Old Mrs. Carlyle, or 'Granny Carlyle' it would be politer, perhaps, to
call her, lived at Farbridge, which was a whole sixty miles from the
little village where her only son was vicar.
Granny Carlyle had been born in Farbridge, married, and spent all her life
there, and hoped, so she often declared, to remain there to the end of her
days. And there seemed no reason why she should not attain her wish.
Farbridge was a large country-town, with wide streets, good shops, and a
park. To Audrey Carlyle, when first she went there, it appeared a
splendid place; she felt sure none of the big cities of the world could
outdo it, even if they equalled it. The park, with its close-cut grass,
its trees and flower-beds, asphalt paths, and green-painted seats, was to
her one of the beauty spots of England.
"Oh, it does look lovely," she sighed happily, as she gazed at it.
"After the untidy old moor at home, it looks beautiful, granny."
"It is certainly different," agreed granny, with a twinkle in her eyes.
Nevertheless she was well pleased. "I am bound to say I am no lover of
the depths of the country. When I walk I like to walk in comfort, and to
feel that there is no risk of my twisting my ankle in a rabbit-hole, or by
tumbling over a tussock." She was glad that Audrey shared her taste,
but she was not quite sure that the taste was a good one.
Granny Carlyle's house, 'Parkview,' solid, double-fronted, handsome, stood
on the opposite side of the roadway, facing the park. As Audrey sat at
meals in the dining-room, she looked across at the prim patches of green
grass, intersected by black paths, the whole outlined by gay, trim
flower-beds. Two of the patches of green had large trees in the middle,
with wooden seats encircling their trunks; on several of the other patches
were green seats with backs to them; the backs were all towards
'Parkview,' so that those who rested on them might be able to enjoy the
view, for, though the railway-station stood on the opposite side of the
road which ran along the lower side of the park, the tree-clad hills rose
high beyond that again, and showed over the low roof of the little
station, and if the hills happened to be covered with mist, why, there was
the park itself to look at.
On that March morning when, just as Audrey and her granny sat down to
breakfast, Mr. Carlyle's letter came, the park was quite gay with people,
even though it was early, for, after a long spell of wet weather, the sun
was shining quite warmly, and everyone was glad to be out of doors again.
Audrey thought it all looked more beautiful than ever that morning.
If she could have done just as she liked, she would have gone out there
herself, taking a book with her to read. But she knew that her
grandmother would not allow that, so she did not let herself dwell on it.
"Isn't it lovely!" she remarked again enthusiastically. She had said
exactly the same thing three times already without receiving any reply,
but this time she noticed it, and, withdrawing her eyes from the
fascinating scene without, looked instead at her granny for an
explanation. Apparently there was no reason why Mrs. Carlyle should not
have answered. She was only turning over the lumps of sugar in the
sugar-basin, trying to find a small one, yet Audrey felt certain that
there was something unusual in the air, that something out of the common
had happened, and something not very pleasant either. Granny looked grave
and troubled, and at the same time annoyed. However, there was nothing
for Audrey to do but to go on with her breakfast, for she knew that her
grandmother did not like to be questioned, and, after all, it might only
be that the laundress had torn a sheet, or that the boot-boy had been rude
to the cook. Granny was always greatly upset if people did not do their
duty.
It was not until they had nearly finished breakfast that Audrey knew what
was really the matter.
"I have had a letter this morning from your father, Audrey."
"Oh," said Audrey, absently, "have you, granny?" She was not deeply
interested, and at that moment one of her schoolfellows went by with a new
hat on, a light blue one, with a white 'bottle-brush' bobbing about on it,
and she found that much more absorbing. "How is mother?" she asked, when
the 'bottle-brush' had bobbed out of sight.
"Don't be staring out of window, child, while I am talking to you.
I want your undivided attention."
Audrey coloured, and looked not too well pleased, but she only said,
"I did not know you wanted me."
"Well, I do. I have some important news for you."
"Yes, granny," with increased interest, for this sounded very thrilling.
"Your father wants you at home."
Mrs. Carlyle, having brooded over the news for more than an hour, did not
realise how startling it might be to her grand-daughter to have it blurted
out in this abrupt fashion. Audrey's colour faded, leaving her quite
white. "Is mother worse?" she gasped. "Granny, please tell me quickly."
Mrs. Carlyle realised the mistake she had made, and roused herself.
"Oh, no, dear. Your mother is better--a little, I mean, and she is
stronger, but her doctor says she must lead an invalid's life, lie down,
and not walk about, or exert herself, for a whole year, and your father
says they need you at home. They need your help, and your mother will be
glad of your companionship."
The relief from her first dreadful fear was so great that Audrey's spirits
rose high. Change is always exciting too, and to feel that one is needed
is very pleasant; it makes one feel grown-up and important.
"When am I to go, granny? Soon, I suppose? Am I to keep house?"
Audrey's face was very bright as she turned it to her grandmother.
"Oh! but I shall have to leave school, shan't I, granny?" Her face fell
at that thought, and her granny said to herself, with a little pang of
pain, "She is more sorry to leave school than she is to leave me."
"Of course you will have to leave your school," she said tartly.
"You could hardly come sixty miles in the morning, and home again at
night. You might as well live here for all the company you would be to
your mother. Think before you speak, Audrey; it would save you from
saying many foolish things."
"Then shan't I go to school?"
"I don't know what arrangements your father will make; he doesn't go into
every detail in this letter. Perhaps he will get a governess for you all;
perhaps you will have to teach the younger ones."
"Oh!" Audrey did not care for that prospect. She was not fond of
children, they made a house untidy and noisy, and required so much
attention. All the same, though, it was very nice to be going home as
mistress of the house, and companion to her mother. Perhaps her mother
would help her with her story-writing. It would be grand if she could
write stories and sell them, and earn enough money to buy her own clothes.
Granny Carlyle did not approve of her writing, or reading either.
Indeed, there was scarcely a book in the house.
Audrey recovered her spirits as she remembered the books and papers at
home; they seemed to overflow and spread all over the house.
"I shall have my own bookcase, and keep my own books in it, away from the
children," she thought to herself. "I hope I have a bedroom to myself.
Oh, I must!" But the little doubt she could not get rid of sobered her
again. She thought of her pretty bedroom upstairs, how lovely the comfort
and peace of it had seemed to her after the bare ugly room at home, which
she had shared with Faith.
"Granny, do you think I shall have a room to myself at home?" she asked
anxiously. "I shall hate sharing one with Faith!"
"I daresay Faith will not relish sharing one with you," remarked granny,
severely, "if she has to."
"But she is so untidy, and after having had such a nice one all to myself,
I shall miss it dreadfully."
"I wonder if you will miss me," exclaimed Granny sharply, and for the
first time Audrey thought of her grandmother, and her feelings.
"Why, of course I shall, granny, and everything here. I expect I shall
often wish I was back again." But it was not until the last day came, and
she sat at breakfast for the last time in the handsome, comfortable
dining-room, that she fully realised the pain of parting.
She was looking across to the sun-bathed park, at the children already at
play there, and the 'grownups' sitting on the seats gazing at the view, or
reading their papers, when the thought came to her that to-morrow, and the
next day, and all the days that followed, they would be there, but she
would not see them. She would be miles away from that dear peaceful spot,
with only a rough country road to look out on, and the desolate-looking
moor in the distance. And with the same the shrill whistle of a departing
train cut the air, and the melancholy of it, and of the day, and of all
that was to happen, poured over Audrey, until the pain seemed almost more
than she could bear.
"Oh, granny, I don't want to go away," she cried. "I don't want to go.
I can't bear leaving you, and--and everything. I want to stay with you
always."
Oddly enough, at the sight of Audrey's sorrow, some of the sadness which
had weighed on her granny's heart for days was lifted from it, and, though
it was their last day, she felt happier. "Then the child does care,
she does feel leaving me, she has some deep affections! I knew she had,"
thought the lonely old grandmother with a sense of triumph over the doubts
which had troubled her. She put out her hand and patted Audrey's.
"I am so--" she almost, in her relief, said "I am so glad!"
"I would like you to stay, dear, but I feel it is your duty to go, and
mine to spare you."
"May I come back, granny, when the year is up?" pleaded Audrey, keeping
back her tears by remembering that her eyes would be red for her journey.
"It would be lovely to think that this day twelve-months I shall be seeing
it all again."
"If your father and mother can spare you, and you still wish to come,
I shall be very glad to have you, and your room will be waiting for you."
That was comforting, but the thought of leaving that pretty, beloved room
for a whole year set the tears flowing again. "Oh, I mustn't cry,
I mustn't," she said to herself fiercely. "Everybody at the station will
see, and everyone in the train, too." But, as her eyes wandered from one
to another of the familiar things, the pretty cups and saucers, the silver
coffeepot, the funny old tall cosy that granny used, and all the rest of
them, the sense of loss and parting again became too much for her,
and this time the tears flowed without thought of appearances.
"I think I love things more than people," she said to herself, as she
stood in her bedroom putting on her hat and coat; and she stooped and
kissed the two old foreign shells on the mantelpiece with a sudden feeling
of sympathy. They must have travelled so far from their home, and would
never, never go back. She leaned out of the window for the last time, and
took a long look at the well-filled garden, and at the flat country
beyond, and the river shining in the sunlight.
The sight of the river and the hills brought her some comfort. They had
been there so long, and would be there unchanged whenever she came back.
"And I am coming! I am coming! I _will_ come!" she cried passionately.
A knock sounded at her door. "Mistress wants to know if you are ready,
miss," said Phipps, granny's maid, who had been with her for
five-and-twenty years. "The sandwiches and milk are ready for you in the
dining-room, Miss Audrey. The train leaves in half an hour."
"I will be down in a minute," said Audrey, in a choked voice. She hoped
desperately that Phipps would go away and leave her alone to say her last
good-bye to her room. But Phipps showed no such intention.
"I'll fasten up the bag, and bring it down, miss," and she laid hands on
the straps and began to secure them in a manner which gave Audrey no hope.
"I'm sorry to be doing up luggage for you to go away altogether,
Miss Audrey. We shall all miss you," she said kindly. "The house will
seem dreadfully dull and empty. I think you had better come down and have
something to eat, or the mistress will be worrying. She likes to be at
the station in good time."
Audrey hurried out of her room for the last time, without a backward
glance, for her heart was too full to talk.
Once out in the sunshine, though, and walking across the park with her
grandmother, some of her unhappiness lightened. It was all so familiar,
so exactly as it always was, so calm and unchanged, it seemed impossible
that she could be going away from it all for more than a very little
while. There were several things, too, that could not fail to cheer her.
In her rug-strap were two new umbrellas, one for herself and one for
Faith. Her own had a white handle, and Faith's a green one. In her trunk
was a new coat for Faith, and a present for each and all from granny,
while in the new dark-blue hand-bag that she carried was a dark-blue
purse, and in the purse were a half-crown for Faith, and a new shilling
each for Debby and Tom.
"To do what they like with," said granny, as she popped in the coins,
"but granny hopes that they will like to put them in their money-boxes."
On the platform, when they got there, they found Audrey's neat green trunk
and portmanteau, with the rug-strap lying on top, and a porter mounting
guard over them. Audrey was very proud of her luggage when she travelled,
it looked so neat and nice, all green alike, and all with her initials,
'A. M. C.', in white. Granny had bought it all for her when they went for
their first annual visit to Torquay. Her old boxes, which she had taken
with her from home, had been sent to a Jumble Sale.
They were, after all, so early for the train that the last few moments
were rather painfully long and trying for them both. Granny bespoke a
corner seat, and ordered a foot-Warmer, and they had walked the whole
length of the platform until granny, at last, was weary, and still the
train had not come. At last Mrs. Carlyle, in her anxiety to fill up the
time, even went to the bookstall and bought some magazines for Audrey to
take with her. She did not approve of magazines as a rule. Audrey did,
though, and was overjoyed at having them; but while she was trying to get
a peep at the contents there came the sound of a shrill whistle, then a
rattle and a roar, and the train thundered down on the little station, and
drew up.
After that it was all soon ended. A good-bye, a kiss, a promise to write,
and a "be sure and let me know how your mother goes on. I shall count on
you to send me bulletins frequently, your father is so busy. Good-bye,
dear, good-bye--keep away from the door," and the engine, puffing a little
louder, and a little louder, moved on its way again. Neither Mrs. Carlyle
nor Audrey were sorry when the strain was over. It had to be; the pain
lay in that; a few minutes more or less of each other's company was but
little pleasure when the life they had enjoyed together was ended.
For a while after the engine steamed out, and the last glimpse of the
station was gone from Audrey's sight, she felt utterly miserable, and the
tears would have their way. She loved her grandmother very much, and she
loved living with her, and, for the moment, at any rate, she was not
charmed with the thought of life at home, the noisy children, the plain
food, the shabby clothes, and even shabbier house. Tears trickled down
her cheeks, and one actually dropped on the new blue bag. "Oh, dear!"
exclaimed Audrey, vexedly, "I expect there will always be a mark!"
The engine began to slow down before stopping at the next station.
"Oh, dear," cried Audrey again, "I expect I look an object!" She jumped
up and tried to see herself in the strip of looking-glass conveniently
placed along the back of the opposite seat. "What a bother it is that one
can't cry without getting to look so----" She subsided on to her seat
hastily, leaving her thought unfinished, and pulled her hat down over her
eyes, turned her back on the platform end of her carriage and gazed
fixedly out of the opposite window, for a whole party of people had caught
sight of her nice empty carriage, and were making for it.
"There are heaps of room here, mother, and such a nice carriage too!" said
a boy's voice eagerly.
Audrey could not help looking round, but she pretended it was to pick up
one of her magazines, and, being still afraid that her eyes and nose were
red, she continued to pretend to be absorbed in the contents. She was so
vexed with the newcomers for invading her carriage that she would not have
looked at them--so she told herself--even if her eyes had not been red;
but, if she refused to look, she could not refuse to hear, and she soon
knew that there were two girls of the party, as well as the boy and his
mother; and that their voices were pretty and refined. They were all so
happy and jolly, too, that, in spite of her vexation, Audrey could not
help growing interested and amused, and, finally, even rather glad of
their company. It had certainly been rather melancholy, travelling with
nothing but one's sad thoughts for company.
She felt, too, rather than saw, that they in their turn were interested in
her, and were inclined to be friendly, and once again she experienced a
thrill of satisfaction that she was so well dressed, and that all her
belongings were so good and so dainty.
Before very long she grew tired of her self-imposed task of reading.
It seemed so silly to be continually holding open the pages and casting
her eyes over and over them without taking in a word. It gave one a crick
in the neck too, keeping it bent so long, and, after all, the people in
the carriage were so much more interesting than the people in the stories.
If she could hold her head out of the window a little while and blow away
the last signs of weeping, she would be able, she thought, to look about
her. She threw aside her magazine, took off her hat, and, lowering her
window, thrust her head out. The sun turned her red hair to a golden
radiance about her; the wind, catching the heavy locks, blew them out like
fluttering red-gold pennons. All the Carlyles had red hair of varying
shades and natures. Audrey's was long and heavy, with a pretty wave in
it. Faith's was shorter, darker, and curly. Tom's curled tightly over
his head, a fiery mat of curls. Deborah's, finest and silkiest of all,
hung in soft auburn waves to her waist. Baby Joan's fluffy curls were the
colour of newly-spun silk.
Audrey was not thinking of her hair, but of her tear-disfigured face,
until, in half turning round from the window, she caught sight of herself
in the strip of mirror, and of two large smuts ornamenting her brow and
her nose! After that she thought of them, and of how ridiculous she must
look, and she glanced quickly with shamed eyes at her companions.
They were looking at her, but there was not the ghost of a laugh on either
of their faces; indeed, on one there was gentle concern.
"That cinder is so close to your eye; may I flick it off for you?" asked
the taller of the two girls, springing to her feet. "If you had tried to
do it yourself you might have sent it into your eye," she explained, when
she had done, "and then sometimes they take hours to get out again."
"Thank you very much," said Audrey, gratefully, then suddenly grew so shy
that she subsided into her corner without another word. She made a big
effort, though, to recover; it seemed so ungracious, so rude, to receive a
kindness in so _gauche_ a fashion. She took up some of her magazines.
"Would you--would you like to look at these?" she asked, holding them out
towards the elder girl, and at the same time colouring with embarrassment
and with pleasure.
"Oh, thank you!" the three spoke with one voice. "We would love to, but--
have you done with them all for the time?" asked Irene, the elder girl.
"Wouldn't you like one for yourself? Daphne and I could look at one
together."
Audrey shook her head. "No, thank you. I have looked through them, and I
have a book here if I want to read."
"Perhaps you would take some lunch with us instead?" suggested the mother,
looking up from her paper with a smile. "Keith, before you begin to
devour _The Boys' Own_, lift up the lunch-basket for me, and I will unpack
it. We don't stop again for some time, so we can feel sure of not being
disturbed."
Audrey was really not hungry, but more for the pleasure of joining the
happy party than because she wanted anything, she accepted the kind offer,
and was always afterwards thankful that she did, for it was the jolliest,
pleasantest meal she had ever had in her life. Almost before it was begun
all stiffness and shyness had vanished, and if Audrey had ever resented
her travelling companions coming, she had quite forgotten it.
"I shall be sorry when the journey is over," she said with a sigh, as she
lay back weary with laughter. "I never had such a jolly one!"
"Have you far to go?"
"Not so very, very much farther," she said, half ruefully. "I am going to
Moor End, but I have to get out at Kingfield, and change."
"Oh, how funny! We get out at Kingfield too, but we are going on to
Abbot's Field. That is the same line as yours, isn't it?"
"Yes, Abbot's Field is a station further on."
"What an extraordinary thing! Was ever anything so strange!" Daphne, the
younger girl, was overcome with excitement at the coincidence. "I wonder
if we shall see you sometimes! We might each walk half-way and meet.
Wouldn't it be fun! Are you going to stay long?"
"Oh, yes, for a year, most likely. It is my home."
"Oh!" They all looked puzzled. Most people lived at home always; they
did not come on a twelve-months' visit, or speak in quite that tone about
their home-coming. But Audrey offered no explanations, and they were too
polite to ask for any.
"Oh," said Daphne again. "Well, I don't suppose we shall be at Abbot's
Field as long as that. We are going to stay with grandpapa, Mr. Vivian.
He lives at 'The Orchard.' Do you know him?"
Audrey shook her head. "I--I don't remember the people round about Moor
End--at least, not very well. I have been living with my granny for four
years!"
All the laughter and joy had died out of her heart, and from her face.
She was visibly embarrassed. She thought of her home, the shabbiness and
untidiness of it as it used to be, and she did not expect it to be much
better now, even though Faith was four years older, and she felt a shamed
shrinking from letting these strangers see it. She had spoken the truth
when she said she did not know Mr. Vivian, but she did remember that
'The Orchard' was a large place, and the house one of the finest in the
neighbourhood.
She hoped, she hoped, oh, so fervently, that they would never come over to
Moor End to look her up; that they would not ask her her name, or where
she lived. If they knew her father was the vicar, they would be coming
over to hear him preach, and then she would not be able to avoid
introducing them, and then they would see and know all!
A shade of embarrassment hung over the rest of the journey. Audrey was
uncomfortable. She was ashamed and nervous, and troubled at her own lack
of frankness. She was also, fortunately, ashamed of being ashamed,
but she had yet to learn how to rise above herself; to know what are the
things she should feel shame for.
It was almost a relief to her when at last the train drew up at Kingfield,
and they all had to change carriages; for no one could help feeling that
little shade of embarrassment. And she was even more glad when the
porter, who looked after her luggage for her, put her into a carriage
apart from the Vivians, for now she felt she could escape the necessity of
introducing to them whoever might be at the station to meet her at Moor
End. Indeed, it was just possible that they might not see if anyone met
her.
Yet, when the feeling of relief entered her heart, all other joy went out
of it, for she did love her father, she did love them all, and it hurt her
to feel ashamed. She liked her new friends too, so much, and wanted them
to like her. Tears rose in her eyes as the truth came home to her that
she was being false to those who loved her, and to those who had been so
kind to her--and all for what?
She did not answer the question, but stood up and stared out of the
window, that those within the carriage might not see her face. And so Mr.
Carlyle, Deborah and Tom saw her as the train drew up, and her father's
heart rejoiced at her--as he thought--anxiety to catch the first glimpse
of them after their long separation.
"Has it been a very long and dreary journey, dear?" he asked, as he put
his arm round her shoulders and kissed her. "Did you have company, or
have you had to come all the way alone?"
"I had very nice company, part of the way," she answered, and blushed
hotly, as, glancing out under the brim of her hat, she caught sight of
Keith Vivian and Irene hanging out of their window looking at her.
"Perhaps I had better get a porter and see about my luggage," she added
hastily. It was very tiresome that they should have to wait on the
platform until the train went out, before they were allowed to cross the
line by the footway. But it always was so on the down platform of the
little Moor End station.
To Tom and Debby one of their greatest treats was to stand and see the
engine puff in and puff out on its way again. Audrey grew quite cross
with the eager and shabby little pair who would stand so prominently
forward, and stare so hard. With a hoot and a puff and a snort the engine
moved slowly on, and the Vivians' carriage drew nearer. Daphne was at the
window now, as well as Irene and Keith, their hands waving wildly in
farewell greeting.
"Good-bye! Good-bye!" they called out, as cheerfully as though they had
not noticed the cloud which had fallen on the end of their happy journey.
"Perhaps we shall see you----" the rattle drowned the end of their
greeting, and saved Audrey the necessity of replying.
"Oh! oh! Audrey, you pushed right in front of me. I couldn't see a thing,
and your elbow bumped me in the eye!"
Audrey stepped back quickly; she blushed and looked embarrassed. She had
not meant to bump her little sister in the eye, but she had meant to get
in front of her and hide from view her shabby frock and patched boots.
She had done it deliberately.
"I am very sorry, Debby, if I hurt you," she said stiffly, "but you do make
a fuss about a trifle!"
"Debby doesn't," contradicted Tom, fierce in his favourite sister's
defence, "Debby has more pluck than--than----"
"Tom, boy, come here," interposed Mr. Carlyle quietly. "You and Debby can
carry this rug-strap between you, can't you?"
"Were those your travelling-companions?" he asked interestedly turning to
Audrey as the little pair, their indignation forgotten, trotted homewards
proudly with their burden.
"Yes," answered Audrey briefly. She said no more, she felt she could not,
but she knew that the shadow which had fallen on her own pleasure, had
fallen also on others.