AUDREY INTRODUCES HERSELF
'Indeed, all faults, had they been ten times more and greater,
would have been neutralised by that supreme expression of her
features, to the unity of which every lineament in the fixed parts,
and every undulation in the moving parts of her countenance,
concurred, viz., a sunny benignity, a radiant graciousness, such as
in this world I never saw surpassed.'
DE QUINCEY.
In this innocent fashion had Audrey Ross solved the Gordian knot of
family difficulty, leaving her mother and sister eyeing each other with
the aghast looks of defeated conspirators; and it must be owned that
many a tangled skein, that would have been patiently and laboriously
unravelled by the skilled fingers of Geraldine, was spoilt in this
manner by the quick impulsiveness of Audrey.
No two sisters could be greater contrasts to each other. While young
Mrs. Harcourt laid an undue stress on what may be termed the minor
morals, the small proprieties, and lesser virtues that lie on the
surface of things and give life its polish, Audrey was for ever riding
full-tilt against prejudices or raising a crusade against what she chose
to term 'the bugbear of feminine existence--conventionality.'
Not that Audrey was a strong-minded person or a stickler for woman's
rights. She had no advanced notions, no crude theories, on the subject
of emancipation; it was only, to borrow Captain Burnett's words, that
her headlong sympathies carried her away; a passionate instinct of pity
always made her range herself on the losing side. Her virtues were
unequally balanced, and her generosity threatened to degenerate into
weakness. Most women love to feel the support of a stronger nature;
Audrey loved to support others; any form of suffering, mental or
physical, appealed to her irresistibly. Her sympathy was often
misplaced and excessive, and her power of self-effacement, under some
circumstances, was even more remarkable, the word 'self-effacement'
being rightly used here, as 'self-sacrifice' presupposes some
consciousness of action. It was this last trait that caused genuine
anxiety to those who knew and loved Audrey best; for who can tell to
what lengths a generous nature may go, to whom any form of pain is
intolerable, and every beggar, worthy or unworthy, a human brother or
sister, with claims to consideration?
If Audrey were not as clever as her elder sister, she had more
originality; she was also far more independent in her modes of action
and thought, and went on her own way without reference to others.
'It is not that I think myself wiser than other people,' she said once
to her cousin, who had just been delivering her a lecture on this
subject. 'Of course I am always making mistakes--everyone does; but you
see, Michael, I have lived so long with myself--exactly two-and-twenty
years--and so I must know most about myself, and what is best for this
young person,' tapping herself playfully.
Audrey was certainly not so handsome as her sister. She had neither
Geraldine's perfection of feature nor her exquisite colouring; but she
had her good points, like other people.
Her hair was soft and brown, and there was a golden tinge in it that was
greatly admired. There was also a depth and expression in her gray eyes
that Geraldine lacked. But the charm of Audrey's face was her smile. It
was no facial contortion, no mere lip service; it was a heart
illumination--a sudden radiance that seemed to light up every feature,
and which brought a certain lovely dimple into play.
And there was one other thing noticeable in Audrey, and which brought
the sisters into still sharper contrast. She was lamentably deficient in
taste, and, though personally neat, was rather careless on the subject
of dress. She liked an old gown better than a new one, was never quite
sure which colour suited her best, and felt just as happy paying a round
of calls in an old cambric as in the best tailor-made gown. It was on
this subject that she and Geraldine differed most. No amount of spoken
wisdom could make Audrey see that she was neglecting her opportunities
to a culpable degree; that while other forms of eccentricity might be
forgiven, the one unpardonable sin in Geraldine's code was Audrey's
refusal to make the best of herself.
'And you do look so nice when you are well dressed,' she observed with
mournful affection on one occasion when Audrey had specially
disappointed her. 'You have a beautiful figure--Madame Latouche said so
herself--and yet you would wear that hideous gown Miss Sewell has made,
and at Mrs. Charrington's "at home," too.'
'How many people were affected by this sad occurrence?' asked Audrey
scornfully. 'My dear Gage, your tone is truly tragical. Was it my
clothes or me--poor little me!--that Mrs. Charrington invited and wanted
to see? Do you know, Michael,' for that young man was present, 'I have
such a grand idea for the future; a fashion to come in with Wagner's
music, and aesthetics, and female lawyers--in fact, an advanced theory
worthy of the nineteenth century. You know how people hate "at homes,"
and how bored they are, and how they grumble at the crush and the
crowd.'
'Well, I do believe they are hideous products of civilisation,' he
returned with an air of candour.
'Just so; well, now for my idea. Oh, I must send it to _Punch_, I really
must. My proposition is that people should send their card by their
lady's-maid, and also the toilette intended for that afternoon, to be
inspected by the hostess. Can you not imagine the scene? First comes the
announcement by the butler: "Lady Fitzmaurice's clothes." Enter smiling
lady's-maid, bearing a wondrously braided skirt with plush mantle and
bonnet with pheasant's wing. Hostess bows, smiles, and inspects garments
through her eyeglasses. "Charming! everything Lady Fitzmaurice wears is
in such perfect taste. My dear Cecilia, that bonnet would just suit
me--make a note of it, please. My compliments to her ladyship." Now then
for Mrs. Grenville, and so on. Crowds still, you see, but no
hand-shaking, no confusion of voices; and then, the wonderful economy:
no tea and coffee, no ices, no professional artistes, only a little
refreshment perhaps in the servants' hall.'
'Audrey, how can you talk such nonsense?' returned her sister severely.
But Captain Burnett gave his low laugh of amusement. He revelled in the
girl's odd speeches; he thought Audrey's nonsense worth more than all
Geraldine's sense, he even enjoyed with a man's _insouciance_ her daring
disregard of conventionality.
How difficult it is for a person thoroughly to know him or her self,
unless he or she be morbidly addicted to incessant self-examination!
Audrey thought that it was mere neighbourliness that induced her to call
on the Blakes that afternoon; she had no idea that a strong curiosity
made her wish to interview the new-comers.
Rutherford was far too confined an area for a liberal mind like
Audrey's. Her large and intense nature demanded fuller scope for its
energies. With the exception of boys--who certainly preponderated in
Rutherford--there were far too few human beings to satisfy Audrey. Every
fresh face was therefore hailed by her with joy, and though perhaps she
hardly went to Dr. Johnson's length when he complained that he
considered that day lost on which he had not made a new acquaintance,
still, her social instincts were not sufficiently nourished. The few
people were busy people; they had a tiresome habit, too, of forming
cliques, and in many ways they disappointed her. With her richer
neighbours, especially among the Hill houses, Geraldine was the reigning
favourite; Mrs. Charrington was devoted to her. Only little Mrs.
Stanfield, of Rosendale, thought there was no one in the world like dear
Audrey Ross.
Audrey would not have mentioned her little scheme to her mother for
worlds. Her mother was not a safe agent. She had long ago made Geraldine
her conscience-keeper, but she had no objection to tell her father when
she met him walking down the hill with his hands behind him, and
evidently revolving his next Sunday's sermon.
Dr. Ross was rather a fine-looking man. He had grown gray early, and his
near-sight obliged him to wear spectacles; but his keen, clever face,
and the benevolent and kindly air that distinguished him, always
attracted people to him. At times he was a little absent and whimsical;
and those who knew them both well declared that Audrey had got all her
original ideas and unconventional ways from the Doctor.
'Father, I am going to call on the Blakes,' she observed, as he was
about to pass her as he would a stranger.
'Dear me, Audrey, how you startled me! I was deep in original sin, I
believe. The Blakes? Oh, I told young Blake to come up to dinner
to-night; I want Michael to see him. Very well. Give my respects to Mrs.
Blake; and if there be any service we can render her, be sure you offer
it;' and Dr. Ross walked on, quite unconscious that his daughter had
retraced her steps, and was following him towards the town. 'For I
won't disturb him with my chatter,' she thought, 'and I may as well go
to Gage to-morrow; she is sure to keep me, and then it would be rather
awkward if she should take it into her head to talk about the Blakes.
She might want to go with me, or perhaps, which is more likely, she
would make a fuss about my going so soon. If you want to do a thing, do
it quickly, and without telling anyone, is my motto. Father is no one.
If I were going to run away from home, or do anything equally
ridiculous, I should be sure to tell father first; he would only
recommend me to go first class, and be sure to take a cab at the other
end, bless him!'
Dr. Ross walked on in a leisurely, thoughtful fashion, not too
abstracted, however, to wave his hand slightly as knots of boys saluted
him in passing. Audrey had a nod and smile for them all. At the Hill
houses and at the school-house Geraldine might be the acknowledged
favourite; but every boy in the upper and the lower school was Audrey's
sworn adherent. She was their liege lady, for whom they were proud to do
service; and more than one of the prefects cherished a tremulous passion
for the Doctor's daughter together with his budding moustache, and,
strange to say, was none the worse for the mild disease.
A pleasant lane led from the Hill to the town, with sloping meadows on
one side. It was a lovely afternoon in June, and groups of boys were
racing down the field path on their way to the cricket ground. Audrey
looked after them with a vivid interest. 'How happy they all look!' she
said to herself. 'I do believe a boy--a real honest, healthy English
boy--is one of the finest things in the creation. They are far happier
than girls; they have more freedom, more zest, in their lives. If they
work hard, they play well; every faculty of mind and body is trained to
perfection. Look at Willie Darner running down that path! he is just
crazy with the summer wind and the frolic of an afternoon's holiday.
There is nothing to match with his enjoyment, unless it be a kitten
sporting with the flying leaves, or a butterfly floating in the
sunshine. He has not a care, that boy, except how he is to get over the
ground fast enough.'
Audrey had only a little bit of the town to traverse, but her progress
was almost as slow and stately as a queen's. She had so many friends to
greet, so many smiles and nods and how-d'ye-do's to execute; but at last
she arrived at her destination. The Gray Cottage was a small stone
house, placed between Dr. Ross's house and the school-house, with two
windows overlooking the street. The living-rooms were at the back, and
the view from them was far pleasanter, as Audrey well knew. From the
drawing-room one looked down on the rugged court of the school-house,
and on the gray old arches, through which one passed to the chapel and
library. The quaint old buildings, with the stone facade, hoary with
age, was the one feature of interest that always made Audrey think the
Gray Cottage one of the pleasantest houses in Rutherford. Audrey knew
every room. She had looked out on the old school-house often and often;
she knew exactly how it looked in the moonlight, or on a winter's day
when the snow lay on the ground, and the ruddy light of a December
sunset tinged the windows and threw a halo over the old buildings. But
she liked to see it best in the dim starlight, when all sorts of shadows
seemed to lurk between the arches, and a strange, solemn light invested
it with a legendary and imaginative interest.
A heavy green gate shut off the Gray Cottage from the road. Audrey
opened it, and walked up to the door, which had always stood open in the
old days when her friends, the Powers, had lived there. It was open now;
a profusion of packing-cases blocked up the spacious courtyard, and a
black retriever was lying on some loose straw--evidently keeping watch
and ward over them. He shook himself lazily as Audrey spoke to him, and
then wagged his tail in a friendly fashion, and finally uttered a short
bark of welcome.
Audrey stooped down and stroked his glossy head. She always made friends
with every animal--she had a large four-footed acquaintance with whom
she was on excellent terms--from Jenny, the cobbler's donkey, down to
Tim, the little white terrier that belonged to the sweep. She had just
lost her own companion and follower, a splendid St. Bernard puppy, and
had not yet replaced him. As she fondled the dog, she heard a slight
sound near her, and, looking up, met the inquiring gaze of a pair of
wide-open brown eyes. They belonged to a girl of fourteen, a slight,
thin slip of a girl in a shabby dress that she had outgrown, and thick
dark hair tied loosely with a ribbon, and falling in a wavy mass over
her shoulders, and a small sallow face, looking at the present moment
very shy and uncomfortable.
'If you please,' she began timidly, and twisting her hands awkwardly as
she spoke, 'mamma is very tired and has gone to lie down. We only moved
in yesterday, and the place is in such a muddle.'
'Of course it is in a muddle,' replied Audrey in her pleasant, easy
fashion. 'That is exactly why I called--to see if I could be of any
assistance. I am Miss Ross, from the lower school--will you let me come
in and speak to you? You are Miss Blake, are you not?'
'Yes; I am Mollie,' returned the girl, reddening and looking still more
uncomfortable. 'I am very sorry, Miss Ross--and it is very good of you
to call so soon--but there is no place fit to ask you to sit down. Biddy
is such a bad manager. She ought to have got things far more comfortable
for us, but she is old--and----'
'Miss Mollie, where am I to find the teapot?' called out a voice
belonging to some invisible body--a voice with the unmistakable brogue.
'There's the mistress just dying for a cup of tea, and how will I be
giving it to her without the teapot? and it may be in any of those dozen
hampers--bad luck to it!'
'I am coming, Biddy,' sighed the girl wearily, and the flush of
annoyance deepened in her cheek.
Somehow, that tired young face, burdened with some secret care, appealed
to Audrey's quick sympathies. She put out her hand and gave her a light
push as she stood blocking up the entry.
'My dear, I will help you look for the teapot,' she said in the kindest
voice possible. 'You are just tired to death, and of course it is
natural that your mother should want her tea. If we cannot find it, I
will run round and borrow one from the Wrights. Everyone knows what
moving is--one has to undergo all sorts of discomforts. Let me put down
my sunshade and lace scarf, and then you will see how useful I can be';
and Audrey walked into the house, leaving Mollie tongue-tied with
astonishment, and marched into the dining-room, which certainly looked a
chaos--with dusty chairs, tables, half-emptied hampers, books, pictures,
all jumbled up together with no sort of arrangement, just as the men had
deposited them from the vans. Here, however, she paused, slightly taken
aback by the sight of another dark head, which raised itself over the
sofa-cushions, while another pair of brown eyes regarded her with equal
astonishment.
'It is only Kester,' whispered Mollie. 'I think he was asleep. Kester,
Miss Ross kindly wishes to help us a little--but--did you ever see such
a place?' speaking in a tone of disgust and shrugging her shoulders.
'Mollie can't be everywhere,' rejoined the boy, trying to drag himself
off the sofa as he spoke, and then Audrey saw he was a cripple.
He looked about fifteen, but his long, melancholy face had nothing
boyish about it. The poor lad was evidently a chronic sufferer; there
was a permanent look of ill-health stamped on his features, and the
beautiful dark eyes had a plaintive look in them.
'Mollie does her best,' he went on almost irritably; 'but she and Cyril
have been busy upstairs getting up the beds and that sort of thing, so
they could not turn their hand to all this lumber,' kicking over some
books as he spoke.
'Mollie is very young,' returned Audrey, feeling she must take them
under her protection at once, and, as usual, acting on her impulse. 'Is
your name Kester? What an uncommon name! but I like it somehow. I am so
sorry to see you are an invalid, but you can get about a little on
crutches?'
'Sometimes, not always, when my hip is bad,' was the brief response.
'Has it always been so?' in a pitying voice.
'Well, ever since I was a little chap, and Cyril dropped me. I don't
know how it happened; he was not very big, either. It is so long ago
that I never remember feeling like other fellows'; and Kester sighed
impatiently and kicked over some more books. 'There I go, upsetting
everything; but there is no room to move. We had our dinner, such as it
was, in the kitchen--not that I could eat it, eh, Mollie?'
Mollie shook her head sadly.
'You have not eaten a bit to-day. Cyril promised to bring in some buns
for tea; but I daresay he will forget all about it.'
A sudden thought struck Audrey: these two poor children did look so
disconsolate. Mollie's tired face was quite dust-begrimed; she had been
crying, too, probably with worry and over-fatigue, for the reddened
eyelids betrayed her.
'I have a bright idea,' she said in her pleasant, friendly way, 'why
should you not have tea in the garden? You have a nice little lawn, and
it will not be too sunny near the house. If Biddy will only be good
enough to boil the kettle I will run and fetch a teapot. It is no use
hunting in those hampers, you are far too tired, Mollie. We will just
lift out this little table. I see it has flaps, so it will be large
enough; and if you can find a few teacups and plates, I will be back in
a quarter of an hour with the other things.'
Audrey did not specify what other things she meant; she left that a
pleasing mystery, to be unravelled by and by; she only waited to lift
out the table, and then started off on her quest.
The Wrights could not give her half she wanted; but Audrey in her own
erratic fashion was a woman of resources: she made her way quickly to
Woodcote, and entering it through the back premises, just as her sister
was walking leisurely up to the front door, she went straight to the
kitchen to make her raid.
Cooper was evidently accustomed to her young mistress's eccentric
demands. She fetched one article after another, as Audrey named them: a
teapot, a clean cloth, a quarter of a pound of the best tea, a little
tin of cream from the dairy, half a dozen new-laid eggs, a freshly-baked
loaf hot from the oven, and some crisp, delicious-looking cakes, finally
a pat of firm yellow butter; and with this last article Audrey
pronounced herself satisfied.
'You had better let Joe carry some of the things, Miss Audrey,'
suggested Cooper, as she packed a large basket; 'he is round about
somewhere.' And Audrey assented to this.
Geraldine was just beginning her Blake story, and Mrs. Ross was
listening to her with a troubled face, as Audrey, armed with the teapot,
and followed by Joe with the basket, turned in again at the green gate
of the Gray Cottage.