows,and is safe on the other side."
CHAPTER XVI.
A year had passed since Granny Carlyle went to her rest and Audreyreturned to the Vicarage to take up her duties there again.
Another summer has come and gone, for it is September now, but a Septemberso warm and sunny and beautiful that, if it were not for the changingtints on the trees, one might well imagine it was still June.
In the Vicarage garden the 'herb bed' had developed into a handsomeherbaceous border, varied by patches here and there of feathery parsley,a bush of sage, a clump of lemon-thyme, and mint. Job Toms had retiredagain to his kitchen-garden, for "he didn't hold with messing up flowersand herbs together, and nothing wasn't going to make him believe but whatplanting poppies next to parsley was bad for the parsley. Poppies wasp'ison, so he'd been always led to believe, and he didn't believe inp'isonous things being planted 'mongst what folks was asked to eat."
So Audrey and Faith and the children had taken the beds in their charge,and in aiming at showing Job what a beautiful, if not useful, thing aherbaceous border could be, they had laboured hard, and were now reapingtheir reward.
Occasionally, as a great favour, the old man could be coaxed into cuttingthe grass--as to-day, for instance, which was a great day in the familyhistory, for it was Mrs. Carlyle's birthday; and not only that, but shewas to go to the Mill House to tea. Her first real 'outing' for two longyears at least.
To her husband and children, and even to Mary and Job, to have 'mother'about amongst them again was a cause for such rejoicing that they hardlyknew how to express it.
Early in the morning Debby and Tom were up and knocking at Miss Babbs'sshop door before Miss Babbs was fully dressed or had raked the ashes outof her kitchen stove.
"Why, Master Tom," she cried, somewhat ruffled by the importunatehammering on her new paint. "Shops ain't supposed to be open till theshutters is down."
"I will take them down for you," offered Tom, blandly.
"I don't want them took down yet, thank you, sir. Why I haven't had timeeven to light my kitchen fire yet----"
"I'll light your kitchen fire, Babbs dear," said Debby, quite undisturbedby Miss Babbs's wrath. "I'll have it burning like anything by the timeyou've got your hair on."
Miss Babbs backed away into the dark shop. "I don't want any help, thankyou, Miss Deborah," she said, stiffly. "If you'll come again in an hour'stime, when the shop is open, I'll be ready to serve you."
"Babby dear, don't be cross," pleaded Deborah. "It's mother's birthday,and we want some flags to decorate the garden, 'cause she's coming outto-day for the first time."
Debby's tone was pathetic in the extreme. Her expression and her wordswent straight to Miss Babbs's heart, and brought the tears to her eyes."Oh, my dear children, you don't say so! Oh, I _am_ glad! Whoever'd havethought it. Come right in--not that I believe I've a flag left, unless'tis Coronation ones. Come in and shut the door, Master Tom. We don'twant all Moor End dropping in, before I'm dressed for the day, and myplace tidy. No, never mind the shutters, Master Tom, we'll leave them upfor a bit. I'll carry the box into the parlour for you, and you can turnit out for yourselves, while I light my fire, or I shall be I don't knowwhere all day."
Tom and Debby, expressing their thanks as they went, groped their waydelightedly past barrels of potatoes, soap-boxes, and goods of many kinds.The sacks looked quite alarming in the dimness, the barrels as though theymight have held all manner of mysterious dangers. The air was heavy withthe mingled smell of onions, bacon, scented soap, leather, and groceries.
"Oh, I _must_ keep a shop when I grow up," whispered Debby. "Miss Babbs,when you retire will you sell your business to me? I've got three poundsin the bank already, and I'll save every penny,"--but her plans came to anend in a hamper, into which she plunged head first.
"Babbs isn't going to retire," grunted Tom, as he dragged his sister out."Don't talk rubbish, Deb."
Miss Babbs staggered out into the light parlour with a large wooden box,and dumped it down on the table before her customers. "There's bandanahandkerchiefs on top," she panted, "but there may be a flag or so under."
"The quickest way will be to turn the box upside down, and begin at thebottom," suggested Tom, as soon as Miss Babbs had retired to her kitchen--and suited the action to the word.
"Here's one!" cried Debby eagerly, and unfolded a flag with 'God Save ourKing and Queen' on it, and portraits of their Majesties.
"And here's one of 'God Bless our Sunday School,'" cried Tom. "Oh, look,there are three of them. If we nail them upside down they will look allright. They'll be flags, anyhow."
"It's an insult to hang a flag upside down," corrected Debby, severely.
"All right, I don't mind. Here's a Union Jack, that's jolly, though theyare rather a worry to hang. I never can remember which way they shouldgo. Not that anyone in Moor End would know if they were right way up ornot."
"Then they ought to be ashamed of themselves," retorted Debby, "and it'stime they were taught." She had lately been reading an article on thesubject and her opinions were very strong with regard to the ignoranceshown by so many. "One Coronation, one Union Jack," she counted, "threeSunday School--that's five altogether. We ought to have one more to makethe money up to sixpence. I'll have a red and white handkerchief, it willcome in afterwards for Jobey for Christmas."
When, by and by, Mrs. Carlyle passed downstairs to go out through thegarden to the carriage Mr. Vivian had sent to drive her to the Mill House,she found the banisters festooned with rings of coloured paper, and thegarden ablaze with paper roses and flags. From every tree fluttered aflag, more or less inappropriate, and on every bush and plant, poppy androse, sage and phlox, laurel and sweet briar, blossomed roses of a sizeand colour to make a florist's heart rejoice--had they been real.Suspended across the gateway hung an old white sheet, with 'Many happyreturns,' in red letters, sewn on crookedly.
Smiles and tears fought for mastery in her heart. "It is all meant foryou, mummy," explained Debby, eagerly. "You must pretend what is on theCoronation flag is 'God save our Mother,' and on the Sunday School ones'God bless our Mother.' Can you pretend like that, mummy? I can."
"Yes, darling, for it is no pretence. He has saved me, and blessed me,"she said softly.
The carriage was to drive slowly through the village that the heroine ofthe day might see it all again, and note all the changes which had takenplace during her long seclusion. Joan was to go with her to share thenovelty of a drive. But the other four and their father formed a guard ofhonour, and marched beside them, or behind. Mary was to share in theouting too. As soon as she had tidied herself and put things straight,she was to hand the care of the house over to Job Toms, and go to the MillHouse as early as she could, which was only a few minutes later than hermistress.
The slow drive turned into a veritable triumphal progress. Everyonerejoiced to see the Vicar's wife amongst them again, every heart in thevillage shared in the joy of the Vicar and his family. Miss Babbs was outat her shop door, waving her best lace handkerchief. The old sexton'swife ran into the road in order to present a bunch of the best flowers inher garden. All stood out at their doors with welcoming smiles and gladgreetings.
By the time they reached the Mill House, Mrs. Carlyle was almost bornedown with the weight of love and tenderness which had been poured out uponher--but, oh! so happy, so glad, so grateful.
At the Mill House, where all were out awaiting her. Mrs. Vivian sooncarried her off to her own little room. "You are to rest here quitealone," she said
firmly. "I shall not allow anyone to see you for half anhour--unless, perhaps, it is your husband or Audrey."
Mrs. Carlyle looked up at her with grateful eyes, and a brave smile on herpale, happy face. "You understand," she said gently. "I would like to bequite alone just for a little. Oh, I feel so--unworthy, and so--so richbeyond my deserts. I must ask for help to--to try to merit some of all Ihave."
Downstairs in the long low dining-room, the table was prepared for tea.Daphne had decorated room and table with autumn leaves, and ferns, andflowers. In the centre stood a handsome birthday cake of Irene's makingand decorating, and surrounding it was dish after dish of tartlets, andcakes, and other things such as made the children gaze at the clockanxiously, fully assured that it had stopped.
"It _must_ be five o'clock, or six," sighed Tom. "I am sure it is threeor four hours since dinner-time."
"I didn't eat any dinner," announced Daphne, "when I saw what Irene hadmade, I thought I would wait. You see, it was a boiled mutton dinner, andI can't bear boiled mutton."
"Some of the things you saw are for supper," laughed Irene, "so I amafraid you have a long time to wait yet."
Daphne's face fell. "Four hours more! Never mind, I don't want the timeto hurry past--though it will."
Faith, the same happy, bright-faced Faith, strolled up to the window, onehand tucked affectionately through old Mr. Vivian's arm, the other leadingJoan. In the sunshine her hair glowed like a halo round her head; on thebosom of her white dress glowed her ruby cross. Her frock was only of thecheapest soft muslin, but it was sound and neat, her shoes had all theirbuttons on, her stockings were guiltless of darns of another colour.In her pretty brown eyes love beamed on all, and happiness.
"Who would like a donkey ride?" called out Mr. Vivian. "Tom, Daphne, areyou coming? Debby, where's my little Debby?"
Debby was never far from Tom, nor from Mr. Vivian when she could be withhim.
"Audrey, are you coming too?"
"I don't know," said Audrey, smiling. "I want to go with you, and I wantto be here in case mother needs me."
"And I want you," said Irene, in the midst of bustling round. "I want youvery particularly."
"The truth is," said Mr. Vivian, his kind old eyes resting on her verytenderly, "we all need you. We can't get on without you. Never mind,wait for your mother, child. She needs you most of all." And with a waveof the hand they left.
Audrey went outside and rested on a seat in the sunshine. On the roofKeith's pigeons sat cooing amiably; the mingled sweetness of 'cherry-pie'and mignonette filled the warm air. Daphne's cat Snowdrop, once Debby'skitten, lay stretched out comfortably on the warm, red-tiled path.
How beautiful it all was, how peaceful. Audrey sitting lost in almost arapture of enjoyment, did not hear soft footsteps approaching, until Irenedropped on to the seat beside her.
"Audrey," she said eagerly, "I do want a few minutes alone with you.There is something--very special--I want to talk to you about."
Audrey looked round interestedly. "Well?" she said. "You know Christmasis not so very far off."
Audrey laughed lightly. "Christmas! Just imagine being able to think ofChristmas--winter--on a day like this!"
"I am not thinking of winter, only of Christmas--and our party."
"A Christmas party? Oh, Irene!"
"Yes. I must tell you quickly, or someone may come. Mother suggested itonly this morning--that we have a party, and--and act your play!"
Irene looked at her triumphantly, her pretty eyes bright with excitement.
"My play? Oh!" Audrey blushed scarlet. She seemed quite overcome.
"Irene, Irene," called her mother from within the house, and Irene sprangto her feet. "Think about it," she said, lightly touching Audrey's hotcheek with her finger, "think of the fun of the rehearsals, and all therest."
"Think about it!" There was little need to tell Audrey to do that.She thought and thought, and at first she felt she could never face itall; then, by degrees, the idea grew less distasteful, more pleasant, thenat last she laughed.
"A penny for your thoughts, Audrey," a sweet soft voice broke the silence,and brought Audrey back from a happy future to the blissful present.Looking up she saw her mother leaning on Irene's arm.
"I couldn't sell them," she said, laughing and springing to her feet,"they were too, too lovely, but not nearly as lovely, mother, as seeingyou here and walking about."
Mrs. Carlyle sank on to the seat with a happy sigh. "I can hardly believeI am myself," she said, smiling. "I am almost afraid I shall wake up andfind it is all a dream--as I have done so often."
"Oh, this is no dream," laughed Irene, "it is all very real. Look atthose bad sparrows, fighting over a piece of bread. Listen to the pigeonscalling for their tea, and look at my bed of verbenas, all raised fromseeds by my very own hand. It is only Audrey who dreams. Audrey, willyou give us your thoughts, as they are not to be bought?"
"Yes," said Audrey, her grey eyes shining bright with happiness."I am thinking that in all the world there is nothing so beautiful ashome, no happiness so great as----"
"As that which comes from helping others," said Mrs. Carlyle softly, anddrawing her dearly loved daughter to her. "Oh, my dear, how blessed I amin my children, and in their friends;--my children too," she added softly,as she drew Irene to her, and kissed first one and then the other.
Mrs. Vivian came to the door and looked out, smiling at them.
"Will you come now? Tea is ready," she called cheerfully. And, with onesupporting her on either side, Mrs. Carlyle went in to the house to cuther birthday cake.
THE END.
[Transcriber's note:
Chapter III
'and the mudde which reigned in both'
corrected to:
'and the muddle which reigned in both'
Chapter IX
'innocent little oke'
corected to:
'innocent little joke']